by Amy Spalding
“Well,” she says, “you apparently had a crush on Jordi and didn’t even bother to mention it to me.”
“Oh my god,” I say. “Seriously? That’s a thing you think is reasonable to say after how you’re acting?”
She’s wearing her hugest pair of sunglasses but I can still feel her eyes on me. “Okay. That’s fair.”
“Did I just win an argument with you?” I ask. “For the first time in the history of anything?”
“Oh, Abbs, shut up,” she says but laughs. “That benefit was terrible, by the way. They had pictures of people with whatever this disease was, and by the time we left, I was convinced I had it, too.”
“Your parents should know better than taking you at this point,” I say.
“I know! They love to look like the perfect family—”
“You are the perfect family,” I say, because, oh my god, the Joneses. They’re all good-looking and fashionable and smart. Once Mr. Jones played tennis with George Clooney, and the paparazzi snapped pictures of him. A gossip blogger posted a pic with the caption Who cares about Clooney? I want to hear all about this bangable hot black doctor, and I tried to show Maliah but she says she’ll never look at anything related to her dad that contains the word bangable. And Mrs. Jones had her photo in Los Angeles magazine for being the first female cardiologist to perform a particular surgery. (I’m sure she was also written about in medical journals, but my family doesn’t have a subscription to any of those.)
“Then I went home and Googled—”
“Mal, you know better than to ever Google,” I say. “Please tell me you didn’t go on WebMD.”
“I’m only so strong,” she says, and we both laugh.
“I don’t want things to be weird with us,” I say.
“I know.” Her tone is easy. “Me either.”
CHAPTER 14
The week goes faster than I want it to. I would have been living for Saturday, but now instead of carefully planning our second date, I’m home with my parents while Jordi’s in the midst of the world of fashion. Maybe by next week, we’ll work into each other’s schedules better; organizing time isn’t a romantic or sexy activity but I guess it’s weirdly important when it comes to dating. But Tuesday I hung out with Maliah and Co. for most of the day, and Thursday Jordi had to entertain her brother.
Work’s off-limits but also it’s funny how it isn’t. Maggie might step into her office and then I get to gaze at Jordi for a moment or she might run her fingertips down my arm. And then on the way home, we’ll turn off Glendale Boulevard where it’s quieter and shadier and I’ll just say that there are approximately five thousand more spots to stop and kiss from that intersection to Jordi’s gate than I could have guessed.
But tonight’s not about kissing. Tonight is about counting out stacks of twenty-five promotional Eat Healthy with Norah! postcards to be sent to some sort of LA food event.
Well, tonight is also about checking all of Lemonberry’s social media feeds to see what’s happening at the fashion show.
“How did that date go?” my dad asks, and I can’t remember if I’m on twelve postcards or thirteen, so I start over.
“Greg,” Mom says, and I hold my breath for what’s coming next. “Girls don’t like to talk to their dads about dating.”
Considering how much of what my mom has to say is about eliminating delicious foods from your life, this is maybe the smartest thing she’s said in years.
“I thought kids hated it when their parents weren’t involved in their lives,” Dad says, and I laugh.
“Yeah, Dad, that’s what all the kids are sitting around talking about.” But I feel bad for him with this stupid assistant work and his confused expression. “It was good. It was a good date.”
I recount a stack and wrap a rubber band around it before refreshing everything on my computer, which is open next to me on the couch. Photos are up, and I can tell right away from their angles and sharp focus that they’re Jordi’s work. Laine is one of the models, and then there are two other models in Lemonberry dresses who are just as beautiful and well-coiffed. I am doing intern type work for my parents while Jordi is shooting pictures of beautiful women.
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Mom says from her computer. I have no idea what she’s working on, but a Word document is up on her screen while Dad and I are counting out our stacks.
“Take a break, Nor,” Dad tells her. “Abby and I can finish this.”
“I might take a walk,” she says. “If you really don’t mind.”
