by Maurene Goo
“Marco Polo? Are you serious?” I asked as I stood in the shallow end, on my tippy-toes to prevent the water from touching my torso.
“Yes! And also, it’s ninety degrees out, are you actually cold?” Rose asked, treading water in the deep end.
“This water is freezing!” I protested.
Hamlet swam over (shirtless Hamlet was always … well … just well) and stood up so that he was directly in front of me. Water poured off his shoulders, and I was so distracted that I didn’t even pay attention when he said, “Sorry about this.” A second later, he had hoisted me under the arms and dragged me out into the deeper part of the pool so that my body was now completely submerged.
I screeched, like a total wuss. But after three seconds, the water was warm and I stopped flailing.
“You are such a baby,” Rose scoffed before dipping under the water to do a little backflip, as if to highlight the difference between us.
Hamlet kept one hand supporting my back. My bare back. “You good?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.” Then I touched his hip underwater, grazing it gently with my fingers. His eyes met mine, and this time his smile was slow.
“EH-HEM!” Rose splashed us.
We played Marco Polo with Hamlet as the seeker first. I hadn’t played since I was a kid, and it was hard to get into at the start. I tried to escape out of the pool a few times, but Rose dragged me back in. She was about one thousand times stronger than me in every way. But when Hamlet, as Marco, found me and grasped my shoulder, I screamed and felt that very real competitive thrill. After that, it was game on.
By the time our third round was finished, we were starving so we padded into Rose’s kitchen, dripping water on the tile floor. Rose pulled out cans of sparkling water, fruit, and cheese. “Admit it, you had fun, Clara.”
I grabbed an apple and bit into it. “It wasn’t the worst.”
Hamlet immediately went into helpful mode, pulling out a cutting board and knife to start slicing apples and pears. This pleased me. One of my pet peeves was people standing around asking, “Can I help?” when they were secretly hoping they could just watch TV in the other room. Like those bums Felix and Patrick.
Rose and Hamlet, on the other hand, were a flurry of activity. I joined them, grabbing some glasses and ice for the drinks.
“Clara, have you told Hamlet about the food truck competition?” Rose asked as she sliced a large hunk of cheese.
The sparkling water hissed as it hit the ice. “I’m not sure…”
“No, you haven’t! What is it?” he asked, his eyes on the fruit, careful in his deft and precise chopping.
“There’s a big food truck competition in August with a one hundred thousand dollar prize,” I answered.
His hand stilled as he looked up at me. “What?”
“I know, right?” Rose said. “So Clara, did you actually enter us?”
“Yup.”
Hamlet was so excited he abandoned his fruit and walked over to me. “This is so so cool. Adrian hadn’t mentioned it to me!”
Rose and I glanced at each other. I bit my lip. “Well, that’s because he doesn’t know.”
“Whoa, why not?” Hamlet asked, his voice immediately dropping an octave.
I took a sip of one of the drinks. “Because I want it to be a surprise! Plus, I don’t want him to stress. Worry about losing, you know?”
Rose said, “Well, I mean, there’s a chance you can lose when you do anything. He’s an adult. I’m sure he could handle the pressure.”
I exhaled in irritation. “It’s hard to explain to overachievers like you guys. Some people don’t have confidence running through their veins since birth.”
Rose frowned. “Yeah, that must be it. Not a highly effective combination of hard work and growing tough to failure.”
I stared at her. “Are you saying my dad doesn’t work hard?”
“No! I’m just saying that people who are ‘fearless’ have actually just failed a lot. It’s not some preternatural characteristic I was born with.” She looked for validation to Hamlet, who hesitated before nodding in agreement. “To me, that totally undermines all the work I’ve done to build this confidence.”
Normally this kind of lecture from Rose would have annoyed me—having to be so serious about everything. But I had to admit that I had grown to care about the truck and wanted to succeed in this one thing, too. And was willing to take that risk of failing for once. Ugh, had Rose Carver’s can-do-itness rubbed off on me?
I held up my hands. “Okay, okay. Remind me to never call you confident again.”
