Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,18

always right admit that he was wrong? Not in the last four years, that’s for sure.

He takes the keys from his pocket. “Let’s go. Kavya, do you need a ride, too?”

“Who, me?” she squeaks. She always gets the squeegee-on-glass effect when she talks to Mat. “Uh, no thanks. I’ve got my own car.”

I elbow her in the side. She’s supposed to save me, not abandon me. Either our silent communication skills aren’t as developed as my sisters’ or she just wants to live vicariously through my date.

Rubbing her side, she grins wickedly. “Have fun, you two. Please do something I wouldn’t do. And take lots of notes, so I can hear all about it.”

I shake my head. “You’re such a gossip.”

“One of the reasons you love me.”

I soften. “You’re right. I do love you.”

We hug, and then she scampers away.

Swallowing hard, I turn to the Jeep as though I’m facing the gallows. A particularly well-dressed gallows, with a pink bow and polka dots, but a structure for execution nonetheless.

Mat honks the horn and then sticks his head out the open driver’s side window. “Let’s go. The sooner we get this date started, the sooner it can be over.”

What every girl wants to hear before every first date, never.

When I finally get inside the car, Mat pulls out a composition notebook and a rolled-up measuring tape from his messenger bag. “How long should I leave on the decorations?” he asks. “Poor Mataline’s not used to this fuss.”

I snort. He calls his car Mataline? Why am I not surprised? The guy’s so egotistical that he used to dream about having a hundred wives, with a hundred kids, all of whom would live in a hundred-story house, with a wife and a kid on each floor.

“Don’t touch a thing,” I say. “I’ll change out the accessories every few days, until I’ve depicted all five emotions.”

I wait for his protests, for his exasperation. I may not want to hurt him, but that doesn’t mean I’m not looking for the teensiest, tiniest sign that I’ve gotten to him.

But—nothing. Nada. Suun. He opens up the notebook and starts scribbling inside.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask casually, even as I sit on my fingers to prevent from ripping the notebook out of his hands. Because, you know, I’m not ten.

“Oh, here.” He eagerly shows me the notebook, which probably hasn’t happened since we were ten.

I scan the categories written across the top of the page: Location. Topics of Conversation. Duration. Distance in Inches. Overall Grade.

My forehead wrinkles. What on earth?

Mat snickers, sounding like his old self, which is both comforting and disturbing. “Winnie, Winnie, Winnie,” he singsongs, taking back the notebook. “I had no idea your parents trusted you so little.”

I grit my teeth. “Spit it out, Songsomboon.”

“As you wish, Chicken Cacciatore.” He stretches the measuring tape between us and makes a notation on the page. “So the whole point of this dating thing is to improve your relationship skills. Your parents don’t want you going to college as hopeless as you are now. But how are they going to evaluate your abilities when they’re not here? That’s where I come in. All-around dreamboat, fake boyfriend…and spy.”

I blink as the categories float through my mind. I think I’m going to faint. Or vomit. Or both.

That’s why he didn’t care that I dressed up his car like Hello Kitty. He had bigger catfish to fry.

“I’m sorry. Are you saying that you’re recording the distance that separates us? With a measuring tape?” This has Papa’s fingerprints all over it. “And holy guacamole. Don’t tell me that you’re grading me.”

He grins. “Yep. Your parents asked me to keep a record of our dates. They even picked the categories. Kiss-up procedures commence…” He squints at his cell phone. “Right about now.”

“You wish. I’d rather kiss anything other than your—” I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“You can say it,” he says encouragingly. “Pretty sure you’ve been admiring it.”

“Whatever, dude.” Leaning over, I bang my forehead against the glove compartment. “I know I’m the baby of the family. I know they barely trust me to wipe my own bottom. But really? How could they do this? Do they think so little of me that they’d take anyone’s word over mine? Even a person who would happily throw me overboard to make room for his pop?”

“For the record…” He turns on the ignition. “I would never throw you overboard to make room for my pop.”

I settle back against the leather seat.