by Amy Spalding
Mr. Perez cooks the beef and then sautés the onions and peppers. He hands this duty off to Jordi at a certain point and directs Christian to add spices while Jordi stirs the pan. Mrs. Perez asks me to assist her, and we get out five glasses and a couple different beverages from the refrigerator.
“This is actually my favorite part,” Mr. Perez tells me. “Help me divide up the dough.”
We divide it into five chunks, and then Mr. Perez shows me how to roll it into little balls. Jordi and Christian, in the meantime, have stirred together all the ingredients, and then it’s time to seal the filling inside the dough. The Perezes make a contest out of who can do it the fastest—seriously, their lemonades and iced teas are almost immediately forgotten—but I’m slow and methodical instead. The Perezes all swoop in and steal my remaining dough, and Christian is declared the winner. His empanadas are the sloppiest, but as he points out, speed was the goal, not precision.
We’re released from our duties while the empanadas go into the oven so Jordi shows me down the hallway to her bedroom.
“Oh my god.” I take in the sight of a bedroom that’s much, much pinker than I expected. “You love Hello Kitty.”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “So?”
I look at the Hello Kitty stuffed animals on the bookcase, the Hello Kitty headphones on her desk, the Hello Kitty-dressed-up-as-other-characters postcards stuck on a bulletin board. “It’s a surprise. Hello Kitty doesn’t seem very bad-ass. She’s so cute.”
“You can be cute and bad-ass at the same time.” Jordi smirks at me. “Like you.”
“Well, you do have sensitive eyes,” I say, and she snorts.
“I should have never let you meet my parents.”
I look at the framed certificates on the wall. “You won awards!”
“It was art camp,” she says. “Everyone wins awards at art camp.”
“‘First Place in Photography,’” I read. “That doesn’t sound like just a participation trophy.”
Since she doesn’t seem to mind, I keep exploring her room. I inspect a few framed photographs: the downtown skyline, the dry LA riverbed, a block full of brightly painted walls.
“Are these yours?” I ask.
She turns to see what I’m asking about. “They are.”
“You’re so good,” I say. “Like, really good. I can’t wait to see how your pictures from the other week turned out. When will they be ready?”
“Hang on.” She sits down at her desk and opens her MacBook. “I can show you.”
“What about this?” I gesture to a canvas that’s been brushed over roughly with countless shades of red and textured bits of other items, like feathers and torn papers, captured within the paint. “Did you paint this? Or … create it, or however I should say it?”
“I did,” she says.
“Jordi, seriously, you’re so good.”
“Sit down,” she says with a smile, and we somehow perch together on her desk chair. The photos from the other week load in thumbnails, and then Jordi scrolls through each one, letting it fill the screen. The street, the sidewalk, parking lots, and me.
“That’s cool,” I say, because in the third photo of myself she shows me, my hair is caught in a breeze and extending horizontally across the frame. “I look like I’m magic.”
She pulls gently on a lock of my hair. “You are magic. Do you want me to send you all the photos?”
“Maybe not all of them,” I say. I’m still getting used to looking at myself like this. When you take a selfie, you control the angle and the frame and how much you reveal. I was out of control for these photographs. “This one, for sure.”
She continues scrolling, and it feels like more and more of the photos are of me. There are angles of me I’ve never seen, and I can’t say that I like all of them. It feels unfair that other people can know more about sides of you than you can. But then I stop worrying if my butt looks big or if my upper arms are too chubby, because I also look happy. It shows in my smile and my eyes and even how I’m standing with an ease I have never actually felt in my bones.
And, also, Jordi is sitting next to me and she looks happy, too. We kiss for a few minutes until there are parent footsteps in the hallway. But the good news is that lunch is ready, and there’s something incredibly satisfying about eating something you had a hand in making. Food is Mom’s domain at home, but here it feels like something the whole family shares.