A deep voice interrupted us. “Well, if it isn’t a bunch of hardworking teenagers in the service industry!” Rose’s dad walked in with a grin. He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and glasses, his imposing height instantly filling up the sprawling kitchen.
“Hey, Dad,” Rose said with an embarrassed giggle. He gave her a kiss on the top of her head, then walked to the island and peered over Hamlet’s shoulder. “Ooh, pears.” He grabbed a slice, then looked at Hamlet. “Who are you?”
“Dad!” Rose exclaimed. “That is so rude.”
“What! I’m being straightforward.” His eyes twinkled with humor before he turned toward Hamlet again. “I’m Jon, Rose’s dad, in case you couldn’t tell by her embarrassment.”
Hamlet wiped his hands on his shorts. Which were damp. He didn’t seem to notice, as he held out his hand to shake Jon’s. “Hi! I’m Hamlet. I’m Clara’s boyfriend.”
The ice tray I was holding fell onto the counter. Rose gaped at Hamlet then at me. “What! ALREADY? You had one date!”
I took a deep breath. Dating Hamlet Wong was going to be a freaking trial for my chill.
CHAPTER 20
Hamlet was a force to be reckoned with. For the next couple of weeks, he leveled all my normal boy barriers—texting me about everything (from making plans to sea otter gifs), showing up at the truck, and inviting himself to meals with my dad and me. That arm’s length I required with boys was shrunk down to a millimeter.
Normally, I would have seen this as obnoxious behavior. In fact, I should have been running for the hills.
But no one had ever blown through my defenses like this. In my other relationships, I’d always had the upper hand. Even the most macho and controlling of dudes had never managed to push me out of my comfort zone. The only person on planet Earth who could get away with it was Hamlet. Because with him it wasn’t entitled or pushy—it was just … Hamlet. Earnest and genuine in his interest in me.
That’s how I found myself walking across a hot parking lot to the Chinatown gym where Hamlet boxed on Saturday mornings. It was a large space in an old warehouse—all concrete and sweat. The bay doors were open, and Hamlet was directly in my line of vision. Punching a heavy bag, his strong shoulders swinging, an intense expression of concentration on his face.
My thirst for Hamlet came in waves. And right now, it was a straight-up tsunami. Why was I so attracted to him in this state? I tried to override the archaic sexist wiring in my brain. The second he saw me, he stopped moving and grinned, the bag narrowly missing his face as it came swinging back at him.
“Hi.” I pushed the black bag with the tip of one finger.
He leaned over, his thin cotton shirt stuck to him with sweat, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hi.” His lips hovered by my jaw, and I felt the hairs on my neck stand on end. “I’m just gonna take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you outside?”
“Sure,” I said, acting cool and feeling hot. I skirted the piles of shoes and boxing gloves as I left the gym and sat down on the hood of Hamlet’s car, which was parked in the shade of an oak tree. A few minutes later he came out, shouldering his gym bag, hair damp and clothes crisp and sparkling clean.
“Ready for tacos?” he asked as he pulled on his sunglasses and stood in front of me.
I hooked my legs around his. “Always.” Some whoops and hollers came out of the gym, and he blushed.
�
��All right, that’s our cue to leave.” He reached for my hand to help me down from the hood.
Hamlet and I were going to do a “taco walko,” a walking tour of eastside taco trucks patented by my dad and me. Hamlet had admitted to Chipotle being his Mexican restaurant of choice and, when I’d finally recovered, I made a plan to remedy that.
At our third truck in Echo Park, he was shoveling a monstrous carnitas taco into his mouth and I was trying to capture it on my camera when a text from Rose popped up.
Hey, do you have plans today?
Taco walko hellloooo
Oh, whoops. Ok, nevermind!
I stared at the text for a second before texting back: Why what’s up
Oh, nothing, no big deal.
Something about that nagged at me while Hamlet and I finished up our tacos.
“Who’s texting you?” he asked as we dumped our greasy paper plates into the trash.
Hamlet had the ability to tell when I was agitated even when I was silent. Something that probably made his life really pleasant.
“Rose. I think she wants to hang out,” I said apologetically.
