by Maurene Goo
She looked down at the bag of fruit for a second before lifting her head to respond. “That’s okay.” Then she grinned. “Man, we’re so good at this friendship thing.”
I almost choked on my mango, laughing. “Yeah, we should do tutorials on it.”
“Put it on YouTube.”
“Bring on guests to show them how to awkwardly compliment each other.”
We were both giggling so hard at this point that we had to put our fruit down. I kimchi squatted because my legs lost their strength and Rose joined me.
“Hey! You’re doing it!” I said, pointing at her flat feet and balanced butt.
She twirled her arms up in the air, like a squatting showgirl.
“I practiced. Did you think I was gonna let you be able to do something that I couldn’t?”
I pushed her over.
* * *
We got to the office park, and I honked in greeting to Hamlet, who saluted us, tucking his sign neatly under his arm.
As had become ritual, once we parked, Hamlet jogged over to us carrying a couple of iced drinks—a mocha for me and an iced coffee for Rose. “Thanks!” I said, taking mine with a wink. He blushed slightly. In return for our usual drinks, we gave him a plate of whatever he wanted.
“So, when are you going to throw Hamlet a bone?” Rose asked as we prepped.
My nose scrunched. “How did you know?”
She looked at me with a hand on her hip. “What? That he likes you?”
“What? No,” I sputtered. “You said, throw him a bone. I mean, how did you know he’s a Lab … ah, never mind.” I fumbled with the cashbox, trying to remember the padlock code and messing up twice. I cursed and smacked the box with the palm of my hand.
She took it from me slowly, as if taking a bomb away from an unstable person. “Well, what I mean is that it’s obvious he likes you. Are you into him at all?”
I squinted out the window into the sunny courtyard, watching him make a drink with gusto. Tossing cups into the air, whistling, grinning. Eyes sparkling, charming everyone’s pants off.
Except mine. No, my pants were firmly on.
“He’s not my type.” I brushed by Rose and turned on the grill.
She laughed this smug little laugh that ended with a condescending shaking of the head. A specially patented Rose Carver kind of laugh.
“What?”
“So your type is not that?” She pointed out the window. Where Hamlet’s thick black hair shone in the sun, arms tanned and flexing as he reached for a gallon of milk. And when he glanced up at us, his eyes crinkled into a smile before his toothy, white grin broke out. He waved.
Rose and I looked at each other and started cracking up. He cocked his head to the side, curious but smiling.
Labrador.
“He’s adorable, and you know it,” Rose said as she organized the cash—large bills under the tray, change and small bills sorted on top.
I leaned against the counter and pulled my hair up into a sloppy ponytail, a few strands escaping and falling loose around my face. “Like I said, adorable is not my type.”
“Let me guess—you like ’em naughty.”
“Ew. Who even says ‘naughty’?”
Rose waved a hand in front of herself, lips pursed. “You know what I mean, bad boys. Like, high school Mr. Rochesters.”
“Who?”
“Don’t act obtuse.”
I pulled the container of vinaigrette out of the refrigerator. “Oh, but actually I am obtuse.”
“Clara!”
Something about Rose’s exasperation delighted me. Always. I stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon, breaking apart bits of parsley, the scent of vinegar filling the truck. “And no, I’m not into Mr. Rochesters. One, I like men who aren’t controlling-old-uncle types. Two, I’m not into brooding, either.”
“So, what then? What’s your issue with Hamlet?”
I placed the bowl of vinaigrette in the small fridge under the counter. “I don’t have an issue. He’s just—I mean, he’s your type. Eager beaver overachiever.”
She was quiet long enough for me to get nervous. Did she like him? A little bit of dread pooled in my stomach because even though I didn’t take flirting with Hamlet seriously, the thought of not having him as an option bummed me out. Not to mention the fact that I actually liked being on nonhating terms with Rose. And I didn’t know if I had the energy to be mortal enemies again. Especially over a dude.
