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

by Amy Spalding

We are cool with that, so Christian plays a video game and I get out my laptop. My recent post about summer accessories has had a lot more interaction than usual—maybe since it wasn’t plus size specific, so a few other blogs than usual linked to it—so I spend some time thanking people and answering questions before starting today’s post about summer party looks. I finish it quickly, and when I peek in on Jordi in her room, she doesn’t look up. I’d love to say I go right back to my laptop, but instead I watch her for just a bit. Her eyes are scanning her screen while she’s scribbling notes in a Moleskine notebook, and I feel so proud watching her work.

  She grins without looking up. “What?”

  “You’re cute when you’re serious,” I say.

  “Oh my god.” She shakes her head but she’s still grinning. “Hey, is your blog secret from me?”

  “It’s not secret,” I say. “It’s just … I don’t know. You’re out there making art. I’m talking about rompers and quality strapless bras.”

  “Come here,” she says, making room in her desk chair for me.

  “Christian’s out there alone,” I say. “Is that okay?”

  “Jesus, Abby, he’s thirteen. He’s not going to choke on his Xbox controller.” She minimizes her photos and places my hands on the keyboard. “Let me see your blog.”

  “That sounds so creepy!” But I type the URL and wait for it to load. “See? It’s nothing exciting.”

  Jordi leans in to read my latest post that I just wrote from her living room. I expect it to end with that, but she keeps scrolling down. She reads the rompers post, and the strapless bras one, and every other thought I’ve had about clothes for months.

  “This is really good,” she says finally, and I exhale. I couldn’t have been holding my breath this whole time, could I? I would have suffocated. “You write like you talk. Like you’re walking me through all of this.”

  “It’s just clothes,” I say.

  “It’s not,” she says. “You’re making people feel good about what they want to wear. And you make it really easy and fun.”

  “Do you think it’s bad I don’t have photos of myself?” I ask. “Mal clearly thinks it’s like the end of the world.”

  “I don’t think it’s bad,” she says. “And I get it. Who wants to be on the internet where anyone could say anything? But you write about all these great dresses to wear to parties, and I know you have dresses that would make your point for you. And if you wanted to do that—which, yeah, I know right now you don’t—obviously there’s probably someone who’d take those photos for you.”

  “I know,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “If it’s about privacy, I’m with you,” she says. “But if it’s something else … I guess I’m with Maliah. Is that the worst? I could take some really fun shots, if you wanted me to.”

  “It is the worst,” I say, though I kiss her. “Do you need to get back to work or can I stay in here?”

  “I have to get back to work,” she says. “But will you think about it?”

  I say yes but I don’t mean it at all.

  Jordi keeps working, and I spend the late morning looking at social media for other shops like Lemonberry. I’m not sure how much of that I’m supposed to be doing at work—yes, I’m scoping the competition, but maybe Maggie wouldn’t see it that way. It feels a lot like she’d rather have me doing general shop stuff like steaming and folding than spending time on my phone or the store laptop.

  Other shops of the same-ish size seem to be doing better at all of it. There are more likes and faves and shares and comments, even for stores that I don’t think are as good or even as ultimately successful. Lemonberry seems to have shoppers constantly, which I can’t say for some of the other local stores like Timeless Vintage.

  I rotate between tabs and study each. And even though I know nothing’s an exact science on the internet, the longer I look, the more I see it. We look—especially since June when Jordi took over the photography—sleek, professional, to die for. But the other stores look real. The photos are casual and easygoing and I can picture myself in these shops hanging out with these girls, even the ones in other cities I’ve never visited.

  Jordi’s pictures are better, but they’re set apart. They’re not inviting. Lemonberry seems like it’s for girls like Laine, who are beautiful and styled and confident. I love everything about Lemonberry, but if I had to judge based on these accounts alone, I never would think it’d be a place for someone like me.

