by Maurene Goo
I watched her as she continued to cluck and make kissy noises. “So clearly this is the first cat you have ever seen in your entire life.”
“Ha-ha.” She stood up reluctantly after Flo made no move to come closer. Instead Flo sat there like a stone, staring at some random spot between Rose and the sofa.
I riffled through the pile of clothes. “Did it ever occur to you that you’re like seven feet taller than me?”
“It did. That’s why it’s mostly dresses.”
I held up a frothy mint green dress with white polka dots on it. “I see. Also, I’m not a cartoon mouse.”
“Listen, anything’s better than your situation right now.” Rose gestured toward me with fluttery hands. “And that dress is super flattering on.”
“I don’t care if it magically gives me a Kardashian butt, this dress isn’t my style.”
Rose grumbled as she pushed me aside to look through the dresses. “You’re incredibly stubborn. It’s fun to be around.” She held up a black dress with lace sleeves. “Try this one.”
I appraised it skeptically. It was short and looked like it would be super tight around my thighs. I didn’t mind my body, liked it in fact, but I also knew that I didn’t want to spend all night worrying about thigh bondage.
“Just try it on!” She tossed it at me with exasperation.
I took it with a scowl. “Fine.”
I was pulling off my tank when she yelped and spun around. “Clara!”
“What?” I tossed the tank onto the floor and pulled the dress on over my head. “Are you seriously squeamish about seeing me in a bra? Aren’t you a dancer?”
Her back still turned, she answered with her hands on her hips. “Yeah, but I know those girls and we’re in a changing room. Give me a little advance warning, I don’t like to see random people’s body parts all willy-nilly!”
I stuck my arms through the sleeves, my face hidden within the folds of the dress. “I’m not a stranger. Haven’t you ever had girlfriends before?” When I popped my head out, I saw Rose turn around with a strange expression. “What?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I haven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Had girlfriends.” She looked down at her nails, her snobby arched eyebrows at odds with her words.
I let that settle over me, thinking back to the Rose Carver I’d known since middle school. She was always in charge of stuff, in lots of organizations … but had there ever been a best friend or a group that I could actually connect her to?
When I thought about it, when was the last time I’d had a best girlfriend? Veronica Souza in sixth grade. We drifted apart when she went to private school in seventh grade, and soon after I had befriended Patrick and Felix. “I haven’t had a ‘bestie’ in forever, too. Been hanging with my goons for too long,” I said, tugging the skirt of the dress over my thighs.
She nodded. “They were nice.” We both knew they weren’t “nice,” but I let the generic compliment pass. “The thing is, I kind of tell my mom everything. So I’ve never really needed a best friend.”
Again, we both knew that was a weird statement, but I didn’t bat an eyelash. “I can see that.”
“I know you think I’m weird.”
“Well, of course.” I held up my arms, showing her the dress.
“That looks good on you,” she said.
I looked down. The dress actually fit me pretty well and was comfortable despite the tightness. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”
Rose wouldn’t let me get away with trying on just one, though. She even had me match shoes and hair styles to different outfits. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had leaned in so hard-core to girlie stuff like this, and it was fun. I felt a giddiness settle into me and actually found myself saying, “That’s so cute,” about a freaking tube of lip gloss.
Finally, we settled on the perfect dress. It was a loose, short navy blue tank dress made out of comfy jersey material that felt like my favorite old T-shirt. Because the style was meant to show a peep of your bra, Rose made me trade my ratty black one for a bright lacy fuchsia one I had buried deep in my dresser.
I plopped down onto the sofa from the exhaustion of our makeover montage. “I’m starved.”
“Not done yet.”
When I glanced over at Rose, she was holding some kind of kettle-looking thing with a long chord. “What is that?”
“A portable steamer. I’m going to steam your dress.” She hung the dress up on a sturdy curtain rod. I opened my mouth to make fun of the portable steamer but shut it. At some point, the mocking grounds were just too fertile, even for me.
“Should I order a pizza?” I asked while watching her meticulously steam the dress.