After lunch, Mr. Perez loads up a huge Tupperware container for me, and Jordi asks her parents if she can walk me home. (Thank god they say yes.) When we arrive back at my house, I find a note scrawled in my dad’s handwriting that says my parents are off to see “Maliah’s dad’s friend’s movie.”
“What does that mean?” Jordi asks me.
“George Clooney,” I say, but I don’t want to explain more because I have an empty house and a girlfriend in it.
CHAPTER 15
When I walk into work on Monday morning—alone because Jordi has the day off thanks to Saturday night’s fashion show—there’s a big box sitting on the desk in front of the computer.
“Surprise!” Maggie says.
I peer into the box, which holds a sewing machine. “Why?”
“It was just sitting around my house, and it’s not heavy duty enough for what I need,” Maggie says. “But it’ll be a good starter machine for you to make some skirts and dresses.”
“Thank you so much.” I stare at the machine. I’m not sure anyone’s ever given me such a nice and spontaneous gift before. “It’s hard to explain to you how bad I was the time I tried sewing, though.”
“You hear yourself, right?” She grins. “‘The time’? The one time? You’ll learn. I’ll teach you.”
“Maggie, thank you. You really don’t have to.”
“I’ll feel selfish if I don’t push the girl with the great style to at least try,” she says, and I think about the fact that it’s how Maggie sees me. I know she’s not in high fashion in Manhattan or anything, but this is her world. And I’m not the fat girl or the loud girl or the girl who asks too many questions.
“The fashion show was really fun,” she tells me.
“It sounded like it,” I say, and then I’m not sure if it’s weird I talk to Jordi if we aren’t dating, which is of course what Maggie would think. “I mean, from seeing Instagram and everything.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t bring you,” she says. “But I’m sure you did something more fun with your night.”
“Ha!” I say. “Unfortunately, I had to help my parents with Eat Healthy with Norah! stuff.”
“Oh no,” she says. “Though I’m afraid that’s how I’ll make Sam spend his weekends when he’s a teenager.”
“Do you have a kid?” I ask, though that might be way too nosy of a question.
“Yes, I try not to bore you guys with him because I could go on and on forever,” she says, bringing her phone over to me. “He’s six and he’s amazing.”
She scrolls through a few photos of an adorable boy who looks a little like Maggie but with darker, curly hair and his front teeth missing. Also, he’s dressed a little better than Maggie, but most people are.
“Sam’s a good name,” I say, and Maggie smiles.
“Why don’t you see if Paige needs anything out front, and if she’s caught up, we’ll go through the basics on the sewing machine,” Maggie says. “Sound good?”
I suspect Paige won’t need any help, and I’m right. While Laine seems to enjoy having Jordi and I assist her, Paige probably thinks that she can get more done without any teens hanging around. It would bother me more if today it didn’t mean that I got more one-on-one time with Maggie.
“You don’t have to show me this right now,” I say, because while of course getting a sewing lesson from one of my favorite local designers is a dream come true, it’s not really why I’m here. “I could be working on social media stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Maggie says, as though she’s letting me
off the hook. I try to relax because, seriously, I’m so lucky right now.
Maggie walks me through getting the machine threaded, and then I run scraps of fabric through over and over until Maggie’s satisfied. A skirt is probably eons away, and a dress light-years longer than that, but I feel less stupid than the last time I tried this. And, the more I think about it, if Maggie had already bailed on the idea of me winning the job in the fall, she wouldn’t be so patient and giving right now, would she? Or is this a bad sign that I’m learning how to sew instead of doing the thing I thought I was actually brought in to do?
Is it terrible how badly I still want the job? I’d be taking it away from Jordi. I’d be winning over my girlfriend. (I can’t believe I have a girlfriend.) But she’ll understand. After all, I’ll understand if she’s the winner.
Won’t I?
I get summoned to the pool again this week, because I think that’s potentially all that rich kids do with their time off from school. And, somehow, this is also my crowd now. I ask Maliah if I can bring Jordi if she’s free.
Fine. Tell her not to burn down Trevor’s house.