He took out a little Wet-Nap from his wallet and handed it to me. “Cool, tell her to meet us for the movie tonight.”
I took the Wet-Nap with nary a smart-ass remark. Hamlet’s pockets were like a mom’s purse. “Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Unless you don’t want to? I don’t really understand how close you guys actually are.” He wiped his fingers off fastidiously with the Wet-Nap.
Good observation. I wasn’t so sure either. Our friendship was so, for lack of a better word, organic. I shrugged. “Well, we’re friends. And I don’t hate hanging out with her.”
Hamlet laughed. “That’s Clara-speak for ‘I like her.’”
I flushed because it was true and said, “Well, then let’s invite her. Watching a movie in a cemetery will creep her out!”
We’re going to watch The Exorcist at Hollywood Forever wanna come?
Not how I thought I’d spend my birthday, but why not!
Birthday! “Hamlet, it’s her birthday today!”
His entire face lit up—he was Christmas Day and Disneyland all rolled into one. “Her birthday? I’m so glad we invited her then! We have to prepare!”
I pulled my dad’s black Dodgers cap down lower over my head, avoiding the sun. “All right, calm down. Let me respond to her first.”
I wished her happy birthday with some dumb bitmojis that were sure to infuriate her, then told her where to meet us.
A few minutes later, Hamlet and I were in a dollar store ransacking the aisles for the worst possible party favors.
I held up a tiara with tiny baby bottles attached. “What in God’s name do you think this is for?”
Hamlet tilted his head, which was currently wearing a pink cowboy hat. “I have this wild suspicion that it’s related to princess baby showers.”
“What is wrong with people?” I put it back on the rack, frowning.
“We need to get this,” Hamlet announced, holding up a SpongeBob piñata.
“What about SpongeBob SquarePants screams Rose to you? I am really curious.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t. That’s why it’s funny?”
I laughed. “Actually, that’s a good idea except we can’t really do piñata stuff at the cemetery.” We were headed to Hollywood Forever, an old cemetery where a bunch of golden-age movie stars were buried, like Judy Garland. Every summer they showed movies—their whole motto was “Watch the stars under and OVER the stars.” Pretty messed up. And rad. Hamlet had never been before and neither had Rose, and I was excited to share it with them. That’s the thing about having new friends—everything you like and do feels fresh again.
Again, I felt a flash of guilt for not inviting Felix and Patrick. Hollywood Forever was usually our thing. But I knew it would be awkward, and I didn’t want to worry about everyone getting along. It’d been getting harder and harder to separate my social life between the two groups. Hamlet never said anything, but I’m sure he was wondering why I hadn’t introduced them to him yet. But when I told Patrick and Felix about dating Hamlet, they didn’t take it seriously at all (“TO BE OR NOT TO BE!”) and thought I was just working a lot.
After the dollar store, we grabbed a cake at the grocery and some sandwiches at the deli counter. The best part of the cemetery movie screenings was that you got there early, staked out a spot, and had a picnic. Hamlet didn’t need to know that this would be my sixth time going with a boyfriend. Sixth different guy. And when he insisted on blasting some dated pop music in the car, I couldn’t help but marvel at how different from the others he was. How I didn’t care that he had kinda bad music taste. How I liked how confident and assured he was in the things he liked because he was so free of judgment himself.
He tapped his hands on the steering wheel and sang along.
“Hamlet.”
“Yes?” Without tearing his eyes off the road, he slid his hand up the back of my neck, his fingers pushing into my hair.
See, one second Hamlet’s singing some dorky pop song and the next he’s doing sexy stuff like this, and the juxtaposition of it all really got to a person. That person being me. Only me.
Before I could truly savor the moment, my phone buzzed. A text. I wriggled a little so that Hamlet would let go of my neck. He glanced over at me with a questioning smile. I smiled back and his eyes returned to the road and he continued singing. The text was from my mom.
Get a load of the hotel where we’ll be staying in Tulum!
It was accompanying a link to a hotel website. I scrolled through the photos and groaned.
“What?” Hamlet asked.