She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Oh. Um, is that okay? I wasn’t sure if I was invited to eat here.”
“Huh? Invited? You’re already here.” It hit me then, the depths of Rose’s friendship void. Had she never just hung out, with no plans or schedules? “If you don’t have anywhere to go, that is.”
The steamer sputtered its last bits of steam and Rose shut it off. “No, I mean, I have plans later but not now.”
I was confused by that answer. “So … yes, you want to get pizza?” The discomfort continued to weigh down the room.
“Sure.” Phew. The most awkwardly earned pizza ever.
After I ordered through an app on my phone (“You have a Domino’s app?” she asked. “I’m VIP,” I answered, a fact that drove my dad and his fancy-pizza feels crazy), we sat around my living room, Rose spending most of the time trying to lure Flo over to her. Some progress was being made. Flo was now lying a foot away from Rose, licking her paws.
“When is Hamlet picking you up?” Rose asked as she lay on her belly, her hand reached out toward Flo, holding a small pile of treats. Flo sniffed the air for a second, her eyes focused on Rose, but the magical cat moment left as quickly as it came.
“I forget.”
Rose looked up at me. “What! You don’t remember what time?”
“Yeah, it was evening-ish.”
“Oh my God.” She sat up and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Check right now what time.”
“It’s fine! It’s only like noon.”
“First, that is alarming because it’s two p.m. Second, what if you’re wrong and he’s picking you up in like thirty minutes?”
The doorbell rang, and I scrambled off the sofa. “Pizza time.”
“Or it’s Hamlet because your date is actually now.”
I laughed. “You’re nuts.” It was the pizza, of course.
We settled around the coffee table with paper towels instead of plates. I folded a slice in half and took a huge, cheesy bite, watching Rose nibble hers, eating the pepperoni off her slice first.
“Are you nervous?” Rose asked as she held out a bit of pepperoni toward Flo. Flo bolted over and sniffed it, taking a little lick. Rose looked ecstatic when Flo took it from her, but then frowned when she just dropped it on the rug and walked off.
I laughed. “Don’t take it personally. She only likes her own boring cat food, kibble from Costco. The finest palate.” I took a large gulp of soda. “So, yeah, I am a little nervous about this date.”
“I’m always super nervous before first dates,” she said, picking up the abandoned pepperoni and wrapping it in a paper towel. “Sometimes normal, perfectly nice guys turn into total jerks on dates.”
Wouldn’t have taken Rose for a dating expert. “Do you go on a lot of dates?”
She shrugged, her shoulders lifting slightly. “Kind of.”
“For someone with an Awkward Friendship YouTube channel, that’s surprising.”
Her eyebrows arched. “I might be awkward with girls, but I’ve got the whole boy thing down.”
“I guess it helps when you look like you.”
Rose took a sip of Coke. “Thank you.” That was so very Rose Carver of her, but there was something refreshing about her just accepting a complim
ent. I had a hard time doing it—my girl-instinct was to deflect it, something that I was always working against.
“Are you dating anyone now?” I asked.
She sighed—the long-suffering sigh of a woman in hot demand. “Not dating, but seeing like three guys. I dunno, they’re kind of … whatever.”
“Three? Damn.”
“Like I said, they’re all whatever. But I like to keep my options open. I refuse to date anyone seriously right now.”
“Distractions you don’t need?”
She nodded. “Exactly.” Eschewing the bottle of sriracha, Rose reached for the Tabasco instead and doused her slice of pizza with it. Legit. Before taking a bite, she looked over at me, suddenly shy again. “Have you had a boyfriend before?”
“Yep.”
“Like, a lot of them?”
“Yep.”
“How many?” Rose was so riveted that she didn’t notice Flo slowly making her way toward her.
I thought about it for a second. “Um, I don’t know, five?”
“FIVE? You’ve had five boyfriends?!”
“Don’t judge!”
“I’m not! I’m just impressed.” Flo sniffed Rose’s foot. Rose still didn’t notice. “I think I remember some of them … you were with Leo Nguyen this year, weren’t you?”
