“Interesting,” I say. “I usually have black tea, lemon juice, and oil.”
“All three?” Suraj is genuinely interested. “I’ll have to try a batch of that against my control.” He points to the pieces of wood taped to his poster board. “The ingredients for each version are listed along with the length of time the paste stayed on the wood, plus other information, like the pH of the mixture, et cetera.”
“This is amazing,” I say. “Does it matter what surface you put it on?”
“Yeah, so it reacts with the protein on skin and the keratin in hair and sinks to the lower level of the dermis and hair follicle to give them the distinctive red color.” He holds out his arm, where there is still a faint mark from the #NOM tattoo I did for him. “Thanks for this, by the way. That’s how I got the idea for the project.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m flattered that my little henna tattoo launched his experiment. “Will the stain on wood fade like it fades on skin?”
“It should be around forever,” Suraj says. “Doesn’t bleed, either, like on paper.”
“This is perfect,” I say. “I never would have thought of wood on my own. I want to play with different layers of mehendi so I can have tones and shades.”
“You know what’s fun?” Suraj asks. “Smearing some of the mehendi over the wood. It’s like finger painting and it feels squishy.… Want to try?”
“OMG, yes!” I snap on the blue latex gloves he hands me and pick up a handful of henna. It’s a good thing we’re on the deck, so I can’t stain anything fancy. I hum to myself as I stroke some henna onto the wood. Then I grab a henna cone and do a detailed drawing in the center of the board. It’s a picture of Sweetie in all her fuzzy glory. I step back to take a better look at the picture and look up to catch Suraj just sitting there, staring at me.
“You like?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, still watching me.
I’m flustered. I’m not used to someone as handsome as Suraj looking at me this way.
“Hmm,” I say, stripping off the gloves. “I should get going.”
I kneel and start to pick up the materials we’ve scattered over the deck. He bends down to help and our hands touch. Surprised, I move to stand, and smack my head into his. Ouch! My skull is throbbing, and Suraj has a hand to his nose—did I break his face?!
“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose: still straight, no blood. He smiles. “I’m fine. But I’ve got to say, you’re kind of hardheaded, Simi.”
I giggle. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Are you okay?”
I rub the back of my head. No bump, and the ache’s already faded. “Totally. I’m a known klutz. Also, I like to thank people for helping me by physically assailing them when it’s time to clean up.”
He laughs. “I can’t wait to see your latest mehendi designs. Promise to show me?”
I grin. “Definitely.”
I’m halfway through a pre-calc homework problem when I get a message on Matched! chat from Aiden.
Any progress on your art project?
Not really. Didn’t like the way the white henna turned out. But I have another idea. Have a ton of math to do first, though.
Too bad! I’m looking forward to ’Burban tomorrow night.
Me too! But hey, I’ve got to get back to homework… sorry.
No worries. G’night!
G’night!
I’m just getting back into my pre-calc rhythm when my phone buzzes again. Jeez—at this rate, I’ll be working all night. But when I see who’s texted, my annoyance evaporates. It’s Suraj.
Hey! Have you talked to Preet and Jolly?
Yeah. They have no news… yet.
No news is good news, right?
I think so. I won’t be surprised if we’re celebrating their engagement soon!
No better people no news could have happened to.
Agree. Thanks again for the help today, and sorry, again, about head-butting you.
I’m seriously fine! And you’re welcome. Night, Simi.
G’night, Suraj.
I toss my phone into the air, giddy.
A good-night text from one guy, let alone two.
chapter twenty
It’s ’Burban Friday.
I’m a little nervous, and a lot excited.
Because I know my family incredibly well and have spent a lifetime enduring nosiness from my well-intentioned parents and my pain-in-the-neck brother, I tell Aiden I’ll meet him at the café. I go to Noah’s first to get his outfit approval, and so he can make up my face in his subtly gorgeous way. He doesn’t disappoint, declaring me “colorful and chic, ready for a night out.”
I thank him by bouncing out of his desk chair and giving him a big hug. He laughs, but when I pull away, I’m surprised to see that his expression isn’t as cheerful as it was when I arrived.
“What’s up?” I ask, joining him as he sinks down to sit on the floor.
He reaches up to the desk to gather a fistful of makeup brushes and runs his hand gently over their soft bristles. “It’s nothing,” he says finally.
“Oh, come on. You look bummed. Did I do something?”
He lifts his chin to meet my gaze. “No—I don’t know. Not on purpose, I guess.”
I frown, puzzled—he was nothing but smiles while he was performing his makeup wizardry. “Noah, if you’re mad, I want to know why. I want to fix it.”
“I’m not mad. It’s stupid. Go on your date. Woo your art boy. Have fun.”
I’m pretty sure he means it, but his voice sounds flat, and his eyes have lost their shine.
“Nothing you’re feeling is stupid. And there’s no way I’m going to have any fun if I’m worried about you.” I give him my best puppy-dog eyes, hoping he’ll tell me what’s up.
He does. “I meant what I said, Simi. I’m not mad. I guess I’m… disappointed. Or jealous? It’s weird, you know? Everyone gets to have someone to love except me.” He drags a hand over his face, giving a self-deprecating laugh. “I sound pathetic, don’t I?”
