The Love Club

For as long as I can remember, there’s always been something off about me. It took me a while to put my finger on it, nothing too apparent really happening in order for me to put a finger on it sooner.

Growing up, I’d always been a hopeless romantic. I’d lay in bed beside my mom and she’d read me all these fairytales while I listened intently to her every word. Not the real fairytales with the gore and blood, though as I grew older I became enamored with them as well, but the cookie-cutter, glitter and sparkle childhood versions of Cinderella and Rapunzel and Snow White and the like. She’d kiss my forehead, turn off the light, and I’d lay there in the dark and close my eyes, imagining the stories I had just heard.

What was weird about me, I guess, is that I never was one of the princesses. I never imagined myself in a ball gown, dancing through the forest with woodland creatures following me around and joining in with me in song. I realized this was different when I would show up to daycare and all the other girls would be wearing their yellow or pink tulle dresses, crowns on their heads and sceptors in hand. Sitting alone in the corner playing Barbies, I watched them from afar as they bowed to each other and giggled, gossiping about who was invited to their tea parties and so on. No, I was much more content with my Barbies, controlling a world rather than living in it.

I suppose the catalyst was my mother’s death. Maybe not the catalyst per se, but the event that really changed everything. I’m sure I would have eventually discovered what I was capable of without it, but it sped the process along immensely.

My mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. I say this with confidence, not the way other children will say it in passing, an exaggeration of their mother’s elegance. No, if my mother had one flaw, it was that she was flawless. She was truly the ideal mother, taking care of me, always on time, waiting in the minivan outside the daycare in the optimal spot, her blonde hair piled atop her hair in a style that looked pristine but had been thrown together last minute. She would smile at me and I’d glance at the sun, not sure I could tell the difference between the two. I would hop in the passenger seat and she’d ask me about my day as she pulled out from the curb and we began our journey home. I’d tell her about the princesses and their tea parties and she’d nod and listen, promising there was nothing wrong with me, that just because I was different didn’t mean I was defective. I still carry those words around with me in my pocket, pulling them out when I begin to forget.

If anyone ever had a doubt as to how magnificent my mother was, those doubts dissipated at her funeral. It was a full house, packed to the brim with family, close friends (of which my mother had quite a few), and people I’d never even met before. I swear, the damn grocer showed up.

I stood stoically beside my father, my hand placed in his. We’d done our mourning already behind closed doors. I slept in the bed beside him every night before the funeral and he’d hold me while I fell asleep in his arms, both of us crying but pretending not to notice. From that point on it was just the two of us against the world.

My father loved me, does continue to love me, enough for two parents. After the loss of mom, he did everything he could to fill her shoes. All those things a girl needs a mother for, my dad wasn’t afraid to step up and take over. I was young when mom died, just seven years old, and it was a few years later when he started dating again. I wasn’t ready.

That’s when things started to escalate with me. My dad would sit me down on the couch and explain carefully that he was going to dinner with a nice lady he’d met at work, that it was just a casual thing adults did and that mom wouldn’t mind. The fact that mom didn’t mind really didn’t matter to me. I minded.

On those nights, my dad would hire a babysitter, straight to my house from the high school, and I’d sit on the floor playing Barbies as she tied up the phone line to flirt with a senior on the football team. Those nights, the Barbies were my father and his date, and I’d imagine everything going wrong that possibly could. He’d spill his drink on her and she’d be offended, but willing to give him another shot. He would tell his favorite joke and she would laugh half-heartedly before taking another drawn out sip of red wine, her eyes scanning the restaurant for an excuse to leave.

At the end of the night, my dad would return home, deflated. He paid the babysitter, went to the fridge to open a beer, and would plop down on the sofa with an air of defeat. I would ask him how it went, secretly pleased when he simply shrugged and said, “She wasn’t right for me.”

It went on like this for years, until Felicity came along. I think I initially liked her because her name felt so funny rolling off my tongue. Fel-lic-it-y. I used to chant it as fast as I could until the syllables became one, the word I was saying unrecognizable. She was the first lady who came to meet me before the date with my father. She had curly dark hair that fell down her back in one long curtain and brown eyes that reminded me of the pews at church, the dark wood I’d shift uncomfortably on until my mother gave me a stern look to sit still.

From the moment she walked in, I knew she was different. Not different in the same way that I am, because I doubt anyone else is, but different in a way that I wanted her to stay. She strode forward without hesitation, unafraid of the eleven-year-old girl standing before her with her arms crossed defiantly over her flat chest. Felicity offered a hand and gave me a warm smile, which threw me for a loop because apart from being the first woman who met me before the date, she was also the first person to treat me the same way they’d treat another adult. Hesitantly, I ventured a palm out to meet hers and she shook it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mina,” she told me. “Your dad has told me so much about you.”