A shudder passed through me. “Unfortunately. I found out he didn’t brush his teeth.”
Rose screamed, sending Flo shooting off to the kitchen. “Gross!”
“Yeah, I don’t even want to … I mean, we made out so many times…”
She laughed so hard that she choked. I pounded her back and handed her a drink.
“Thanks,” she gasped, waving her hand at me. “Anyway, wow. Totally gross.”
“Agreed. So, what about you? Have you had boyfriends? I don’t remember any rumors of you dating anyone at Elysian anyway.” It was strange to know someone for so many years and not know them at all, I realized. The bulk of my Rose Carver knowledge was like the news feed of someone’s life—only the obvious, visible stuff.
“Not really? I date guys, but never longer than a few weeks at most.” She looked around for Flo, who was now lapping up water at her bowl in the kitchen. “I’ve never liked anyone enough. I like them at first. But something happens when I spend more time with them.”
“You’re over it?”
“Exactly. I don’t know … when they like me too much I stop liking them?” Suddenly Flo plopped into Rose’s lap. Rose’s eyes grew wide, and she froze.
I raised my eyebrows. “See, Flo gets you. You only start liking them when they stop paying attention to you.”
Rose laughed and pulled Flo to her chest, which made her yowl and jump out of Rose’s arms—flouncing away with a swish of her finicky tail. “So … five guys. You didn’t like any of them enough to keep them around longer than…”
“Six months,” I finished for her. “My longest relationship. With Felix Rafael Benavides, believe it or not.”
“Oh, I remember when you guys dated. You were like our high school’s Brangelina.”
I snorted. “Please. He wishes he were Brad. Anyway … yeah. I dunno, when it gets boring and too real, I bail. Who needs that? We’re in high school.”
“But you like boys enough to keep wanting them around,” she said with a waggle of her eyebrows.
I waggled mine back. “Well, yeah.” We both laughed.
“I can’t even imagine liking a guy enough to call him my boyfriend, so you’re preaching to the choir,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. She looked at me. “But you know, why is it that we’re supposed to feel bad about this part of our lives? Like, if we don’t have a boyfriend, we’re loser weirdos. If we date too much, we’re ‘sluts.’”
I chewed my fourth slice of pizza thoughtfully. “Maybe the truth is … nothing is weird about dating in high school. Everyone is different, and we need to stop reading so many magazines giving us dated-ass relationship advice.”
She held up her cup. “Hear, hear!”
“Rose. Stop saying stuff like that.”
“Cheers to that.”
I threw a Parmesan cheese packet at her.
CHAPTER 17
After Rose left (making sure I verified the time of my date), I cleaned up lunch and took a shower. Confession: I hate taking showers. They’re just so much time and effort. I have the thickest hair on the planet, and it takes hours to dry.
Once I was dressed, I swiped on some eyeliner—making a cat eye with a little swoop at the end. Then I grabbed a glittery teal eyeshadow and extended the end of the swoop. I blinked and looked in the mirror. There. Properly fancy.
I heard my dad’s voice echo through the hallway. “Clara! He’s here!”
Why my dad had to get home in time for my date was beyond me. Cosmic timing. I grabbed my mini black leather backpack and headed downstairs.
I stopped in my tracks. Oh boy. There was Hamlet at the front door, grasping yet another bouquet of flowers. My dad was holding the door open, and they both looked up at me at the same time.
“What is this, some teen movie?” I cracked, suddenly feeling so nervous that I almost tripped down the stairs. I saved it with a little jig, but their weird expressions confirmed that it was not a smooth move.
I stopped in front of my dad and pointed at him. “No speeches, no warnings, no anything. None of that paternalistic stuff.”
My dad grinned and leaned against the doorway. “I’m paternal by biology, Shorty.”
“You know what I mean,” I said while pulling on my sandals, avoiding Hamlet.