As soon as Mom’s out the door, Dad says “Hey, go check my filing cabinet.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
Dad has this beaten-up gray filing cabinet that looks like it stored death records or something even more depressing in the 1950s. When he left his ad agency job, he loaded it up with his old files “just in case.”
But now it looks like the bottom drawer is full of snacks. “Oh my god. Dad, you’re a hoarder!”
“I’m a proud carbs hoarder,” he says. “Look, I love your mom, and her food, but … a life without Chex Mix? It’s not a life I want.”
I grab a bag of Chex Mix for him and take a bag of Goldfish for myself. “Dad? Seriously, don’t you hate this? Not the food-hoarding, but … being Mom’s assistant? I swear I do more exciting things at my internship, and I’m only seventeen.”
“It’s not always that simple,” Dad says, before scarfing down a few handfuls of Chex Mix. “I liked my job fine, Abby, but it wasn’t my life.”
“What did you want it to be?” I ask. “Like, you weren’t seventeen and dreaming about media planning or whatever, right?”
“Kiddo, my life is your mom and you girls,” he says. “So when it looked like it would be possible for your mom’s career to really expand, I wanted to do anything I could.”
“But didn’t you used to do, like, big things at work?” I ask, even though I’m not entirely sure what Dad’s old job had consisted of. “And now you’re counting postcards.”
“I wasn’t doing big things,” he says. “I was working on spreadsheets and PowerPoint decks, and feeling like more of an order-taker than someone pitching big ideas. If I’d been fulfilled by it, I wouldn’t have left—hell, your mom wouldn’t have wanted me to leave. Believe it or not, I’m much happier now.”
“Oh,” I say, because this all feels like breaking news to me. Could stacking postcards actually somehow be Dad’s life’s work? At least he’s making Mom happy. And I might be far from her biggest fan, but I can’t deny their relationship is sort of admirable. Maybe even romantic, though I don’t want to think about that. I might just feel weak because I’m home alone on a Saturday with my dad and promotional postcards and Goldfish crackers while Jordi’s taking photos of models.
Oh, god, Jordi and models. I refresh my feeds again. There are more photos and, somehow, everyone gets more beautiful. I go back to the postcards. By the time I go to bed, the professional fashion show photos have stopped, and there’s a casual one clearly snapped from someone’s phone. The models are there, but so is Maggie, and so is Jordi. A model’s arm is around Jordi’s shoulders.
Obviously I don’t actually think Jordi is hooking up with a gorgeous older model, but also it is not exactly the best thing to look at when you’re me right now. And then my phone buzzes but it’s just Jax, who seems to be mildly drunk and stuck at a party.
But luckily while I’m working on my blog the next morning, a text arrives from Jordi. are you free today? my family’s making empanadas and they’re insisting i invite you.
Oh my god, I get to hang out with Jordi, meet her family, and eat empanadas? This might be the best day ever.
I get permission from Mom and Dad, and then figure out a casual but cute outfit (my lemon shorts and a blue V-neck with pink sandals) before walking over. Should I be nervous about Jordi’s parents? Yes, they’re insisting I come over, but they don’t trust Jordi after her fire photography. Mayb
e they’re insanely strict with her. Maybe they don’t even know that Jordi’s gay and just think that I’m some girl she works with. I mean, I am some girl she works with, but what if that’s all they know?
Still, for the first time, I don’t wait at the gate. I walk in and then ring the doorbell.
“Hey.” Jordi opens the door and smiles at me. “Come on in, Abby.”
Jordi’s house is perfect. I don’t mean that in an I like Jordi and therefore this house is perfect to me way. Just like the shiny gate and the slate gray exterior, people have put thought into this house. Of course Jordi understands light and shadows and framing. The living room has olive green walls and then furniture in shades of blues and browns with framed artwork and photos scattered throughout. There’s even a perfectly calm gray cat curled up on an orange ottoman like it was placed there by a stylist.
“That’s Frankenstein’s Monster,” Jordi tells me. “Which is why you should never let cat-naming fall to the youngest family member.”
“The cat seems okay about it, at least,” I say, and she smiles.