I mean, if you’re going to be mean, at least be funny or clever about it.
When I get to Jordi’s, she opens the door and steps aside. “Are we in a hurry?”
“No, why?”
“My parents are at work and Christian’s at his friend’s,” she says.
I think I actually squeal aloud. “Oh my god, I get to make out with you in the Hello Kitty bedroom?”
“There’s not that much Hello Kitty,” Jordi says as we race down the hallway. I’m only wearing shorts over my yellow and white striped swimsuit, and now that we’re kissing, I’m aware of just how much skin’s showing. It’s like a wave; my worry starts off small and then as Jordi’s hands grasp my sides, it’s bigger, except then we keep kissing and my mouth aches and my arms are wrapped so tightly around her shoulders that I’m on my tiptoes. And then the fear’s washed away.
“Do you want to sit there?” Jordi asks and nods to her bed. We kissed for a while in my room on Sunday, but we were standing the whole time.
“Yes,” I say and wait for her to sit first. “I’m not ready to take off any of my clothes yet.”
I wonder if I was thin if I would be. I really hope not.
“Well, me either,” Jordi says with a smile, and immediately I feel less like my fatness is some kind of problem for us. “I’m in no rush for anything.”
And so we kiss until our lips feel chapped, and then we kiss a little more. Our hands skim each other’s arms and backs and sides, but we’re still in very G-rated territory with each other. Well, I’m very aware that my boobs are smooshed against hers, but where else would they go? I’m glad that we’re on the same page, but I’m also glad I said something to begin with. It’s crazy how quickly someone can feel so safe.
When we’re at Trevor’s gate, I text Jax instead of Maliah, and it feels like he appears in record time. “Hey. Mal said I could bring Jordi.”
He shrugs. “There’s not a guest list. And any friend of Abby …”
Jordi waves. “Hey.”
Jax nods at me. “Nice.”
“Dude,” she says. “I’m standing right here.”
“It was a compliment,” he says. “I’m Jax.”
She grins. “Of course you are.”
“Bam. My reputation proceeds me.” He gestures through the gate. “Come on back.”
I slip my arm through Jordi’s. “Is he as bad as you imagined?”
Jordi laughs. “About as bad. Potentially worse.”
Maliah glances over from her spot on the brick wall as we walk into the backyard. “It’s about time.”
“If you always say that, it’s not very effective,” I say. “Also, hi.”
“Hi,” she says coolly. “Hello, Jordi.”
“You’re the girlfriend?” Trevor asks her. I swear that his bicep is like the size of Jordi’s head so it’s weird to see him standing near her.
“That’s me.”
Jax brings us a couple of beers, and I pop mine open without thinking about it. Jordi shakes her head, though.
“I’m cool. Is there water?”
“Anything for Abby’s girl.” Jax swaps the can for a bottle of water. I will say that the boys are very good at providing beverages to guests. “Abbs, my dad says we’re doing good work on Best Blank.”
“How is it work?” Maliah asks. “Don’t you guys just eat burgers and rate them?”
“It’s a five-pronged system.” Jax holds up his hand and counts off each one. “Taste, quality, service, value, selection.”
“I don’t get why you need Abby to do that.” Maliah unwraps a popsicle that seems to have appeared from nowhere. I would love a popsicle right now. “Can’t you just look up every burger place and guess?”
“This is important,” Jax says, and his normal bro tone sounds a bit dialed up. “My dad told me to input real data so when this launches for real, people can rely on it. Also, Abbs and I are having a good fucking time. Why you wanna take that away from us?”
“Yeah, Mal,” I say. “Why you wanna?”
“You guys are so weird,” she says.
“Does anyone actually get in the pool?” Jordi asks.
“Yeah, you wanna get in the pool?” Jax pulls off his Westglen Prep T-shirt. “Cannonball you.”
“What? That isn’t a verb.” Jordi shakes her head, though she does step out of her shorts and hand them to me. Is it weird that I like being in charge of Jordi’s shorts?