Suddenly a bunch of flowers were in my line of vision and I sprang up, knocking them out of Hamlet’s hands. “Sorry!” I bent over to pick them up at the same time he did, and we bonked heads. Ugh. What was happening to me? I was never this flustered! Hamlet managed to re-create the bouquet and held it out to me again, a lock of hair falling into his eyes.
They were a spray of white snapdragons. “Thank you. They’re pretty,” I said as I took them from him.
He flushed deeply, red creeping up from the collar of his crisp, white button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and the shirt fit him perfectly, paired with dark blue shorts that hit his knees. He looked like he was about to make an Asian cameo in a Nicholas Sparks movie. (Did they have Asian cameos?)
After I got the flowers in a vase, I rushed out the door with Hamlet, waving at my dad. “See you, Pai.”
Before the door shut, I heard him holler, “Come home in time for breakfast!”
Now it was my turn to blush. What even. I couldn’t make eye contact with Hamlet. I just flew down the apartment stairs.
When we reached the sidewalk, I stopped abruptly. “Did you drive?” I asked.
A car beeped in the street. “Yup,” Hamlet said as he walked briskly toward the sound.
When we reached his car, I held up my hands. “Whoa, mama.” The car in front of us was a slick white Lexus. “This is your car?!”
He held the passenger door open, pressing his lips together. “Yeah. Um, my parents overcompensate for not spending enough time with me.”
As I slipped into the leather interior, I thought about how at odds Coffee Kiosk Hamlet was with this car. Who knew he was some rich kid? It annoyed me, and I felt uneasier with each passing second until he got into the driver’s seat. I was never comfortable with people who had a lot of money. I knew I shouldn’t care, but it was just one of those things.
“So, um, I didn’t want to assume you would eat where I picked, so I made a few different reservations,” Hamlet said, placing his hands on the wheel but not yet starting the car. “They are Three Leaf, Café Lola, or Hawkins & Post.”
My lips curved up into a little smile. The trifecta of hipster restaurants. Hamlet trying his hardest. “Um, I guess we could try Café Lola? I haven’t been to Highland Park in a while.”
“All right, Café Lola it is!” he announced cheerfully as he headed toward the 110. Highland Park was north of us, betw
een here and Pasadena, where the office park was. He tapped the steering wheel. “I’ve heard good things about this place.”
“From who?”
“From … people.”
I opened my window, letting in a gust of warm summer evening air. “Like real people you know or the Internet?”
He laughed, all ease. “Okay. I just read the Yelp reviews.” Then I saw him shut off the AC with a near-imperceptible flick of his wrist.
“Oh, I didn’t know you had the AC on, sorry,” I said, rolling up the window.
“That’s okay! The night air feels good!” Hamlet said, rolling down his own window.
Discomfited by his niceness, I opened my window halfway as some kind of awkward compromise. We passed the next couple of minutes in strained silence. Then Hamlet picked up his phone and swiped a few times and music blasted, startling me.
“Sorry!” He immediately lowered the volume.
After a few seconds, I felt this irritation creeping in as I watched Arroyo Park flash by my window. What in the world was annoying me so much? Then a male voice screeched.
I cringed. “Are we listening to IMAGINE DRAGONS?”
Hamlet grinned, glancing over at me. “Yeah! Aren’t they great?”
“Um, yes.” I tried my best to keep my voice neutral.
His smile faltered. “Well, I can change it,” he said, fumbling for the phone while he kept his eyes on the road.
You are a butt, Clara. I took the phone from him. “Here, it’s fine. You should concentrate on driving. Sorry, I’ve got the worst poker face.” I snuck a glance at Hamlet, his profile lit from the side in two-second intervals by the streetlamps. His eyelashes were short but insanely thick, his nose straight, his mouth kind of perfect. And at the moment, he was chewing on his bottom lip, brow furrowed.
Pretty sure I was already ruining this date. “So, um, where do you live again?”
“San Gabriel.” His eyes stayed on the road—the wild curves of the 110 were barely lit by the headlights.
I raised my eyebrows. “Whoa. The SGV. Pretty far out there.”
“Yup.”
