The Summer of Jordi Perez (And the Best Burger in Los Angeles)

by Amy Spalding

  “You’re fucking cute,” he says. “You know that. You wouldn’t wear all your weird fruity clothes if you didn’t think that.”

  “It’s two separate things,” I say. Isn’t it? “Also, it’s just a weird coincidence you saw my lemon shorts and this pineapple shirt.”

  “It’s not a weird coincidence you own all of it,” he says. “So what happens if you like some hot girl? The worst possibility?”

  A vision of Lyndsey flashes in my head. Lyndsey hand-in-hand with Blake. Lyndsey’s Facebook status in a relationship. And I do my best to relay all of this to Jax, even as he’s also tapping at the Biggest Blank app at the moment. I prefer to get fully through the meal before giving my feedback, but that’s hardly the biggest difference between Jax and me.

  “Wait.” Jax stops messing with his phone and stares at me. “Your biggest fear is they might hook up with someone else instead? That’s basically nothing.”

  “It feels awful,” I say.

  “Lots of shit feels awful,” he says. “Life feels awful.”

  “Uh huh.” I take the last sip of my soda. “It must be awful for you. In your big house and your car and as many girls as you want.”

  “One, my house isn’t that big,” he says. “Ya know my parents are divorced, right? The big house is up in San Francisco, along with my dad. Two, not the girl I actually want. Three, okay, fine, my car’s awesome.”

  “Your life’s basically perfect,” I say. “I’m sure your parents aren’t humiliated at the mere thought of your existence.”

  Jax’s jaw tenses. “You’d be surprised. You done? You input your rating yet?”

  “Give me a second. Aren’t we supposed to take this seriously?” I scan the menu board to check the price. We’re supposed to rate the value, but it’s been tough adequately judging that with Jax paying for everything. A free burger always seems like an excellent value.

  “Do you think we’ll be sick of burgers by the time the summer’s over?” I ask once Jax has paid and we’re on our way outside.

  “Nah. How do you get sick of burgers? They’re perfection.” He unlocks the BMW. “So how’d you know you were gay?”

  “How’d you know you weren’t? It was probably the same way.”

  He laughs as we get into his car. “Touché.”

  My phone dings with a text that night, and I hope it’s Maliah even though I know she’s out with Trevor, but I assume it’s Jax because that’s way more likely these days. However, the name on my phone isn’t one I’ve seen recently, and I smile before I even read the contents of the message.

  I heard about Mom’s book. Therefore I assume she’s more annoying than usual. Sorry!

  I type back as quickly as I can. My last three messages went unreplied—and the texts before that were too brief to even count—but Rachel must be still holding her phone at this very moment, so I reply immediately. I don’t understand how a book is a bigger deal than TV??

  The little dots appear to show that Rachel’s typing, and I feel something loosen in my chest.

  Local TV and low-rated Food Channel stuff … this is a bigger deal, she responds. This is a whole book of Norah. Just imagine that.

  The dots show up again. And then: Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Things are so busy. How’s your summer?

  Weird, I type, but fun. I guess. How’s your internship?

  It takes her a while to type. I fill the time by looking at all of Jordi’s photos on Instagram again. I search for signs, though of exactly what … I don’t know. I know there won’t be a photo where I can suddenly see that not only does Jordi like girls, she likes me.

  I keep looking anyway.

  Rachel finally responds: It’s great! How’s yours?

  What the heck was all that typing about then?

  Obviously, since Rachel is halfway through college, it’s been nearly two years since she left for Boston University. I cried when we dropped her off at LAX (and most of the drive home, which is no small journey when you’re going back to the Eastside) but then my sophomore year started, and somehow I got used to her not walking with me or waving to me in the halls or, of course, being around at home. Before then we were a team. Mom could spend all her energy coming up with healthy alternatives to things we used to like eating, and Dad could turn over all the free time to Mom’s assistant work instead of using it to take us on night hikes in Griffith Park and walks around Silver Lake Reservoir like he used to. We still had each other.