But after a few seconds, Rose shrugged and smiled. “He’s cute, for sure. But he’s made it so clear that he likes you. I’ve got some pride, okay?”
I smiled tentatively. “Are you sure? Because, you should go for him if you want.”
“Thanks for the permission,” she said with an eye roll.
“It’s not permission! Jesus, I’m just saying—”
She threw a dish towel at me. “I said no! He likes you! And honestly, the lady doth protest too much…”
I snatched the towel off the floor and waved it at her. “Can you not talk like that? I’m embarrassed for you.”
Rose spent the rest of the afternoon speaking like a Shakespearean reject to every customer. Touché, humorless one.
* * *
Later that evening, we were closing up the truck when Rose’s phone rang. “Hey, Mom,” she said when she picked up.
A few seconds passed before she exclaimed, “What? Tonight? But I’m not ready!” I heard her mom’s muffled voice. “It is a big deal! I’m not ready.” They spoke for a few more seconds, with Rose’s voice so quiet I couldn’t catch the rest of the conversation.
After she ended the call, Rose pressed her forehead against the wall and started taking those shallow breaths again. I approached her tentatively, “Hey, are you okay?”
She nodded. “Yup.” But then she kept her eyes closed.
“Rose. Seriously, are you all right? Sit down.” I took her arm and pulled her over to the driver’s seat.
I crouched down by her and just watched her, unsure of what to do. She seemed seriously freaked out, and I knew friend duty involved making her feel better, but how? I was about to tell some terrible joke when she looked up at me.
“I’m fine,” she said, sounding embarrassed.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk about it, but it seemed like we should. I filled a cup with water and ice and handed it to her. “What do you have to do tonight?”
She took a sip before answering. “Thanks. And it’s not a big deal.” Which was literally the opposite of what she had said to her mom.
“You seemed upset.” Understatement of the year.
Again, she didn’t answer right away, and I picked at a spot of dried sauce on the counter. After some silence, she said, “Well, it’s that we’re going to have a senator over for dinner.”
“What!”
“It’s really not a big deal. She’s friends with my dad and might write a letter of recommendation for me. I just, I didn’t know I had to have dinner with her tonight.” Rose picked at her nails again.
“Oh. I mean, for me, having dinner with a senator would be a big deal, but small potatoes when you’re a Carver, I guess,” I said.
She scoffed. “It’s not small potatoes. I have to impress her tonight is all.” Her voice was raised now. “This letter of recommendation is for an internship in the governor’s office next summer! Only the most important internship of my freaking life!” She got up and paced back and forth in the truck, fanning herself off with her hand. “And I’m about to get home and have about five minutes to get this nasty grease smell off of me and be prepared to be informally interviewed!”
I glanced at the clock in the truck. “Well, how about I drive you home instead of to the commissary? I can handle closing up alone today. That should buy you some time?”
Rose stopped pacing. “Really?”
“Yeah. This sounds like a ridiculous dinner, but important nonetheless.”
She laughed.
“Nonetheless, huh? And you have the nerve to call me a dork?”
I started the truck. “All right, all right. Buckle up. We’re about to weave through the 110, baby.”
She opened the window and cleared her throat. “And thanks. I really appreciate it.”
I raised the volume on the radio. “What?!” I shouted.
She shook her head.
“TELL ME WHAT YOU SAID RIGHT NOW! LIKE SHOUT IT!”
“YOU ARE SUCH A LOSER!” she shouted back as we hit the road.
CHAPTER 14
On Saturday, my dad handed me a plate of eggs Benedict drizzled with a sriracha hollandaise sauce. “So, I have some last-minute plans. I’m going out of town. Do you think you can handle the truck all weekend?”
I shoved a forkful of runny yolk and English muffin into my mouth. “Sure. Wait, you’re leaving today?”
“Yup.” He glanced at the clock. “In like, an hour in fact.”
“Where are you going?” I asked as I added more sriracha to my eggs.
My dad plopped down on the stool next to me with his own plate of eggs. “Santa Barbara. Wine tasting.”