Jax races her to the pool, and before long, they’re both in and splashing at each other. Also, Jordi looks skilled and strong in the water, and I like that people know she’s with me.
“Her suit’s cute,” Maliah says, which feels like a huge step forward.
But I need to clear up important matters first. “Where did you get the popsicle?”
I find a ton of instructional sewing videos on YouTube, and when I post to Tumblr that I just got my first sewing machine, lots of people comment or message with links to patterns. Maggie gave me some fabric to get started with (nothing as nice as what Lemonberry dresses are made from), but after a few false starts, I make a bag that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to use for shopping.
It feels powerful to make something for yourself. I had no idea.
Mom pokes her head into the room. “What on earth is that sound? Oh, wow, you’re trying that again.”
“I think I might be doing better this time,” I say. I don’t want Mom to feel like I’m eager to bond with her, but I also don’t want her to think my disastrous class at Sew L.A.—that she’d paid for, after all—was repeating itself in my bedroom. “See? I made a bag.”
“Honey, that’s actually nice,” she says. “Can you make me a green one?”
I riffle through the fabric. “I don’t have any green, but maybe I can get some.”
She sits down on my bed behind me. “You know that I just want the best for you, Abby, right?”
“Is this about me being fat?” I ask.
“Don’t call yourself that,” she says.
“Why not? It’s not an insult, just a thing. A thing I am.”
“I just want you happy and healthy and—”
“I’m very healthy. Dr. Misra says so. Remember?”
“Hmmm,” Mom says. Every year after my annual physical, it seems she’s determined something’s wrong with me that could be cured by skinniness. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
Adults say things like this when they didn’t expect you to catch on to their supposedly subtle coded messages. You’re expected to be mature but you’re also taken for a child.
“I exercise more than you and Dad do,” I point out. “I walk everywhere.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says. “Don’t you think it’s time you got serious about getting your driver’s license?”
“No,” I say. “I’m going to New York for college
. I’ll take the subway everywhere.”
“What if you want to take a road trip?” she asks.
“I won’t.” When we were little, Dad’s best friend Andrew lived in San Francisco, so the four of us would drive up every summer to spend a week in a hotel where you could see the Golden Gate Bridge if you looked out the window the right way. And none of that was worth it for the combined twelve hours there and back in the car with my family. “Trust me. Road trips are terrible.”
“They’re more fun when you’re with your friends,” Mom says with a smile like she can read my mind. “Can we work on this your senior year?”
I shrug.
“That’s all I wanted to talk about,” she says. “Okay? I don’t know why it always has to turn into an argument with us.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “It doesn’t seem like much of a mystery to me.”
Mom sighs. “I’m sorry that I thought you were going on a date with Jax. I didn’t at all mean to offend you, Abby. I didn’t realize that you’d …”
“Stayed gay?”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant either. Abby, I just came in here to see if you wanted to get your learner’s permit. That’s it.”
For a tiny moment, I feel sorry for Mom. I’m no fan of her brand, but I know she works hard constantly. She built Eat Healthy with Norah! from the ground up, and now she’s on TV and will have a book. I want to be proud of her.
But I also know that everything about me disappoints her. So the rest kind of fades away.
“I don’t,” I say.
“Fine, Abby.”
Without thinking, I look to Rachel’s side of the room, like she’ll magically be there and will crack the right joke to perfectly diffuse the tension. But it’s just Mom and me and all the same problems between us.
CHAPTER 16
“Is it possible to be romantic without a car?”
Maliah’s face is suddenly deep in thought. “Hmmm.”
“Yes,” Zoe says. “Anything can be romantic if you want it to.”
“Oh dear god.” Brooke nearly spits out her bubble tea. We’re out front of the tiny Boba Loca just down the street from Lemonberry, and my second date with Jordi is only hours away. Brooke and Zoe are pro-boba, but Maliah and I agree that you shouldn’t have to chew a beverage, so we’re both sipping regular smoothies.
