Miss Match

This being my second Simon Pulse novel, I’d first like to thank those who’ve embraced
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren
. Your support means the world to me. All my gratitude to my agents, Christina Hogrebe and Annelise Robey, for their guidance and enthusiasm, and to my editor, Michael del Rosario, who made
Miss Match
truly shine. Thanks to Caroline Abbey and the rest of the Simon & Schuster team—both past and present—for having faith in me, right from the start. God has blessed me with the most loving friends and family. I wouldn’t be able to follow my dream if they weren’t always standing behind me. I’m also blessed with the most amazing CPs: the Eden Writers Circle, Kwana, Nadine, Aryn, Kristin, and Jennifer. I’m grateful to Mom and Penny for making it possible for occasional escapes. Three cheers for Marley and Drienie, who keep me going strong, and Matt, who attempts to keep me sane. Big hugs to Anna, the sweetest girl in the universe, and Miller, Collin, and Dawson, who will be my babies forever.

Acknowledgments

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

About the Author

Bam!

My head slams into the headrest of my seat.

Oh no.
No!

I clench my eyes shut and slowly turn around, afraid to see what I’ve hit. By the time I open my eyes again, a lump the size of Jupiter has taken residence in my throat.

Mrs. Woosely jumps out of her car and claps her hands over her mouth. I shift into park, turn off the ignition, and race over to her on wobbly legs. Mrs. Woosely has lived down the street from us as long as I can remember, in the house with all the plastic pink flamingoes poked into the flowerbed. One Halloween when I was, like, seven, my best friend, Yasmin, and I transplanted her
flamingoes to the churchyard on the next block. We thought it was hilarious.

But this,
this
isn’t the least bit funny.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Woosely,” I say, trying to keep from bawling. “Are you okay?”

She does a remarkable impression of a fish: lips pursed together, eyes bugged out, hands flittering at her sides like little fins. “Yes, I’m all right.” After blowing out a long, loud stream of air she examines the dent in the side of her little white Toyota. “Can’t say the same for my car, though.”

How could this have happened to me? So close to getting my license. So close to getting my very own car. My own independence! And now look what I’ve done.
Argh!
I am sooooo dead.

“Mrs. Woosely, I’m
so
sorry about this. I was just moving my dad’s truck so, you know, I could play basketball, and I—”

“I know you’re sorry, dear. I’m going to be late for my dialysis, though. So let’s exchange insurance information and I’ll be on my way.”

I brush my hand along the bumper of Dad’s SUV. Miraculously, there’s only a little scratch. Might even be undetectable.

Wait a minute.

Turning around, I scan the windows of the house. No signs of witnesses.

What if Dad never finds out about this accident?

“About that, Mrs. Woosely. You see…” I give the flamingo aficionada one of my sweetest, most sincere smiles. “Well, I guess what I’m asking is, if I promise to pay for the repairs, do you think you can keep this whole thing under wraps? My parents are already so upset with their divorce and everything, and I’d hate to distress them even more. You know?”

Mrs. Woosely paces up and down the length of her car, the asphalt crunching under her tasseled loafers. Her white curls are so tight they don’t even flutter in the March breeze. Finally, she says, “Well, I suppose that would be all right. My son just went through a horrible divorce himself. Now, I don’t really approve of divorces, because I figure when you make a promise to God…but then again God didn’t intend for men to marry hussies who cavort with other men half their age, either.”

She stops and looks at me, a tinge of pity in her light gray eyes. She chuckles softly and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear. Don’t mind me. I’m an old woman with
too many opinions.” She turns and opens the door to her car, then winks at me over her shoulder. “I’ll have it fixed and hand you the bill. It’ll be our secret.” Mrs. Woosely presses her finger to her lips and then folds her petite body into the driver’s seat.

After her wounded car disappears around the bend, I carefully pull the SUV back up the driveway and then head inside the house. Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch in the living room, a vast expanse of worn-in leather separating them. The instant they hear me, Dad clears his throat meaningfully, and Mom concentrates on centering her glass on its coaster. Mom’s glass is filled to the rim with iced tea; Dad’s is half empty. I feel squished by the weight of their silence as they turn and give me flimsy
everything’s okay
smiles.

