I sat up in surprise. “How did you know my friends were trying to set me up?”

“Leila.” She clicked her tongue. “You forget, beti, I know everything.”

I sank back into the couch. “Well, this matchmaker lady—”

“Seema aunty,” she interrupted.

“Seema aunty.” I stressed each syllable for effect. “She doesn’t even know me. How can she set me up with someone if she doesn’t know anything about me?”

“That is why we are going to meet her, Leila. So she can get to know you.” I buried my face into the cushion and groaned. “Leila, if you agree to do this with me, I will not interfere anymore.” She clasped her palms together. “Really. I mean it,” she pleaded with hopeful eyes.

“Fine.” I surrendered, knowing full well that once my mother set her mind to something, it was impossible to talk her out of it. “When do we meet this Seema aunty?”

“Two thirty.” She tapped my leg and got up. “You should freshen up.” She pushed the hair out of my face as I drew back. My stomach churned as she walked back into the kitchen, humming a little melody.

I clicked off the television and forced myself up. On the way to my room, I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. My skin was oily and greasy from not having been washed all day. Little bits of mascara from the night before had gathered under my eyes, giving me a freckled-raccoon look. I removed the elastic band from my hair and tried to smooth out the bump. No success. Freshen up? I sneered at my mother’s words. I had less than an hour. It was going to take nothing short of a belt sander and a miracle to survive the uncompromising scrutiny of a South Asian matchmaker.

* * *

“Salaams! Come in!” Seema aunty welcomed us enthusiastically and invited us into her office. She was a large woman in her fifties with a bright smile and a youthful face. As she and my mother exchanged greetings—a standard hug and kiss on each cheek—I hovered near the door, looking around the small office attached to the local mosque. There was a rectangular gold placard on the door, on which was written MATRIMONIAL SERVICES. This was a lot more legit than I had expected. Perhaps my mother was right. It did look very professional. My mother extended her arm and pulled me close.

“This is Leila, my daughter.” She beamed.

“Masha’Allah, beti, come here and let me look at you.” Seema aunty took me by both hands and pulled me toward her. I suddenly felt very self-conscious—despite having had enough time to wash my hair and put on some lip gloss. I glanced over at my mother uncomfortably, not sure what to make of this inspection. She gave me a slight nod, indicating this was perfectly normal.

“Come, come, sit down,” Seema aunty said, still holding me captive, her clammy palms handcuffed around my wrists as she steered me toward the chairs in front of her desk. When I was finally released, I took the seat closest to the door and my mother sat down beside me.