“No, of course not.” How would I feel if he was suddenly with someone that could be something—something real? Jealous. That’s how.
But Noah doesn’t look jealous. He looks… sad.
“You could never be pathetic,” I tell him sincerely. “And I get it. When your dream boy comes along”—Connor, I hope but don’t say—“and you’re busy swooning over him all the time, I bet I’ll feel a lot like how you’re feeling now.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m happy for you, though, too—that’s the strange part. I’m like a pinball, zipping back and forth. I need, like, a hot bath, or a nap, something to help me chill out.”
“What you need is a milkshake,” I say. “How about I bring you one on my way home?”
He smiles. “Thanks, Simi.”
I slip my hand from his so I can use it to frame my face, giving him my best top-model pout. “And thank you for working your magic.”
Aiden meets me at ’Burban’s entrance, looking extra cute in a gray T-shirt and jeans. He’s pulled his curls away from his face, securing them with a loosely tied band. There’s almost no paint residue on his hands. I hide a smile—he got all spiffed up for me.
“You look nice, Simi,” he says, offering me his hand. “I like when you wear your hair down like that.”
“Thanks,” I say, slipping my fingers between his. Prickles of excitement dance up my arm. I’m holding hands with Aiden James, at ’Burban, on Friday night. I haven’t stumbled or dropped anything. I haven’t said anything jumbled or silly. I’ve manifested into the New Simi, the Simi I hoped to become when the school year started.
I try to pinpoint the moment I changed—the catalyst that pushed me into embodying her.
It was the app.
Matched! made me known at school, just as Noah had said it would. Matched! gave me a different outlet for sharing my art—the mehendi tattoos I’ve given n
ew friends at lunch. Matched! put me on Aiden’s radar as a romantic possibility.
It matched us.
I look up at him as we walk through the café, to where a group of Mayfield students are gathered around a big table. It’s sort of surreal, being here with him, but amazing, too.
We take a seat; I wave hello to the group, which includes Rohan, Thomas, Natasha, and Cami, who are all smiling in a welcoming-enough way. Amanda, on the other hand, is launching ice daggers with her tapered gaze. I shrug her snub off as Aiden asks me what I want—frozen hot chocolate, please!—and try not to see the fact that he’s a part of Amanda Taylor’s friend group as a strike against him. It’s not like they hang out all the time at school or anything.
“So,” he says, giving me his full attention, despite the tableful of people. “Talk to me about the signature project you’re going to turn in to Furst. How far along are you?”
“Uh, the brainstorming phase—barely. I’m having a hard time getting inspired.”
“No way! Simi, when I think about you, I think art. I never would have imagined that you weren’t overflowing with ideas.”
“Not this time. I mean, I have ideas, sort of. I know I want to do something mehendi related—that much is decided—but I haven’t figured out how to execute it. Or what my subject will be. What about you? Please don’t tell me you’ve already finished!”
“Almost,” he says as the waitress serves our drinks: my frozen hot chocolate and his strawberry shake. He thanks her and goes on, “Just a little bit of polishing left to do. I’m going to bring it in for Furst on Monday morning.”
Whoa, already? He must’ve done some serious work between my visit and now.
“I bet she’ll love it,” I say, thinking about how much catching up I have to do and wondering who else in our class is already ready to turn their signature piece in.
Aiden takes a long drink of his shake, then says, “Hopefully.”
He pivots in his seat to face Rohan and Thomas. The three of them become quickly occupied. They’re animated, and they’re loud. They’re not leaving me out, exactly, but there’s hardly room enough in the conversation for the three of them, let alone me butting in with my opinion.
So I sit quietly by Aiden’s side, sipping my frozen hot chocolate, absorbing bits of the chatter that hovers around me. I feel out of place, just like I worried I would.
Someone taps my shoulder.
Amanda Taylor—just as I was thinking I couldn’t feel more uncomfortable.
“Simi,” she says, sitting primly on the empty chair next to mine. “Congratulations on the Matched! app. It’s become a sensation.”
“Thanks, Amanda,” I say with false politeness.
There. Now hopefully she will move along.
“I wanted to let you know that I haven’t received my matches yet.”
“I know. We’re releasing them in batches, just to be sure everything’s going smoothly.”
“Well. Since we’re hanging out tonight, maybe you could tell me who I’ve been matched with. Save a step, you know?”
It’s so hard not to roll my eyes. She’s pretending we’re friends to get information out of me? I don’t think so. “Sorry, Amanda. That’s not how it works.”
She clenches her jaw. “Why? Because you enjoy the power that comes with being all-knowing?”
“Hardly. Because everyone else has to wait. And so do you.”
Her face relaxes as she morphs from Mean Amanda to Manipulative Amanda. Her voice is saccharine when she says, “But Ethan is one of my matches, right? I mean, he must be! There’s no harm in sharing at least that, is there?”
“I really can’t. That wouldn’t be fair to others who are also waiting.”
Her eyes narrow—oh, boy.
“This is your problem, Simi. You meddled. You stuck yourself between Ethan and me last year, and now… what? You’re going to try to keep us apart with your silly app?”
