Playing With Matches (8 page)

“I’m really sorry, I —”

Her hands shot up in the air and she squeezed her eyes shut: the variation of covering one’s ears that is more socially accepted in middle-aged circles.

Leah spoke in a quiet voice. “Aunt Mira, I really wish you would have let me take care of it.”

“Me too,” Mira said.

Ouch
.

Bubby was chuckling. My non-shiva visit had apparently given her a new lease on life. Leah put her hand on Mira’s arm and spoke in a calming voice. “Why don’t I go to Café Mango and pick up some pies and salads. I’m happy to take them over to the Millers.”

Mira exhaled slowly while she considered it. “Fine,” she finally said with a nod. Leah shook her head at me and strode past me to the wall hook where she grabbed the car keys.

“I think I better come along to the Millers,” said Aunt Mira. “I’d like to apologize in person.”

They swept out the door, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen with Bubby.

“See what I mean?” she said. “A
tyrant
.”

Then she plucked a french fry from the box and popped it into her mouth.

The next day I found myself once again trapped in Mrs. Levine’s weekly torture session. I stared at a photo of her grinning granddaughter in a sticky high chair with spaghetti falling off every surface. It looked like the girl’s head had been hand-dipped in a fondue dish of tomato sauce. The unfinished pine frame was painted with messy childish hearts, the words “I Luv You — Miriam” crudely written on the bottom.

Really? Or was this just one of those coercive “I Love You” craft projects that preschools foist on defenseless grandchildren?

Mrs. Levine’s clipped voice jarred me back to reality. “I’m going to suggest you try to spend some time with someone responsible in the school. Someone like Dahlia Engel, perhaps. Do you know her?”

Of course I knew Dahlia Engel. She was the class brain with hair the colour of squirrel.

“Your aunt and I had a long talk this morning,” Mrs. Levine was saying. I already didn’t like where this was going. “We’re both concerned about your lack of social integration at Moriah, and we think Dahlia would be an excellent mentor for you. She’ll help you with your studying and to develop some friendships with the other students.”

That was it. I was going to have to strangle Mira.

My hands clenched the moulded edges of my seat. “Mrs. Levine, are you sure you don’t want to give me a bit more of a chance to connect on my own with some of the girls here?” Like girls I actually wanted to be friends with?

“Your second math test as well as your English assignment were on the weak side. I don’t want you to fall further behind, and I think sometimes it helps to have a friend.”

Dahlia Engel?

Mrs. Levine stared at me without blinking.

Sharks. I thought of sharks. Did you know that sharks have upper and lower eyelids and
they don’t blink either
?

I rest my case.

I shifted in my chair as she continued a blinkless glare. I had no choice but to agree. “Okay, Mrs. Levine,” I mumbled as I stared down at my hands.

The meeting was over. Just like that.

I spent the afternoon fantasizing an escape back to New York. But every scenario ended with the same inevitable result — an eight-thousand-mile exile to my parents’ apartment. When the afternoon was thankfully over I trudged to my locker through an end-of-the-day kaleidoscope of unbrushed hair, abandoned uniform sweaters, and discarded candy wrappers. The roar of yelling and laughter squeezed my head like a clamp. Nobody waved. No one even acknowledged me.

I was completely invisible.

Maybe I really did need the principal to set me up on a play date with Calculator Girl.

The next morning, Aunt Mira drove me to the bus stop.

“How
is
Mo doing?” Aunt Mira said as she turned onto Bathurst Street.

“Mo?”

“Professor Kellman. Moses.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sad.”

She shook her head. “I was friends with his daughter Rena, before she moved to Lakewood with her family,” she said. “Now he’s all alone.”

“He appreciated the meal,” I said. And since I was now in the business of winning points I added, “And I think he appreciated the visit too.”

“Really?” She leaned over and squeezed my wrist. “He enjoyed chatting with you?”

“He practically
begged
me to come back,” I said proudly.

“You don’t say,” she said in an intrigued voice. She drove quietly for a few seconds, then smacked the steering wheel with excitement. “I have a wonderful idea,” she said. “Since he wants you to come back, you’ll take another meal over and then you can visit with him again!”

“What?” As in:
What … have I done?!

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted!” she said, as she cruised through the intersection.

So this is what it was like to be the victim of your own success. Although I admittedly didn’t have much experience with it. It was just too awkward to visit a complete stranger. What would I talk to him about?

“Say, Wednesday?” she said. “I’ll let him know that you’ll bring over some dinner.”

I gritted my teeth as she dropped me off at the Number 7 bus stop. I stamped up the stairs of the bus looking for Tamara.

Tamara was at the back of the bus in her usual place, practically dancing in her seat. “I just know it,” she said. “I’m afraid to get excited but I think Jeremy is The One.”