  Her freshman year, at least, Rachel still texted all the time. She’d send funny posts to me on Instagram, and we’d FaceTime whenever possible. She was home for the whole summer after, and it was almost as though her year away hadn’t happened. It was almost like nothing had changed.

  But then she started her sophomore year, met Paul, and everything’s shifted.

  Mine’s great too, I type. And then that feels like enough so I move my phone to my desk to charge it and go back to my careful research of Jordi. I don’t learn much that I don’t already know. When she’s tagged in photos it’s with the same group of friends I’ve seen her with at school. The bands she follows seem local and obscure, which I would have guessed, and I don’t look any of them up because there’s nothing wrong with liking pop music and I’m afraid Jordi’s cool music will make me feel silly.

  I mean, not that I don’t feel silly with about a million tabs all devoted to Jordi Perez open in my browser right now. I remember doing this with Maliah, many months ago, analyzing Trevor for any possible defects. It would definitely feel less creepy if I were doing this with my best friend, but there are two huge obstacles: mainly that Jordi has no real interest in me, and also that Maliah thinks Jordi is some hardcore criminal.

  I guess it’s also fairly creepy to not care if Jordi is some hardcore criminal. But I really, really don’t.

  The four of us—Maliah, Zoe, Brooke, and me—are somehow magically all free to go shopping on Sunday afternoon. We take Maliah’s Mini Cooper even though if we do any serious buying there’ll barely be enough room for the four of us plus bags. Maliah always seems vaguely offended if Brooke offers to drive us in her banged up old Nissan, which, true, is not an adorable mint-colored British car, but does have plenty of room for friends and shopping bags.

  “Did you hear there’s a party at Denny Nuckles’s on Friday?” Zoe asks as we stop off at Starbucks on our way to the mall. I’m not sure I need to prove to my friends that I’m now sophisticated about coffee, so I do order a Frappuccino.

  “And what else did you hear, Zo?” Brooke asks her with a very knowing smile. We’re basically a team of two sets of best friends. Just like Maliah and me, Brooke and Zoe have known each other since childhood. And also just like us, they’re sort of physical opposites. Maliah’s dark-skinned with perfect ringlets of sun-kissed hair (it’s whatever chemical mix they use at her salon but it looks sun-kissed) and fits into sample sizes, while I’m one of the palest people in southern California with cotton candy hair and a plus size dress size. Brooke is tall and blond in that all-American natural way magazines say is in most seasons, while Zoe is just under five feet tall with a pouf of bright red hair—also natural even if Vogue would never refer to that shade as such.

  “Okay, fine,” Zoe says, as her whole face flushes. I’ve never seen someone whose forehead even turns red. “Brandon’s going to be there.”

  Zoe has nursed a crush on Brandon Salas since high school started and they ended up in the same algebra class. He’s quiet and therefore supposedly sensitive, and all of us are used to dissecting the small morsels of conversation he’s shared with Zoe for clues about his potential interest level.

  There’s a chance I’m getting ahead of myself, but if Zoe and Brandon are at the same party, it seems hugely probable that they’ll fall in love. Then two out of three of my closest friends will be in relationships. And considering how pretty and confident and smart Brooke is, she can’t be far behind. I’ll be the only forever alone one left standing.

  I was ho
ping that wouldn’t happen until college, and by then I’d be having my cool single fashion life in New York anyway and I wouldn’t care.

  “I’m in,” Maliah says. “Trevor’s going out of town this weekend.”

  Why does she have to say that? She could just say she’s coming to the party without making us feel like we’re her second choice.

  “Tell them how you know about the party,” Brooke tells Zoe, poking her with her Frappuccino straw when she doesn’t answer immediately.

  It turns out that Brandon messaged Zoe to see if she was going. We make her read the texts aloud as we head through and past the mall to the Americana, which is the outdoor shopping center next to the Galleria. The two-story Forever 21 is always our first stop, but we’re in less of a hurry today as we comment on each of the messages Brandon sent. There is no doubt to any of us how much he likes her, from the first greeting (Hi!—exclamation point use always seems very positive) to the most recent (Hope I see you on Friday.—sure, not definite plans, but heavily hinting at them).

