Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,16

they’re succeeding.”

I’m grinning now. I don’t often meet someone who understands me so thoroughly. “I’ve never had a new formal dress, ever. Why should I, when I have not one but two sisters’ prom dresses to choose from?”

“You! What about me?” he asks. “I’ve never had a new baseball mitt.”

“School supplies,” I counter.

“Underwear,” he says, and this stops us both.

“Ewww.” I wrinkle my nose. “Are you kidding?”

“Dear God, I hope so. My parents always presented them to me as new, but you never know. Maybe they just recycled the plastic wrap.”

We catch each other’s eyes and burst out laughing. The students weaving around us turn to stare, and I realize that the crowd has doubled in the last few minutes.

“Should we start the tour?” I ask, and the words actually sound natural. “Wait until you see our cafeteria. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried our school’s rather unfortunate version of deep-dish pizza. They serve it in an extra-tall container, as if that will somehow trick us into thinking that the toppings are more than paper-thin.”

He laughs. Again. Maybe this tour can be salvaged after all. No thanks to Mat.

Cheered, I lead him into the building, chattering about the size of the student body (1,200) and the teachers to avoid (Mr. Mercer, who doles out paragraphs like candy—handwritten, no less). But now that my thoughts have conjured up Mat, I can’t seem to exorcise him.

We’ve seen each other naked, he said. Naked. Naked. Naked.

“And here are the locker rooms. Where you get—” Naked, my mind screams. “Changed,” I finish. My cheeks, my neck, even my ears blush.

The tour goes downhill from there. My attention keeps wandering, and as a result, I may have missed a couple of Taran’s questions. I definitely walked past the aforementioned cafeteria altogether.

By the time the first bell rings, I’ve managed to cover only one of the three sprawling floors.

“Oh no. I’m sorry we didn’t get to everything,” I blurt. “You’ll have to figure out the rest on your own.”

“Not a problem.” He gestures at a sign featuring the unisex symbol. “Let me guess. Using my vast powers of deduction, I’m going to say this is the bathroom. Am I right?”

It’s impossible not to smile back. “Why, Taran. You’ve been holding out on me. Guess you didn’t need my dubious tour-guide skills after all.”

“Maybe.” He reaches out a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I sure enjoyed the stories. In fact, I’d love to hear more. Rain check?”

My mouth parts. I lift my hand, brushing the ends of my hair. And here I thought no boy would ever perform that gesture sincerely. Guess I haven’t ruined everything with Taran.

“Yes!” I practically shout.

I would be embarrassed, but Taran’s grin widens, as though he finds me incredibly amusing.

Not gonna lie. I skip all the way to first period.

Now I just have to figure out how to get even with Mat, and my first day back without my sisters might not be a total disaster.

Chapter Eight

Later that afternoon, I fasten construction-paper eyelashes over the headlights of a Jeep Wrangler, fighting back a giggle.

“Quick!” Kavya says from the roof of the car, where’s she attaching a jaunty pink bow. She tosses back her brownish-black hair, her eyes glowing in the sun. My best friend is Konkani, which is a group of people from the southwest coast of India. The group is so small, she tells me, that even other Indians haven’t heard of them. As a result of her Persian ancestry, her eyes are the pale yellow of golden topaz. I’ve never seen anything like them, and they’re just as gorgeous as the rest of her. “Only five minutes left until the end of last period. Almost…there…”

We finish up and stand back to admire our handiwork. Mat’s sturdy and rugged Jeep has now been transformed into a cutesy work of art, complete with ruby-red lips, curling lashes, and trailing ribbons. I even painted polka dots on the back windows, because, you know, polka dots.

I rub my hands together. “He’s going to die when he sees this.”

“You killed two birds with a single pair of pouting lips, anyway,” Kavya says. “Now that’s inspired.”

She’s telling me. I’ve been struggling to settle on a medium for my art project, which is to depict a series of five emotions. I’m not sure why I was having such a hard time. Maybe because this is the last art project of my senior year. Who knows when I’ll have the opportunity