Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,1

you girls back, even if it’s just for a week. We’ve all missed you terribly. Especially Winnie. She’s been moping around the house like someone took the last bite of her sankaya.”

I frown. Fine. Maybe I do pout—a tiny bit—when we run out of my favorite pumpkin custard, but Mama’s definitely exaggerating on both counts.

My sisters shoot me twin glances of concern. I shake my head and wink, as if to say that Mama’s just being Mama, and they relax once more.

Mama barrels forward. “What are you wearing tonight?”

“Faux leather pants and a sleeveless top,” Bunny says at the same time that Ari responds, “My rose lace dress.”

I know Mama’s not asking me, so I keep my head down and continue wrapping.

“What about you, Winnie?” Ari asks loyally. “I think you should wear your black corduroy skirt. You have the legs for it.”

“Oh, nobody cares what Winnie wears,” Mama says breezily.

“Mother!” Bunny’s tone holds the only note of warning that Mama ever heeds. “That’s so rude.”

“Oh, Winnie knows what I mean.” Mama ruffles my hair, apparently forgetting that her hand is covered with bits of noodles and cabbage.

“Hmm…” She tilts her head, examining the concoction that she’s just deposited on my head. “You might want to wash your hair before the party tonight,” she stage-whispers.

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Mama.”

“As I was saying,” she continues in a louder voice. “I love all my daughters equally. Winnie knows this. But Winnie’s not meeting the man she’s going to marry tonight. You two are!”

She waves her hand with a flourish, and the twins exchange another look. The glance is shorter this time—it’s got to be. I mean, they’ve already held an entire debate with their eyes. What else is left to be said?

Ari squares her shoulders. “Actually, Mama, we regret to inform you…we’ve come to a decision.”

Bunny nods vigorously. “It wasn’t easy. We thought long and hard, but after dissecting all the options, this is the only possible conclusion.”

I snort. Pretty sure they decided two minutes ago, during their eye debate, since we just found out about Mama’s sudden desire to see them engaged.

But I have more pressing concerns. Whatever the twins say, I’d bet my entire collection of costumed rubber duckies that it won’t make Mama happy. And if Mama’s not happy, somehow, someway, it will be bad for me. It always is.

“We’ve decided…” Bunny begins.

Ari picks up seamlessly. “…that we’re not going to marry…”

“…for ten years.”

“Maybe even twenty.”

“Probably thirty.”

The words come out fast and furious, overlapping like the red-wrapped firecrackers that people set off during Chinese New Year.

“We need lots of dating practice, after all,” Ari explains.

“Because, you see, we can’t possibly settle down until we know what’s out there,” Bunny chimes in.

“And we gain the skills necessary to make a relationship successful in today’s world.”

They exchange another look. I know what’s coming. The trump card. The bomb that’s going to blow Mama’s mind. The fate that’s worse than death for many Thai-American parents.

“You don’t want us to get a divorce, do you?” they conclude in unison.

Mama slides into a chair, boneless. She looks from one twin to the other, blinking rapidly. Who can blame her? My sisters are top-of-the-class smart, but even I am impressed by the logic and construction of this argument. Nothing short of a tour de force.

Ari and Bunny turn back to their wrapping, identical smiles on their lips.

Mama continues to sit and stare. Her mouth is slightly parted, her eyes dazed, as though she’s just glimpsed the many heads of the Great Naga itself. Seconds pass. And then minutes. The only sound is the plop, squish, and crinkle of the egg-roll skins.

“You’re absolutely right,” Mama says after Bunny and I have each rolled another three pieces. Ari, the show-off, has finished five. “I’ve been going about this all wrong, haven’t I?”

Her voice is a strange combination of stunned and determined. We don’t respond—we don’t dare. My sisters, because they don’t want to push their luck. Me, because I’m desperate to keep Mama’s attention off me.

Too. Damn. Late.

Mama’s gaze snaps up. “You. Winnie,” she barks. “I want to hold a grandchild before I die.” Never mind that she’s in her mid-fifties and in perfect health. “Which means you can’t dillydally until college. You have to start dating now so that you can get your practice beforehand.”

Wait. What?

I jostle the blended raw egg that we’re using to seal the rolls, spilling the yellow liquid onto the table. Out of all the words she could’ve uttered, that was