I looked beyond the woman standing before me to my dad, who was watching curiously behind her. My eyes returned to Felicity and I realized she was holding something in her hands, a thick red book.

“I heard you like fairytales. Your dad didn’t want me to get you the real ones, but I talked him into it. They’re a little graphic and kind of gross, but I thought you might like to read the real thing. He says you’re getting skeptical of the others.”

I carefully accepted the book from her hands and she watched me, scanning my face for a response. Naturally, I was intrigued, not only by the book but by the woman who had handed it to me. She smiled at me again, a warm smile not quite as brilliant as my mother’s, but then again, who had a smile like hers? Still, I decided her smile wasn’t bad. It was the first date I didn’t wish into disaster.

The second time Felicity came around, she insisted we all go to dinner and see a movie together. She allowed me to choose the movie and I decided I liked her even more for this as I stood beside her, watching my dad ask the cashier for three to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. We all sat down, Felicity excusing herself to the restroom only to return with a large bag of popcorn and three drinks. My dad admonished her playfully for buying it of her own accord, not giving him the chance to offer, but she promptly ignored him, winking at me before passing me the bag.

And that’s how we fell in love with Felicity.

The night after their wedding, both my dad and Felicity came in to tuck me in. Dad kissed my forehead, promised to see me in the morning, and left for his bedroom, but Felicity lingered. She smoothed my hair back and smiled down on me.

“I know I’ll never replace your mom, Mina, but I’m so happy you gave me the chance to love your father, and in turn, love you.”

That was all she said before crossing the room and turning out the light. I flipped over in my bed, staring at the wall as I thought her words over.

Why had she said it like that? Why did she word it in such a way to make it sound like I had been the controlling factor in the relationship that blossomed between her and my father? It was true that I would often sit at home and wish ill on his other dates, where as I had taken an immediate liking to Felicity. I had broken the pattern, and in turn, my dad found a new wife.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next day at school I sat quietly in my classes, trying to focus on my work but instead watching a boy in my class. His name was Brock and he was reserved, always piping up quietly in class, but only when forced to. He was way into comics, the kind of kid whose parents as a last ditch effort to make him cool forced him into Hollister polos and cargo shorts, yet he still found some way to make even this seem dorky. I watched him sit alone in the back corner of the class, flipping through an X Men comic beneath his desk while the other students were engaging in small talk as they worked on the worksheet assigned to each group.

“Mina?”

The voice came from a girl in my group, a petite girl with carmel hair and blue eyes. Her stick straight locks were perfectly parted down the middle and she was watching me with slight amusement.

“You’re answering number eight,” she told me as her eyes shifted to the back of the room to see what I was looking at.

Bailey was Brock’s polar opposite. She was the school socialite, weaving her way through every clique’s circle in the junior high cafeteria. She was a favorite of every teacher, in all the honors classes, theater, and chorus.

I nodded in response to her words, biting my lip as I read the question I had no idea how to answer due to my lack of an attention span.

“Bailey, I don’t know how to answer that one,” I finally admitted after a few moments of silence.

“What number?” came the voice behind me.

Brock was on his way to the teacher’s desk, having finished the worksheet on his own in less time than it took the groups to move past question five. I gave him the number and he peeked over my shoulder before giving a brief summary of what I hadn’t heard from in the class lecture. As he spoke, I glanced to Bailey who was watching this strange boy as he spoke. She seemed captivated by him, hanging on his every word. The next day when I walked into school, they were talking in the hallway before first period.

I experimented quite a bit after that. I was always on the lookout for new subjects, trying to pair boy to girl and willing it into existence. At first it was just whoever came across my path in an attempt to prove this power to myself. The couples would inevitably fall apart, but I found that when I put in the proper amount of research, they stick it through way beyond marriage. They’re together for life.

My accuracy was spot on, continues to be to this day. I’m still unsure of what to call this talent. I’m a matchmaker, sure, but beyond that. I don’t match compatible people and hope for the best, I know it will work out because I’ve never failed. Call it supernatural or what you will, but I guess I’m the real life cupid, or whatever. It’s a gift and a curse.

All this backstory is nonsense, I suppose. You don’t care about all that. You want the good stuff, so I’ll give it to you. But first an introduction.

My name is Mina Underhill. I’m twenty years old and I run the most successful underground matchmaking service London has ever seen. I have never once in my life failed at creating a happy relationship, even in the days before I was asked to get involved. My track record was spotless, completely unblemished until I recieved the e-mail that changed my life and made the decision to get involved. No, this wasn’t the blonde one’s fault, though he was the turning point in it all. Finding a match for the cute little Irish babe I’ve come to consider a close personal friend was one of the easiest matches I’ve ever made. No, it was Harry that would be my ruin. Not like I shouldn’t have seen that one coming.