  Maggie wants my expertise, and I know it. And I want the job, and I know it. But there’s no way to explain this without either making Jordi sound at fault—which she isn’t—or taking her off a significant portion of her duties—which maybe she should. It’s not that Jordi wouldn’t have other things to do and have a million more ways to be valuable to Maggie. I guess she could adjust how she photographed, but wouldn’t she need a person to direct those shots for her?

  I’m proud of my analysis, though, even if I’m not sure I should share it. Mom might have thought of me as a dumb kid who thought she could handle a grownup job. Right now, though, I feel I have proof that I know what I’m doing, at least a little.

  “Sorry I’m so boring.” Jordi walks into the living room and flops down on the sofa next to me. “Do you guys want to do something?”

  Christian immediately has seven ideas, none of which are particularly doable without a car, but at least it gives me a chance to close all my tabs and then shut down my computer. I’ll do my best to get the job, but I’m not sure this is how I want to do it.

  CHAPTER 21

  I don’t mention anything about photography to Maggie the next day at work, and then it’s easier to do the same on Friday. Instead of asking if I can, I just start creating promotional post drafts and graphics using Jordi’s photographs. Maggie likes every single one of them, and so I feel less weird about holding anything back from the job.

  Also, yes, it is way more fun than dusting.

  The show over the weekend is too busy to talk about much at all. I’m helping customers and trying to keep up our Instagram presence at the same time now that Maggie seems to have more faith in me. Before I know it, our shift’s up. And instead of dwelling on Jordi’s photographs, I spend the rest of the day scouring the other booths for myself. (I score a new skirt, new shorts, and a set of bright Bakelite barrettes.) And then by the time next week rolls around, nothing’s so heavy on my mind.

  We have so much to do anyway. The fall line actually hits the store in mid-August, so we’re already accepting pre-orders. Jordi and I are both spending time tracking the dresses selling best and relaying the info back to Maggie. But Maggie’s less available than usual, as launching this season’s looks is a bit more important than carefully tallying the interns’ contributions.

  Though maybe that means the tally’s already been finalized, and I’m being way too quiet, for once, for my own good.

  With Jordi using most of her free time getting her photography show ready, my summer hangout place has switched from Trevor’s backyard to the Perez house. Which, obviously, is more than okay with me. Maliah’s mentioned my absence a bit, but I can’t imagine she minds. Inviting me was an easy way to include me but as long as she’s with Trevor, would she miss me much?

  Obviously, I miss how things used to be, even if there isn’t much I enjoy more than hanging out in the same place as my girlfriend. When we were little, best friends could be your everything. So I don’t even always know if it’s Maliah I’m missing. Maybe it’s the time in my life before I knew that wouldn’t always be the case, before boyfriends and girlfriends and arson rumors.

  I’ve gotten back into updating my blog more often, as Jordi’s productivity is a bit contagious. Researching posts does take a while, from visiting online stores and other fashion blogs to compiling a selection on a theme, to putting it all together in a way that looks interesting and not like I just listed out a bunch of preexisting stuff. Whenever I schedule or post my latest, my brain feels nice and
exhausted.

  Then I think about scientists working to, I don’t know, cure cancer, and I feel silly. And I’m only spending some of my time doing that anyway. Christian forced me to learn to play The Last Guardian with him, and I’m slowly making my way through an epic book involving dragons because he wants to discuss it with someone and Jordi’s too busy.

  I’d never really pictured myself dating anyone, it’s true, but I guess I still had this little corner in my mind tucked away even from myself about what it would be like anyway. Maybe you can’t help but lock away a little hope, no matter how improbable that possibility might be. Dates and kissing and love.

  But then there’s also this. Being happy to know someone’s working one room away from you. Hanging out with their little brother because he’s somehow part of your world now, too. Knowing where the glasses are in the cupboard and that the water on the door of the fridge isn’t as cold as the Brita pitcher inside it. It’s funny how I feel romance in all of it.

  I feel Jordi in my whole summer.

  “Hey.” Jordi walks into the living room while I’m leaving comments on a few other blogs and Christian is reading a long dragon novel I assume I might have to read next. “Are you bored?”