I almost choked. “What? Who are you? Diane Keaton?”
“Yeah, I’m Diane Keaton. Surprise.”
“Wait a second.” I looked at him suspiciously. “Who are you going with?”
He cut his egg in half, the yolk oozing out onto the wilted kale and muffin. A giant forkful of egg went into his mouth, and he didn’t answer.
“Pai!”
Many seconds later, he took a gulp of coffee and looked at me. “I’m going with Kody.”
My brain quickly flipped through the Rolodex o’ women from my dad’s life until it stilled on one. “Kody the…?”
“The drummer.”
Kody was a Filipino American babe with a Patti Smith haircut and a raspy smoker’s voice. My dad had dated her a couple of years ago, though, so I was confused. “Kody the drummer? Didn’t you guys break up?”
He expertly cut the rest of his eggs, crisscrossing his slices so that each piece was perfectly bite-size. “Yeah. But we grabbed coffee last week and…” He shrugged. “You know how it goes.”
“No, I don’t. I’m a child.”
A snort of laughter sent a piece of egg flying across the counter at me. I swiped it off my forearm. “Gross! If all these women only knew how disgusting you are at home.”
I said “all these women” because, well, my dad had all these women. Which I understood—he was thirty-four and not hideous. I never made a big stink about it. Even so, he tried not to introduce me to too many girlfriends. “Don’t want you to get attached,” he always said. I think he might have learned that from watching sitcoms about single dads or something. The only thing that annoyed me was when he made jokes about being a hot commodity at PTA meetings. You’d think he was Don Draper waltzing into classrooms full of harried mothers desperately feeding him baked goods. And in what universe did he go to PTA meetings? Please.
My dad shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “Well, to be honest. I’ve been seeing Kody for a couple of months now.”
“Really?” I racked my brain for when they could have had dates in the past two months. It seemed like my dad was home a lot in the evenings, so when did this happen?
As if reading my mind, he said, “She’s been helping me out with restaurant stuff. Since before you guys started working on the truck.”
“You sly dog.”
He made a face. “Gross,” he said, throwing the word back at me. I laughed. He looked over at me, nervous again. “So, Clara. I think we’re a little serious? Kody and I.”
Whether it was the words or the tone of my dad’s voice, I didn’t know, but my stomach flipped. “Oh, okay.” I looked down at my eggs and tried to keep any trace of weirdness out of my voice.
“Yeah. Like, maybe more serious than anyone else in my entire life.”
I glanced up then, my eyebrows raised. “What? No way.”
“Yes way.”
And the tells—the tiny pieces of egg, his foot tapping on the stool bar, his impeccably shaved jawline—were suddenly clear. He was serious.
“Pai! Why would you want to settle down now? This is like, your prime of life!” I held my fork up in the air for emphasis.
He laughed. “Okay, sixteen-year-old daughter. In case you couldn’t tell, I was forced to settle down a long time ago.” I blinked. Because even though my dad never, ever complained about being a young dad, I always wondered about his regrets. How his need to keep abandoned, sad things might apply to me, too.
Pai kept talking. “Anyway. Kody’s older than me by a little bit, and she’s thinking about the future, too. The crowd’s starting to settle down.”
Every week there was a new wedding invitation or baby announcement in the mail. Our refrigerator was crowded with them. Script fonts letter-pressed into thick paper announcing some hip wedding or a giant newborn’s face, its hands in mittens and its face always froglike and never cute. I guess I always thought that phase of my dad’s life was over. The thought of Kody and him getting married one day … having a kid? It was too much for my brain to handle.
I changed the subject. “Well, be sure to drink a lot of merlots or whatever it is people do.”
He laughed. “Thanks. Aren’t you excited to have some privacy for once?” He paused, holding his fork in the air for a second. “Privacy for reading books and finishing your knitting home alone, that is.”
“Ha ha.” I took a sip of tea. “You know I don’t know how to read.”
He pulled his Dodgers cap down over his eyes. “Well, just knitting then.”
