Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,55

face?

Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and then Mat turns and walks away.

…

I finally catch up with Mat at his locker. I’m aware of its exact location—main floor, second corridor to the right, adjacent to the gym. Don’t ask me how, since I’ve never visited him here before. No doubt my sisters and Kavya would have a plethora of explanations.

All I’m willing to admit is that I’ve been paying more attention than I thought.

Around us, students jostle one another, apply lipstick in front of mirrors, and even make out against the central bank of lockers. It smells like gym class—old sneakers, slick floors, and overpowering perfume.

But the scene and the scents fade in comparison to the boy in front of me.

Mat’s head towers over his locker. His movements are jerky, his lips pursed in fierce concentration.

I don’t know if I’m brave or foolhardy, but I go up to him cautiously, as one might approach a slumbering crocodile.

“Good morning,” I venture.

He turns to me, his eyes carefully blank. He’s not at all surprised to see me. Does he know that I’ve been trailing him since the parking lot?

“You have a stain on your shirt,” he says blandly.

I look down. Imagine that, I do. I’m not sure how he noticed the stain so quickly, but maybe he’s equally aware of every detail about me. “I dropped a piece of toast on my shirt this morning.”

“Of course you did.” But he doesn’t snicker, and he’s not amused. There’s no light in his eyes. This exchange is neither our earlier antagonism nor our newfound teasing.

This exchange is…nothing.

“I don’t have an extra shirt.” Five-ray chula kites, the kind that Thai people fly in the annual competition, flutter in my stomach. “Otherwise, I would change.”

“Take this.” He reaches into his bag and then tosses me a T-shirt. It’s light blue and emblazoned with the school logo, a shirt that he wears for gym class.

At least it’s freshly laundered and smells like fabric softener.

I crush the cotton underneath my fingers. What does this mean? Plenty of students wear the oversize sports jerseys of their significant others, tied up in the corner with a rubber band, maybe even exposing a bit of midriff. Is that why he’s giving me his shirt? Or is he just implying that my stained shirt is worse than his old gym attire?

Since the warmth emanating from him clocks in at about a negative two, I’m going with the latter.

“No thanks.” I hand him back the shirt. “No one will be surprised to see me with a stain.”

He shrugs and flings it into his locker. “Suit yourself.”

He slams the locker door, and the finality of the sound makes me wince.

“What’s going on here?” I ask. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.” The slash of his gaze belies his words. “I just don’t understand you. After what happened, why are you riding in Taran’s car? Why did you let him touch you?” He shakes his head, although I’m not sure if he’s disgusted with me or himself. “Did I completely misread the situation on Saturday night? I thought he was harassing you. Was I wrong? Maybe you were having, I don’t know, a lover’s spat.” He pronounces the words as though they’re poison.

My jaw drops. “Mat. Are you jealous?”

He snaps his mouth closed. Straightens his spine. And then, instead of answering, he just leaves.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The warning bell rings. Mat’s striding in the opposite direction of my first class. If I follow him, I’ll be late. I’m never late. But if I don’t follow him… Well, we’ve already lost four years of friendship by not communicating. I don’t want to lose four more.

I hurry after his imposing figure, but the sea of students prevents me from breaking into a flat-out run. He must know I’m behind him, but he doesn’t slow and he doesn’t pause.

We’re halfway through a courtyard set between two buildings when he finally stops. “You’re still here?” he asks, leaning against one of the weathered picnic tables. A dozen of them are scattered across the green lawn. The open air means that the sun shines brightly overhead, providing a welcome shot of vitamin D for students during lunch and in between classes. “You have trig at the other end of school.”

I reach the picnic table, dropping my backpack at my feet. I want to pant—because the pace he was setting was kinda brisk—but he hasn’t broken a sweat. He’s not even breathing hard. “How do you know my