  With three of us, plus Zoe, analyzing these messages, it feels like there’s a science to it. Brandon’s interest seems without question, and I’m, I realize, jealous. I have no such confirmation of Jordi’s interest, unlikely as it may be. There were things she said on Friday night I know we could spend the rest of our shopping trip turning over and over.

  “What?” Maliah asks as I drift in her general direction inside the store. “And do you think I can pull off like a long drapey dress? Like I’m one of those hippies over off of Laurel Canyon?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Not that you know any actual hippies.”

  “Like you do either!” She laughs and flips through a rack of dresses. I point out two that are prettier than the rest. “Something is up with you. Are you still sad about Lyndsey?”

  “Nothing’s up with me,” I say. “This summer’s just … weirder than I expected.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The best thing possible happens on Monday morning at work. No, Jordi doesn’t declare her eternal love or even bring me any delicious leftovers. Okay, she does tell me to relax when we arrive and makes me a cup of coffee, but that isn’t the point.

  The point? Maggie brought in the new fall line!

  Sketches of all six new dresses, as well as samples of each. And by samples, I mean beautiful actual dresses that I get to look at and touch. Maggie didn’t just have the teeny tiny sample size made, either; she has plus size samples for each dress, too. I might actually wear Lemonberry’s plus size sample size, but I try to only casually mention that fact. I’m sure Maggie has a lot to do with these dresses right now and isn’t ready to hand them over to one of her interns.

  Oh my god, but how great would it be if she was?

  “These are incredible,” I say. “I’m so jealous you know how to design dresses. I wish I had that skill. Or making dresses! Once my sister and I tried to take a class over at Sew L.A. It didn’t go well.”

  “Abby, you’re only seventeen, give yourself a break,” Maggie says with a smile. “I didn’t learn any of this until I was in my twenties.”

  I run my hands over a floral dress with three-quarter sleeves, a flared skirt, and a matching belt. “I love this fabric design. It’s so tropical. Like my parrot dress but … more restrained.”

  “You have a parrot dress?” Maggie and Jordi ask together.

  I nod.

  “I demand you wear it on Wednesday,” Maggie tells me. “Please.”

  Jordi and I spend the rest of the morning studying the dresses. Jordi’s making notes for the kinds of photos she’d like to take, while I’m thinking about how these six dresses comprise the fall line. There’s one that’s almost casual, with a lighter weight fabric and a less streamlined cut, all the way to a fuchsia taffeta with a voluminous skirt. Someone like me—well, like me with more money—could easily want all of these dresses. But I can see how someone who only wanted formalwear could stop in for the fuchsia dress, or someone like Maliah who’s trendy but not into strictly retro looks would look amazing in the casual bright white dress.

  I can’t wait until a full selection of the dresses is actually in the store and people can buy them.

  “Hey, what did you bring for lunch?” Jordi asks me. “Can it wait until Wednesday? Do you want to go out? I have cash if you didn’t bring any.”

  “I have cash, too,” I say. “Sure. I don’t even care if it can wait until Wednesday. It has, like, a disturbing amount of yucca.”

  Jordi pulls her bag over her shoulder and neck. “What’s yucca substituting for?”

  I grab my purse and follow her outside. “Croutons. Isn’t that sad?”

  “So your mom’s big enemy is carbs, huh.”

  “I mean, I get that you shouldn’t have carbs nonstop,” I say. “But never seems like … it’s extreme. But I guess Norah’s extreme.”

  Jordi looks up and down our block of Glendale Boulevard. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Bon Vivant?” I ask. “They have really good sandwiches.”

  “Yeah, let’s get you some bread,” Jordi says.

  We walk down the block and get into the long line. I grab menus for us, and there’s a moment as I hand one to her that our fingertips graze. It’s intense, like one time I touched a wire on a broken radio.

  “The dresses were cool,” Jordi says. “I hope Maggie gives all of them to you.”

  “I was hoping that, too,” I say. “Is that selfish? I feel like you probably don’t want any of the dresses.”

  “Nah, I’m not really a dress type,” she says.