“Thanks for coming. I know this isn’t the coolest way to spend today. My dad’s really into honoring his family’s recipes, or whatever, so we get roped into it sometimes, too.”
“I’m super glad to be here,” I say. “Though I feel bad because you planned our first date and now this is all you, too.”
“No,” she says. “Our second date is still ahead of us. My parents are involved, so this does not count as a date.”
“Did you have fun last night?” I ask. “Your photos were amazing.”
“It was … interesting. I’ll tell you more later.” She cocks her head to the side. “Are you wearing lemon shorts?”
“Be honest with me: do you think I have too many pieces of clothing that have fruit on them? Bear in mind an apples-and-pears skirt should be shipping to me this week.”
“I think you have exactly the right amount of fruit clothing,” she says. “Come on. If I don’t bring you in to meet my parents, they’ll get demanding.”
I’m about to ask what they know, but then she takes me by my hand and I guess they know the truth.
“Guys, Abby’s here,” she says as we walk into the kitchen where a couple around Mom and Dad’s age is sitting at the kitchen table. The air is fragrant with a savory doughy smell, like someone was just baking, and ingredients have been set out along the counter like ground beef, onions, bright bell peppers, cans of tomato paste, and jars of spices.
Jordi’s parents are, of course, cool, like they came as a matched set with this house. Jordi’s dad has bold glasses and a very precise haircut, and he’s wearing a James Perse T-shirt with jeans, which is the sort of look I should demand Jax investigate. Her mom has wavy hair like Jordi’s, but it’s longer and highlighted perfectly and completely goes with her flowy boho look.
“It’s great to meet you.” Mr. Perez stands up to shake my hand, and then Mrs. Perez does the same.
“I love your hair,” she tells me. “It’s like strawberry gelato.”
“Oh my god,” I say. “I love strawberry gelato. Thank you.”
“Jordi says you’re a genius with social media,” her dad says.
“I’m …” I smile at Jordi. “I’m okay. It feels like a goofy thing to be good at.”
“In this day and age? Not at all.” Jordi’s mom walks to the refrigerator. “Can I get you some juice or coffee?”
“Not so fast,” Jordi’s dad says. “We don’t seem to have enough onions. Can I send you girls to the store?”
“For a fee,” Jordi says, and her dad hands over some cash from his wallet. “Can we take Mom’s car?”
“You can take my car,” he says. “And go to Gelson’s. Trader Joe’s has garbage produce. See you in a few.”
I follow Jordi into the garage and see why she wanted to take Mrs. Perez’s car: it’s an old Mustang. I’m sure I never want to drive, and I don’t really care about cars, but oh my god. We get into the Prius, and Jordi turns down the volume on the blaring NPR.
“Hey,” she says, and we kiss softly, like it’s a secret between us. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night. After the show, they brought me to this afterparty.”
“Was it cool?” I ask as she backs out of the garage.
“I guess. It wasn’t really my thing, but Maggie and Laine made it fun.” She shoots me a look and then goes back to paying attention to the road. “We’re not found out, but … we need to be extra careful.”
“Why? What happened? Are there rules about dating? Is someone homophobic?”
Jordi squeezes my hand. “One question at a time. First of all, I accidentally drank, because one of the models, Aliyah, didn’t know I was seventeen and gave me what I thought was juice. And I never drink so I was …”
I grin. “Drunk?”
“What’s between normal and drunk? Tipsy? Anyway, they said some guy was checking me out, and then that turned into all these questions about if I had a boyfriend or not, and to get it all to stop, I told them I have a girlfriend.”
A girlfriend.
“If that sounds like too much, just remember there were something like five women chanting he’s cute and I didn’t know what to do,” Jordi says as she turns the car into Gelson’s parking lot.
“It doesn’t sound like too much,” I say. “The girlfriend part, I mean. The chanting part sounds terrible.”
“Okay,” she says. And she smiles.
“What did the guy look like?” I ask. “Who was checking you out? Was he cute for a guy?”