Alright, in case you’re thinking this is bizarre, here are a few other things you should know:

More Rules for Dating in My Community

#4. It’s possible to know as early as the first date that the match is going to work.

#5. It’s not unheard of to get engaged within a week or two of meeting each other.

#6. Dating has one purpose and one ultimate prize — marriage.

Okay, so I know Number 5 sounds
really
crazy but my mother has seen it happen many times in her matchmaking experience. People meet and know right away that they’ve found their soul mates.

“This is so great,” I said to Tamara. Her eyes were dancing and a huge dippy grin spread across her delicate face. It had been a while since I’d earned a smile like that. From anyone.

“Let’s get together,” she said. “Should we try the library again?”

“Well …” I said. “How would you feel about getting together at this professor’s house on Wednesday?” Fortified by Tamara, the visit to the professor might not be as awkward. “I’m delivering a meal for my aunt and I’d appreciate having someone else there to talk to him. Plus he doesn’t mind me using his computer. I can start responding to all those people who are asking for matches.” With that I gave her a knowing nudge.

“I’m still so sorry that happened,” she said with a sober expression. “Rebecca begged me for Matchmaven’s email address. She swore she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

I shrugged. It was too late now. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The email account is anonymous.”

“Absolutely. Now just tell me where to go.”

“Wednesday night,” I said, scribbling Professor Kellman’s address on the back of my transfer.

“Wednesday night it is,” she said as she pocketed the number. She pointed to my knapsack. “Now it’s time for some math.”

I groaned and pulled out my textbook.

chapter 10

Looks like George Clooney

Professor K. clapped his hands together and grinned at us.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “I’m delighted you’re here.” He wore a zippered black cardigan over an ash-coloured shirt that looked oddly stylish on his older frame. Though slightly confusing, these kinds of happy fashion accidents are known to randomly occur.

“I can’t believe I forgot to bring a flashlight,” I whispered to Tamara as we followed him to the tiny kitchen. I placed the aluminum pan filled with slices of roast beef and baked potatoes on the laminate counter.

He lifted the foil and sniffed the contents. “Delicious. Your Aunt Mira is a wonderful cook.” He pointed to the vinyl chairs. “Please, sit, sit. Would you like some fresh juice? I have a juicer. I insist.”

Tamara smiled at him. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

“What’ll it be then?” he said. “Celery? Kohlrabi?”

I stifled a groan. “Do you maybe have some oranges?”

“Carrots, I’ll make you some nice orange carrot juice.”

Why? Why the resistance to fruit?

He scurried to the fridge, bent down, and pulled out an unrecognizable vegetable.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked, peering over his shoulder.

She looked down at him. “I’m Tamara Greenberg.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling.

As he fed the vegetables through the juicer, I leaned over the table to Tamara.

“Sooo?” I said to her.

Tamara rested her face in her hands; elbows on the table. Her green eyes were so luminous they looked like they were powered by an internal battery pack. She had an air of contentment — she radiated marriage. “Honestly, Rain? I feel that we’re destined to spend the rest of our lives together.”

I could probably do a cartwheel of awesome right now, except for two things. And they were both guilt. The fact was that Leah was languishing and not dating. And the tension between us was slowly gnawing its way through me.

“Well, ladies, I have some delicious juice for you,” Professor K. said.

He handed me a glass filled with a strange slimy substance. It wasn’t really clear to me if it was liquid or gas. I can tell you this much though. If you bottled the sweaty air on a sealed Number 7 bus, you’d almost certainly get something that looked like the contents of this glass. I needed a diversion because there was no way I was going to actually put that stuff inside my body.

“Hey Professor K., did you write all those books in your living room?” I asked. I gently shook the glass, swirling the contents.

“One or two,” he said. “Would you like to see some of my work?”

We marched single file to the living room, and what followed was a guided tour of Planet Kellman. I shot a glance at the droopy ficus plant that stood near a tiny crack of light next to the brown velour drapes. I inched over and furtively dumped the bio-concoction in the soil. As Professor K. continued pointing out books to Tamara that were penned by his late wife, I settled into the taped-up seat in front of his computer and opened my email account.

It had happened again. Messages from another twelve people requesting matches filled my inbox.

Tamara sidled over and glanced over my shoulder. “Wow. Maybe just set up an automatic response that you’re not doing matches.”

I crossed my arms and stared at the screen. My legend was growing by the day.
That’s because they didn’t know that as many people as I had brought together (two), I had broken up (two). In fact, maybe Tamara was a fluke. Her cell phone rang. As she yanked it from her purse, Professor K. wandered to the kitchen.

“Anybody want a tea?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, not so interested in risking a zucchini or broccoli blend. I opened another message.