  Does that mean something? Please let it mean something. Lots of girls, regardless of whether they like girls or not, aren’t into wearing dresses. I’m into wearing almost nothing but dresses and I’m as gay as heck. But please, please, please let it mean something.

  “Your look is so defined,” I say. “Which I love.”

  Why did I say love?

  “‘Defined’?” she asks with a smile.

  “You know, like Laine. You could pick out an outfit for Laine without her having to get involved. It’s the same for you. I think having a really defined look is a really key part of having great style.”

  “But you have great style,” Jordi says, “and I never would have known to pick out a parrot dress for you.”

  “Maybe once you see it, you’ll feel differently,” I say. “And, thank you.”

  The people right in front of us are taking forever to deliberate between soups, and I shoot Jordi a look.

  “It’s a tough decision, Abby,” she says.

  It’s finally our turn to order, and we both get sandwiches like people who aren’t the least bit afraid of bread. Since Jordi orders first, she offers to find a table for us, and there’s something about making my way over to her that feels really good.

  Oh my god. Like, I really cannot ever again make fun of Maliah in my head (or otherwise) for how doofy she can be over Trevor. I’m literally finding enjoyment in walking across a restaurant and locating a coworker at a table.

  “So, hey.” Jordi leans toward me a little. “I have a proposal.”

  A proposal.

  Okay, I don’t need to hear anything else she says to know it is not that kind of proposal. We are only seventeen, and we are not dating. But the word, oh my god. I can’t help but picture it. My dress is stunning and designed by Maggie. Jordi’s in something white and fancy that isn’t a dress. We’re the Ives-Perezes and we laugh whenever anyone screws up our names on Christmas cards.

  Seriously, what is wrong with me? All people with crushes can’t get quite this wacky, can they? Society would cease to function.

  “I know that we both want to get the job in the fall,” Jordi says. “And we probably both read everything about it we could find. But … I don’t want to fight over it with you, Abby. If I get it, I just want to … get it.”

  “Same,” I say as quickly as I can manage. “Yes, of course!”

  Please let this mean
something, too.

  “Also, I know we’re supposed to get free clothes, and obviously if I do, I’ll tell Maggie to give more to you instead.”

  “That’s … that’s really nice. Thank you, Jordi.”

  Our sandwiches arrive, and I notice that the table next to us contains the people ahead of us in line. They’ve finally gotten their soups and still seem to have a lot of questions, mainly about cilantro.

  “I sorta feel like they’ve never ordered food in a restaurant before,” I say, and Jordi snorts.

  “I’m proud of you for getting through your sandwich-ordering so quickly.”

  “You too! It was a tough job.”

  Jordi spots something across the restaurant and lifts her camera out of her bag. I can’t figure out what it is that she’s shooting, but that mystery makes it even more exciting to watch.

  “Sorry.” Jordi caps the lens and puts the camera away. “My friends hate when I do that without warning.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say. “You can’t help when inspiration strikes you.”

  I make a face because it’s the cheesiest thing I may have ever said, and I need Jordi to know that I know it. But she only smiles in return. And the truth is that even if nothing ever happens with Jordi and my weird thoughts about her electrical fingertips are all in vain, I’m still really glad I’m getting to know her.

  The house is, magically, empty when I wake up on Tuesday morning. There’s a note from Dad in the kitchen that he and Mom have “a thousand” errands and they’ll see me later. I get dressed as quickly as I’m capable of; I don’t really believe in not putting time into a look. It’s not that I’m worried I’ll see someone I know and look terrible—not that I wouldn’t hate that—but my clothes are for me. When you’re making your way through the world in a look you feel confident about, everything feels easier.

  I zip my laptop into my bright pink bag and walk over to Kaldi. I order coffee—yes, a regular coffee—and a bagel—yes, Mom would cry—for sustenance as I work on my next blog post. Honestly, I feel a little guilt toward +style. I’d figured my Lemonberry internship would keep me constantly inspired, but it’s almost like I get it out of my system and then have less of it when I sit down to write. Also, to be fair, I’m not really doing much of sitting down and writing, period, between the internship, the burgers project, and using my computer time to stare at Jordi’s Instagram on a bigger screen instead of doing, well, anything less creepy.