She laughs. “No. Come on, let’s get some onions.”
We head to the produce section, but I forget that you can’t get there without seeing an in-store display of their featured and semi-famous nutritionist.
“Oh my god,” Jordi says. “I never noticed this before.”
“I hate it,” I say. “It’s like my mom can watch me buy an orange.”
“Well, today she can watch you help me pick out onions that my dad won’t deem garbage,” she says.
“Your parents seem really nice,” I say, and then I’m not sure if I should take that opinion back. “Sorry, I know there was the whole thing with … it’s none of my business and—”
“It’s okay.” She hands me an onion. “Seem good to you?”
“Jordi, this is not my area of expertise.”
“My parents are …” Jordi sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “They’re great. They support all my dreams and it was never an issue that I’m gay and they know I want to move to New York for college—”
“Oh my god,” I say, even though I am well aware it isn’t the right time to interrupt. “Me too!”
“That’s really good news for me,” she says. “Anyway. It makes it better and worse. My parents are normally the best. We never had fights like my friends seem to have with their parents. So when they didn’t believe me …”
I squeeze her hand but it’s holding an onion so I accidentally squeeze that instead, and we both laugh so hard that other people look.
Jordi feels secure that the onions we select aren’t garbage, and we head back to her house. A boy who looks a lot like Jordi but with glasses is in the kitchen with her parents, and he waves when we walk in.
“I’m Christian,” he says. “I’m thirteen. I know I look younger because I’m short, but I’m thirteen.”
“I’m Abby,” I say and wave back.
“Okay, guys, let’s get started,” Mr. Perez says and directs us all to different parts of the counter and island. Mrs. Perez brings me coffee, fixed exactly how I like it, and then brings me an apron.
“You look too pretty to spill anything on your clothes,” she tells me, and the compliment is so unexpected I just stare at her. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s really good, yeah.” I try to look less awkward and tie the apron around my waist. It’s longer than my shorts, and the top is wide, so I sort of look like I’m not wearing anything underneat
h. I turn to show Jordi, and she laughs.
“That’s the shortest apron we have,” Mrs. Perez calls.
Jordi snaps my photo.
“Hey,” her dad says. “Be careful with that camera, Jordana. Your mom and I didn’t let you combine Christmas and birthday gifts so you could get beef all over it.”
“I’m nowhere near any beef,” Jordi says, but I’m too hung up on something else to know whether that’s true.
“Jordana?” I ask. “Is your actual name Jordana?”
“I should have never invited you over,” she says but she’s smiling.
“Have you ever made empanadas before?” Jordi’s dad asks me, and I shake my head. “Great! I can’t wait to walk you through everything.”
Jordi and Christian simultaneously groan.
“This takes long enough as it is, Dad,” Jordi says. “Can you work and talk at the same time?”
Mr. Perez smiles but doesn’t move to do any cooking. “Guys, this is your abuela’s recipe. It’s important to do it right.”
“Dad,” Christian says. “Do it right. Not talk about it all night.”
“It’s daytime,” he says, smiling like he’s gotten one over on his kids. Okay, maybe he isn’t actually that much cooler than my dad.
“So I made the dough this morning, because it needs time to chill in the refrigerator,” Mr. Perez continues. “We’ll make the filling now. Jordi won’t chop onions because her eyes are too sensitive—”
“Dad,” she says.
“—so do you two want to split chopping the peppers? Jordi, show Abby how we like them.”
“‘How we like them’?” she asks, but I can see the smile in her eyes. “Come on, Abby. Also, Dad, please, can you blast anything but NPR while we work today?”
Yeah, he’s definitely not actually that much cooler than my dad.
Jordi shows me how to chop the peppers to the desired size and we get to work while her mom chops onions, Christian chops hardboiled eggs, and her dad organizes the ingredients and heats oil in a giant sauté pan at the stove. Everyone compromises on a classic rock playlist that Christian calls cheesy but is full of the kinds of songs you wouldn’t necessarily choose on their own but make you want to sing along.