As far as I can tell, they didn’t witness the accident. I’m sure Dad would’ve said something by now. I hand him his keys.

Clearing his throat again, Dad half stands. “You sure didn’t play very long, Sasha,” he says, stuffing the keys into his pocket and then lowering his body onto the couch again. “You didn’t have any trouble moving my truck, did you?”

I blink, not really sure what to say. Did they see the accident after all? Are they just waiting for me to come clean? My cheeks, which were wind-chilled only moments ago, now feel like they’re about to melt off my face.

“Everything all right, Sasha?” Mom asks softly.

Shrugging in a way I hope appears nonchalant, I say, “Just got bored, you know, shooting hoops all alone.” Then, as soon as I can slink away without being totally rude, I escape up the stairs and into my bedroom, leaving my parents alone to discuss the finer points of their so-called amicable divorce. As I look out the window at Dad’s SUV, I get a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I’m totally relieved my parents didn’t see me crash into Mrs. Woosely’s car. But how am I going to keep it a secret from them? And even if they never find out, how am I going to make enough money to pay for the car repair?

Eight hundred dollars.

Eight hundred dollars.

I’m sure my eyes are popping out of their sockets as I read Mrs. Woosely’s Jiffy Auto
Body Repair statement. Will I be shackled to this debt for the rest of my high school years? It’s all too clear that I have to do something major. I’ve got to come up with a way to make some mega bucks, and fast.

But what? It’s not that I have anything against the Gap or McDonald’s, but it’ll take an
eternity
to earn eight hundred bucks doing a minimum-wage-type job.

I rack my brain for something that I’m good at, something I enjoy. You know, kinda like those fill-in-the-bubble career aptitude tests we’re forced to take at school. Or the “Which Career Matches Your Personality?” quizzes on Seventeen.com.

After five minutes of hitting dead ends I reach for the phone and dial Yasmin’s number.

“If you were a career counselor, what kind of job would you recommend for me?” I ask after she answers.

“So your dad’s making you get a job? I told you things would be different once he moved in with his girlfriend. Things always are.”

“A job, Yas. What kind of job would I be good at?” I say, trying to steer her back on course. I click the remote and my TV comes to life. It’s one of those lame after-school
specials. Two teenage girls are trying to get the attention of a guy in a leather jacket. The brunette chick is really into him, but he isn’t giving her the time of day. She’s failing miserably, doing everything she shouldn’t and nothing she should. If I could just pop into the television and work a little magic, I’d have that guy dying to ask her out…

“Matchmaker,” Yas says.

“Come again?”

“You’re a natural-born matchmaker, Sasha.”

I turn off the TV and ponder this for a moment.

“Remember how you fixed up Jarren and Caitlyn Sparks?” she asks.

I laugh. “That was, like, the first grade!” Jarren told me he thought Caitlyn was cute and wondered if she liked him back. Something came over me. I
had
to help get these two together. I snuck out to the hall and moved his Batman backpack next to her Disney Princess one. The next day I had everybody shuffle around so they’d be sitting next to each other for circle time. Two days later he was sharing his Little Debbie with Caitlyn at lunch and gave her a picture he’d drawn of her—both suggestions of mine. By
the end of the week I saw them holding hands at recess. I was more excited than he was!

“Do you think people would pay me to fix them up with their crushes?” I ask. Matchmaking has always been a hobby of mine. Could I actually earn money doing it?

“Absolutely.” While Yas delves into a monologue about different cultures and their commitment to matchmakers and how America could use a personal touch in this era of Internet dating and virtual sex (whatever that means), I make a big decision.

I’ll be the world’s first teenage matchmaker. Or at least the first one in northern Utah.

After I thank my friend and hang up, I begin plowing through the articles about boys and dating and falling in love that I’ve clipped from magazines. I watch the movies and talk shows about matchmaking that I’ve recorded through the years. Then, hopped-up on inspiration and adrenaline, I pluck away on my laptop into the wee hours of the night.

By the time the sun pops up, I, Sasha Finnegan, have been reborn as Miss Match. Watch out, Cupid, there’s a new matchmaker in town!