Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,38

come rushing back. “Okay, then.”

“Okay,” he repeats. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounded miserable.

All of a sudden, I can’t be here any longer. Underneath this willow tree, separated from the world by a curtain of drooping branches. His body is too big, the space inside too small. I’m suffocating.

I spin on my heel and march away from the tree. I’m outta here.

But judging from the heavy thuds of his footsteps, he’s coming with me.

Chapter Seventeen

I burst out of the tree, and the outside world appears, as though I’ve crossed through a brick wall from Diagon Alley back into real life.

A couple trades coupons for bright-yellow desserts made out of egg yolk and sugar, while a group of young men slurps rice noodles and beef broth. In one corner, a teenage girl teaches her Caucasian and African American friends how to jeeb and wong, two basic hand positions in Thai dance. Down the middle of the aisle, a young boy pushes his grandmother in a wheelchair. She must be at least ninety, but she is impeccably dressed, her midnight hair arranged in a stately bun, diamonds flashing at her ears, fingers, and neck.

The scent of food floods my nose once more. It had never faded, of course, but it was subsumed under the sunshine smell of Mat’s skin mixed with the woodsy fragrance of his soap.

“Winnie, wait!” Mat catches up with me just as I’m about to enter the fray.

I turn—but he must’ve misjudged his steps. He bumps right into me, his arms automatically encircling my waist. One hot second later, we spring apart.

“We’ve had our date,” I say, a whole lot steadier than I feel. “In Always Be My Maybe, they talk for five minutes, tops, in the farmer’s market. We’ve already passed that time limit. What do you want?”

“I still have to fill out the notebook,” he reminds me. “What should I say we talked about?”

I’d forgotten about that damn notebook. Once again, our actual topic of conversation isn’t fit for recording.

Mat’s eyes snag on a group of high school girls dressed in traditional Thai dance costumes, complete with long, curvy fingernails. “How come you’re not dancing this year?” he asks. “You were so good at the last festival. And, uh, the festival before that.”

I narrow my eyes. The flattery is clumsy, halting. Nowhere near his usual smoothness. “I wasn’t aware you saw my performances,” I say stiffly.

“Oh, sure. You’re like a different person when you dance.” His lips quirk. “Not clumsy at all. Why aren’t you performing now?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. Maybe I should be offended by his backhanded compliment, but he’s only stating the truth. I am clumsy. “I mean, my sisters didn’t dance their senior year.”

It was a matter of course that I wouldn’t, either. End of analysis.

“Not remotely the same,” he says. “They applied to…what? Ten, twelve colleges? You were accepted into Northwestern early decision. So you have a much lighter workload.”

I shift my shoulders. I’ve always liked to dance, mostly for the reason he identified. I don’t feel quite so awkward when I’m wearing those gorgeous costumes. My limbs feel less unwieldy when they’re following a predetermined set of movements. For the brief duration that I’m on a stage, I feel like what a good Thai girl should be—graceful and poised. Pretty much the opposite of what I usually am.

But when Mama assumed that I wouldn’t be participating this year, I didn’t argue. After all, Thai dance isn’t going to help me become an economics professor. Who cares if it’s fun?

“You don’t have to do everything like your sisters.”

“I know that,” I say, annoyed.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, your life looks like a poor copy of theirs. Why are you so hell-bent on following in their footsteps anyway? You know you’ll never measure up, right?”

My anger flares. It’s one thing for me to admit my insecurities to myself, in the middle of the night. Quite another for him to say them out loud. “That’s very rude.”

He blinks. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just thinking of that Einstein quote. A fish judged by its ability to climb a tree will always think it’s stupid.”

“Are you calling me a fish? Or stupid?”

“Neither.” He swats at an invisible fly. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s time to pursue your own path. Be your own person, instead of letting your family dictate all your decisions.”

I’m shaking now, I’m so upset. But I don’t