I held up my phone to him, but of course he kept his eyes on the road. “My mom just sent me a link to the resort in Tulum. It’s killer.”
“Tulum?”
“Oh! I’m going to see my mom in Mexico next month!”
He lowered the volume of the music. “Cool, that should be fun.” Hamlet knew the lowdown on my parents and, without his saying anything, I could tell he had some chilly feelings about my mom. Loyalty to my dad and all. It both annoyed and pleased me.
“I plan on flying out early enough to get back in time for the food truck contest. Best reward ever for my summer of the KoBra.”
We turned into the parking lot for the screening, driving by the sidewalk filled with people waiting in line for the movie. Hamlet reached for the parking ticket at the entrance. “Do you really think your dad’s gonna let you go since your punishment was for the entire summer?”
I texted my mom back with the heart-eyed emoji then slipped my phone into my pocket. “I have zero doubt in my mind. My dad always caves.”
Hamlet grinned. “Well, you’ve got a way.”
My heart flipped in my chest, and I resisted rolling my eyes at myself.
CHAPTER 21
The sun was starting to set, and the sky was a pale lavender and pink that I always felt was specific to a certain kind of hot day in LA—when the sun had been so brutal for hours on end that even the sky needed a minute to chill. So the sunset took its sweet time, letting the light blue fade at a lazy pace under the thick blanket of ever-present smog, and turning the sky into a palette of hazy, desaturated pastels.
It was against this backdrop that we found Rose, an elegant silhouette, waiting at the front of the line and clutching a lawn chair.
“Finally!” she exclaimed when she saw us. “It’s been murder trying to hold this spot.” Her eyes darted over to a group of men behind her. “Do you think they’ll be pissed if you guys get in?”
I assessed them in less than half a second. Not a threat. “It’s just the two of us, and you were holding a place in line. We’re not cutting.” I raised my voice, challenging the bespectacled and short-shorted to have a problem with that. None of them said a word. Sometimes teenagers really scared the crap out of hipsters. It was like their tenuous hold on “cool” was exposed around the
truly young.
Hamlet hastily stepped into line, then gave Rose a bear hug. “Happy birthday!”
She smiled, a little sheepish. “Thanks. Sorry to crash your date.” Both of us protested with scoffs and waving hands, and it was a bit much.
“I had no idea you’d be here like an hour early to get a spot in line,” I said, poking fun to mask feeling guilty about it.
“Did you actually think I would be able to relax knowing this was a first-come first-served deal?” Rose asked, her voice harried. “I’d rather be here yesterday than have to wonder if we’d get a good spot!”
I put my hand on her shoulder and replied, “I’m sorry for your life.” Then I held up a huge shopping bag. “Despite that, we have some birthday goodies for you. Get excited.”
Her eyes lit up. “You didn’t have to! My family already did this whole birthday extravaganza earlier.”
“What’s a birthday extravaganza? Americans take birthdays so seriously,” Hamlet said while reaching out for my hand. Instinctively and comfortably. There was some movement at the gate, and Rose craned her neck to check it out before responding. “Oh, we went to get crepes at my favorite brunch spot and then my mom took me shopping. Then we got home to…” She trailed off for a second. “To uh, watch the Rose Birthday Movie.”
I stopped chewing my gum. “What? What is the Rose Birthday Movie?”
The line moved ahead and I handed the tickets to the agent, still looking expectantly at Rose.
“Calm down, Clara. It’s just a little movie my parents make every year—they make one for my brother, too—a compilation of videos taken of me over the years.”
Hamlet took Rose’s unwieldy lawn chair from her, a tiny chivalrous move that would normally irritate me, but I knew Hamlet would do that for a fellow male, too. For anyone. He said, “That sounds amazing. You guys are like a TV family.”
“Thanks,” she said. “For holding the chair, I mean. We’re not a TV family, but I know it always sounds like that.”
“To be honest, I was expecting something worse,” I said as I shifted the shopping bag on my shoulder. “Two points to the Carver family for not being more embarrassing. In fact, that sounds sorta great.” Rose looked pleased, and I was pleased she was pleased.