  “I’m not … not bored,” I say, and she laughs.

  “Come on,” she says, and I follow her into her room.

  “Do I get to see your show pictures?” I sit down on the swivel chair at her desk. “Have you picked them all by now? How many are you showing? Are they printed yet?”

  “Abby.” She squeezes in next to me and takes my hand off the touchpad. “I love your questions but …”

  “Not now?”

  She smiles. “One at a time, at least. I know what I’m showing. They’re being printed now. And you can see them at the show.”

  “Has anyone seen them?” I ask.

  “You’ve seen plenty of the photos,” she says. “But not in this arrangement. I just want everyone to see them together. If you want to just look at more photos in general, obviously they’re all here.”

  I look at the multitude of folders in the window onscreen. They’re in alphabetical order, and the first one is abby.

  “Wait, so all the photos of me are in one folder?” I’m not sure why that makes it more overwhelming than the photos existing in different folders, but it does. It’s a lot of Abby, all together.

  “I have things organized a few different ways,” Jordi says, scrolling around in the main photography drive. “But, yeah, I have an Abby folder. It’s one of my favorites.”

  I don’t ask, so I’m relieved that she clicks on it, because not knowing is weirder than being confronted with what feels like a million pictures of myself. But I’ve gotten used to it—even if it’s been in piecemeal before—and so I don’t hate it.

  “You’re quiet,” Jordi says, still scrolling.

  “It’s a weird experience,” I say. “Seeing so much of me. Seeing me like you see me. It’s still kind of foreign.”

  “So much of you,” Jordi says with a laugh. “You make it sound like I’m taking naked pictures of you.”

  I blush and she looks away, and if that’s not enough, suddenly Mrs. Perez is home and in the doorway.

  “Are you two okay in here?” she asks. “Anyone need a beverage refill?”

  “We’re fine, Mom,” Jordi says, and I nudge her knee with mine because obviously parents only check in on your beverages to make sure you aren’t making out. There are plenty of moments where it’s hard keeping my hands off Jordi, but open doors and proximate family members are pretty much guaranteed mood-killers for me. But I don’t think it would be helpful sharing that with Mrs. Perez.

  “You haven’t shown anyone these, have you?” I ask as the photos of me continue. I learn what I look like midlaugh.

  “Like my mom?” she asks.

  “No, just … anyone. When you submitted stuff to get your show at Pehrspace or showing Maggie your work or anything.”

  She tilts her head at me. “Why?”

  Her tone is cooler than I want it to be.

  “Just …” I consider my words carefully. People get so worked up when I’m honest about not wanting the world to see me, even though I don’t know why that isn’t a normal accepted attitude. I’m so tired of hearing that there’s something beautiful about me when I’m not arguing that. Of course my girlfriend thinks I’m beautiful, of course Maliah thinks I look great when I spend so much effort on my looks, of course Jax thinks I’m fuckin’ cute. They have something invested in me while the world doesn’t. And it’s okay that the world doesn’t; I don’t need it to. I’m lucky with how things stand, even if no one in my life believes it. I like how I look, usually, but people—especially people on the internet—can be so mean when you’re fat. As if fat makes you stupid or dirty or irresponsible. As if fat makes you anything other than … fat.

  “It’s just that anyone who saw these would know that I love you,” I say, instead of the truth, and then it—a bigger truth—is just out there. It’s a moment I would have planned for Griffith Park or the Chandelier Tree or even walking the shady sidewalks between our houses. Definitely not sitting at her desk with an open door and a billion photos of me open on the screen and a desperate need to change the subject from my size.

  I hadn’t even said the words to myself yet. Not in that order.

  Jordi closes out of the photos and sits back from her computer. “I haven’t shown anyone,” she says, and her tone hasn’t warmed at all.

  “I mean, Maggie has to think you’re a professional,” I continue. “Not that you just take pictures of your girlfriend. Not just stuff you’d put on Instagram or whatever.”