I smiled. He wasn’t saying it, but this was a big step. Pre-cafeteria fire he was cool with leaving me alone for a night or two. But post-fire, he had been more watchful than he had ever been in my life. Leaving me alone was a gesture—to show that I was regaining his trust.
My dad and Kody headed off for Santa Barbara shortly after. “Enjoy those tannins!” I yelled from the balcony, standing barefoot on the metal railing as I leaned over and watched them drive away.
After working the KoBra that day, I had the evening free. I picked up my phone to see what Patrick and Felix were up to. But my fingers hovered over the screen, and I ended up texting Rose.
Let me guess: you’re brushing up on constitutional law tonight?
She immediately texted back: Ha. Are you enjoying the heroin den?
You took the joke too far
Too accurate?
Yeah I draw the line at doing drugs that require accessories for them
I waited a second before typing: How did the dinner with the senator go?
I was searching for a senatorial-looking emoji when another text popped up. Mãe.
No Tulum???
Shoot. I guess my dad did tell her. I texted back immediately: I’m working on it! We’re doing good on the truck—he’ll cave.
K k got it. Make your eyes like this . Your dad’s a sucker for that kinda stuff.
I wanted to agree, to LOL, but I realized my mom didn’t actually know Pai at all anymore. Current Pai was no longer the doormat of the past. Then I noticed the barrage of texts from Rose updating me on the senator dinner. She was excited because it went well. I had settled into the sofa and was texting with her when someone knocked. Flo jumped off my lap and ran over to the entrance, her nose poking at the space under the door.
“Clara!”
Felix? What in the world.
I dragged myself to the door. “What are you doing here?” The words were out of my mouth before the door fully opened.
He was spiffed up—his thick hair tousled just so, smelling good, and wearing his tightest black jeans. “You’re coming with us.” I saw Patrick’s car idling on the curb.
I nudged Flo out of the way with my foot so she wouldn’t escape. “What? Where?”
“Some party. Come on, we barely see you anymore. I’ll give you five minutes to get ready.”
“What, I don�
��t look good enough?” My arm swept over my ripped white tank top and knee-length sweat shorts.
He raised his eyebrows and shot me a wolfish grin. “You always look good, babe.”
“God.” Felix was full of moves, and two years ago I had fallen for all of them. “Give me a second.” I ran upstairs and got dressed in record time. I remembered to grab my cell as I was headed out the door, sending Rose a text: Want to do something fun for once?
* * *
“So then if you think of it that way, Tom Cruise is basically a wizard, transcending time and space.”
I stared at the guy in front of me, then wrapped my hands tighter around the warm bottle of beer I was holding. Rose and I had been talking to this conspiracy theorist about Tom Cruise at this house party for a solid five minutes.
The guy licked his lips nervously, his fair skin getting paler by the second. “So actually, if Cruise—”
“I have to pee,” I said, handing my drink to him as I grabbed Rose by the arm.
“Wow, I thought people got more stable once they graduated high school,” Rose said as we headed out of the living room toward the kitchen.
“Paranoid people exist at every age,” I shouted to be heard over the live band. Patrick had some sort of sixth sense for parties with a high ratio of hot dudes in bands. It had been hard to persuade Rose to come out, but I promised her cute boys and she had met us fifteen minutes later. Too bad we had been stuck with Tom Cruise Whiz.
It was stuffy in the apartment, so we went searching for some air through the kitchen. It had terrible fluorescent overhead lighting that was a harsh contrast to the cave feeling of the living room. Rose and I skirted by a group of girls in various denim cutoffs and cropped tanks while a tall man in a felted hat lectured them on something or another. They looked bored to tears, some of them even on their phones.
As we walked by the opining guy, I slipped into him, knocking his beer into his pinstripe shirt. “Watch it!” he yelped as he jumped away from me and wiped at his shirt furiously.
“Oh no. So sorry,” I said, holding up my hands apologetically. The group of girls scattered immediately. You’re welcome.