“Matched! is about bringing people together, not keeping them apart.” I nod toward Cami and Natasha, who are chatting on the other side of the table. “I bet your friends are missing you—though I can’t imagine why.”
Anger flashes in her eyes and, for a moment, I wonder if she’d stoop so low as to hit me. But then Aiden turns around, looping his arm around my shoulders. “All good, Simi?” he says, his gaze jumping between Amanda and me.
“All good,” I say, swinging my attention back to her. “Right, Amanda?”
She swallows and stands, retracting her claws, probably. “Right,” she says, before slinking off to her groupies, who gather her into their fold, murmuring all sorts of reassurances.
Amanda doesn’t come near me during what’s left of my time at ’Burban, and Aiden turns out to be a good date. He’s super attentive, minus the ten minutes he spent yakking about music with his buddies. We talk a lot about art—of course, since that’s our greatest shared interest—and then he offers to walk me home, not minding when I tell him I need to swing by Noah’s with a chocolate shake.
When we arrive at my house after the quick detour, I stop on the sidewalk, just in case my parents or brother happen to be scoping out the front porch.
“Thanks for inviting me tonight,” I say, gazing up at Aiden. His eyes are extra enticing in the moonlight; I feel like I could sink into them.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, his voice low and kind of raspy. “That app of yours is onto something—I have a lot of fun with you, Simi.”
“Same,” I say, smiling.
My heart rate kicks up as he ducks his head and moves closer.
This is it—he’s going to kiss me!
I want him to. I have for so long. But I’ve never been so nervous in my life.
At the last moment, though, just as my eyes are falling closed, he veers toward my cheek, laying the softest kiss there. It’s innocent and sweet, but all the same, shivers fan out over my arms.
Am I cold, or are my goose bumps Aiden-induced?
If only actual dating was as instinctive as matching.
“That was—tonight was, um… really nice,” I say, trying my best not to stammer. I take a careful step back; it would be the worst time to trip ever. “Thanks again, Aiden.”
His grin lights up the night. “See you Monday at school?”
The shivers were Aiden-induced—they must have been.
“Definitely,” I promise.
I skip toward the house, thinking, Matched! for the win!
Anyone can claim to have good values and integrity. It is the matchmaker’s work to determine if the claims are really true.
—THE SHAGUN MATCHMAKING GUIDE
chapter twenty-one
What is that thing?” Noah asks. We’re walking to school on Monday when Aiden drives by in a pickup truck with a big object in the back, covered in a drop cloth splattered with paint. He throws up a wave as he passes.
“I think it’s his signature project,” I tell Noah.
“It’s huge. Have you seen it?”
“I saw a concept sketch and an early version the day I went over.”
“You two going to hang out again anytime soon?” Noah asks.
“I hope so. Friday night was great, but I’ve been feeling kind of guilty about not telling my mom. I mean, I told her when I went to Aiden’s to hang out, and I told her that I went to ’Burban, but not that either was sort of a date.”
“So next time tell her.”
I give him a dubious look; I’m not exactly sure where things stand between Aiden and me. I’m pretty sure he likes me and I like him, too. He paid for my frozen hot chocolate, and then there was the goodbye kiss out on the sidewalk, but if I’m being completely honest, I’ve been thinking about Suraj an awful lot since I went to his house to talk mehendi.
“We’ll see,” I tell Noah noncommittally.
“Class, I want to share Aiden James’s signature project with you,” Ms. Furst says. She has it propped up on one side of the art room, leaning against the wall. “
I know you’ve all been working on your own projects, but it’s nice to share early and often. Keeps everyone inspired and competitive. Gather around!”
“Where’s Aiden?” I ask. He isn’t in the room.
“He said he’d be late because of band practice,” Ms. Furst says. “But he gave me the okay to share. Without further ado…” She pulls the drop cloth with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-da!”
There’s a gasp from everyone in the room. The board is larger than life and glowing with neon colors and dark-edged letters in wildstyle—it’s the same design Aiden showed me at his house. But the reason I gasp is because the board has all of my henna-inspired motifs—the motifs I drew—clustered around the letters. It’s stunning, the way the swirls of mehendi mix and mingle with the bold characters from Aiden’s graffiti style. A standout work of art.
“Impressive, right?” Ms. Furst smiles proudly at us. She glances at the classroom door. “Aiden! You’re just in time!”
Aiden walks in. His face looks a little warm, like he rushed to get here.
“I was just saying that this piece is very impressive! I particularly like the art surrounding the letters. That’s not your normal style. I’m so glad you’re pushing yourself.”
My face is getting a little warm now, too. I look at Aiden, fully expecting that he’ll mention my role in the piece.
“Thank you” is all he says.
My heart drops. Is he really not going to say anything? I catch his eye. He gives a wink in response to my raised eyebrows. My face is flaming now.
What am I supposed to do?
Ms. Furst goes on, showering Aiden’s project with compliments. With every second I wait, the moment to speak up, to say something in defense of my work, diminishes.
“All right,” she finally says, clapping to signal the start of class. “Let’s get to it!”
A Match Made in Mehendi Page 13