Page 22 of The Love Match

The wheels start turning in my head as we say good night.

After taking a shower, I notice that Harun has texted me.

I shoot a glance at Nanu, who is already snoring into her pillow inside the bottom bunk of our bed, then scale the ladder to the top bunk and scan his message:

Robot boy:You up?

Why do you text like a frat bro?I reply.

This is no laughing matter, Khan! My mother is already asking whether you’d like my nani’s or dadi’s engagement ring better… HELP?

A snuffling laugh escapes me at his blatant alarm, but I bury my face in the plush material of the khul balish I can’t sleep without to muffle it, not wanting to alert my own grandmother. I’d rather Nanu not know that Harun and I are chatting outside of the Friday Date Nights our parents have arranged, but not for the typical you-must-not-talk-to-boys reasons. Neither Harun nor I need our families to get any more invested than they already are in our happily-ever-after together.

I’d have to see them first,I quip.That’s a pretty big decision. Pics?

I hate you, is his immediate response.

Although we’re still virtually strangers, something changed between us tonight, because we’ve discovered that we’re strangers with a common enemy—and a common solution. Maybe not friends, but temporary allies. Enough so, in fact, that I know he doesn’t mean it.

Curling a drying strand of hair around my pointer finger, I use my other thumb to text back,Okay, okay, I’m kidding. Wanna hear my plan?

You’ve got a plan? Oh, thank God.

A devilish grin takes possession of my face.Our parents want to play games? Fine. We’re just going to have to win.

That’s… not ominous at all,he replies.How do we win?

We wage guerrilla warfare. We’ll “date,” but sneak attack and sabotage them, until our folks are convinced we’d be a nightmare together and insist we break up themselves. In the meantime, because we’re “together,” they won’t try to throw us at anyone else, either.

When we break up, I can probably bring up college and writing with my mother, and she’ll be so grateful—so guilty—that she’ll trust me to make my own choices at last.

Damn, Khan, maybe I should call you General instead of Princess.Harun’s response elicits another laugh I have to muffle.How long can we keep something like that up, though?

How many Fridays are left this summer? We can both tell ourparents that we’ll give this a chance until then, since you’ll get busy with college in the fall and I—My fingers hover for a second. WhatwillI be doing? The same thing as ever, I suppose, but Harun doesn’t need to hear my sob story—have stuff to do, too.

Robot boy does his mathematical magic.Eight Fridays.

Eight dates, then. It’s poetic, the way it almost rhymes. It’d make a cute Hallmark movie if so much didn’t ride on it going well.

The Eight Dates of Summer,I type back.

Chapter8

The next day at work,I’m determined to tell my friends about the arrangement—and the arrangementwithinthe arrangement.

It was hard enough keeping things from them when I thought the Harun problem would fix itself yesterday, but now that I know it’ll drag on for two more months, I’m bursting with the urge to reveal everything, if only to have other people to opine to.

Unfortunately, with Mr. Tahir, Nayim, and a shop full of customers to contend with, I don’t get the chance until Chai Ho closes up for the night. On the weekends, we lock up even later than the rest of the week, to accommodate for increased business. Normally, the three extra hours of wages, which count as overtime, are a blessing. But the darker the sky grows outside, the more my mood dims as well. At least Ximena dropped by and stayed to hang out with Dani, so I can catch her up as well.

“Ay shallah,” my boss curses under his breath, tugging atthe loose tie around his stiff collar in an effort to make it sit right. “If I’m any later to dinner at your mamu’s, your ammu will use my skull for a bowl.”

“Uhhh, then why don’t you let us close up for you?”

His eyes narrow at my suggestion.

I bat my lashes, summoning my most innocent expression. The twins meet each other’s gazes from where Dani is polishing the counter with Ximena and Dalia is standing on her tiptoes on a tabletop, dusting off the decorative umbrellas open over the light fixtures. Even Nayim watches through the open kitchen door, clasping a sudsy plate and a dish towel over the sink.

Okay, so I’m not about to win best actress anytime soon.

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