  “I’m glad that’s the quality you think I’ve mastered, Abby,” she says.

  “No, no, Jordi, your stuff’s amazing, just, the subject of those, not exactly something you’d want people to see.”

  She stands up from her desk.

  “I feel like I explain everything badly,” I say.

  “You explain everything fine.” Jordi flops back on her bed. I don’t join her because I’m pretty sure she’s mad at me, I don’t want her mom to walk by and get the wrong idea, and also because it hasn’t escaped my notice that she didn’t return my I love you.

  “Should I go home?” I ask.

  “No.” She sits back up. “Come here.”

  “Your mom …”

  “She can’t literally expect that the only place we’ll sit is sharing that stupid swivel chair,” she says, and I laugh.

  “You know I think you’re amazing,” I say. “Not because we’re together. I think you’re amazing because you’re amazing and take amazing photographs.”

  “The word amazing has ceased to have any meaning now,” she says as I sit down next to her. “Thank you. Seriously.”

  I lean my head on her shoulder, and she slips her arm around my waist. We still seem to fit together, but I don’t think I’ll ever like the Abby folder as much as she needs me to, and also it’s very possible that Jordi Perez doesn’t love me.

  But we of course walk to work together the next morning, and while I expect it’ll feel different, it doesn’t. I love seeing my bag strapped over her shoulder, and I’m wearing my blue pineapple. Henry invited her to see an art show and a few bands play at The Smell downtown, and she shows me the message where he typed bring your pink-haired lady, which makes us both laugh.

  “What’s going to happen next year?” I ask. “I mean, next month, really. Whose lunch table are we sitting at? How do people decide that?”

  “It’s a new year,” Jordi says. “We’ll start our own. Whoever’s cool can just join us.”

  “Ugh, but then I won’t see Maliah at lunch,” I say, and Jordi laughs, and I only feel a little guilty. I don’t know if we’ll all fit together or not, but I’d sort of rather put the responsibility on Maliah than shoulder it all myself.

  At work, there’s a new shipment, so I get to work steaming everything while Jordi brainstorms ph
oto ideas, and then once I have one of each style ready, she begins shooting. I get the rest of the stock ready to display before sitting down to survey all our social accounts. Since Maggie’s working in her office, I feel safe pulling up the ModGirl and Timeless Vintage pages to see if my hypothesis continues to hold.

  And it does. Their casual photos are doing better, period, and then when they do post sleek professional photos, people react in a different way. I know there are a million factors involved, and we wouldn’t just automatically replicate their success if we copied what they’re doing.

  I glance Maggie’s way. She’s flipping through paperwork but doesn’t look stressed or any more frazzled than usual. It seems like there’s finally a breath to take in between the fall line announcement and the upcoming release. Jordi will be occupied with photographs until it’s lunchtime—and even then we’ll probably have to make her stop working for a bit—so it’s a safe time to have this discussion.

  One big reason Maggie brought me on is clearly that I know how to handle this. So these sorts of conclusions are exactly what she expects from me, or at least what she hoped for when she called to offer me the internship. I’m not betraying Jordi and I’m not setting aside my own relationship just to get ahead in this contest—it’s not even a contest, for god’s sake! I owe it to Maggie and Lemonberry to do the very best job I can. Also, I think I owe it to myself. Falling in love might be changing my whole life, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t also be working toward my dream career.

  “Hey.” Jordi leans into the back room. “What are you doing for lunch? There’s a ton of leftover pozole at my house. And also, no people for once. Christian’s got plans all day.”

  I close all the tabs that aren’t directly related to Lemon-berry. “Then I guess for lunch I’m … making out with you. There doesn’t really have to be pozole.”

  She laughs. “There really is pozole. I’m not bringing you into my house under false pretenses.”

  Maggie walks out of her office. “Jordi, I meant to ask you the other day, how’s your prep for your show going? Is there anything I can help with? I know you’re taking on a lot.”