by Maurene Goo
“You okay, Clara?” Rose asked quietly, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. No, I wasn’t okay. And I wasn’t okay with not being okay. My emotional investment in this truck came crashing down on me, as if to say, “Ha-ha, this is what happens when you care.” I felt suffocated. By my dad’s reaction to me trying to do something nice. By Rose’s concern. By this stupid truck.
I tossed my cap onto the counter. “See you guys later.” My voice shook, and it took all my willpower to not burst into tears as I stepped out of the truck.
“Clara!”
I ignored my dad’s voice and walked rapidly toward the craft fair exit, and kept walking until the fair was far behind me, my face hot with tears.
* * *
Feeling disoriented, I looked around and noticed that I was headed west on Wilshire. My feet kept moving—past traffic and the big office buildings.
Before I knew it, I was at the La Brea Tar Pits. I hadn’t been here since I was a kid. There had been more than one field trip to this ancient, bubbling mass of tar sitting smack in the middle of the city. I entered the museum grounds, the scent of sulfur hitting me as I walked by the lake of tar and the expansive lawns. When I stepped inside the museum itself, the cool, circulated air hit me. Air-conditioning in LA was almost healing; it made every place feel the same, a guarantee of something familiar.
I didn’t move for a few minutes, letting the air cool off the fine layer of sweat on my face. Letting time slow everything down—my thoughts, my pulse, my anger.
After a few seconds, I paid for a ticket and entered the main exhibit hall. There were big informational displays about the last Ice Age, showing dire-wolf skulls and animatronic woolly mammoths roaming the earth. Reading about long-extinct animals made me feel insignificant, which calmed me down.
My phone vibrated. I’d been getting texts since I started walking, but this time it was a phone call.
Hamlet. I picked it up.
“Hi.”
“Clara? Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
There was a pause. “Well, your dad told me about what happened. Where are you right now?”
I stood in the middle of a dark room, a timeline of ancient animals circling me on the walls, lit dimly. “I’m looking at ancient history.”
“Huh? They said you guys were in Mid-City somewhere.”
“Yeah, I ended up at the Tar Pits.”
I heard a car turning on. “Please stay there. I’m coming.”
“Hamlet. I don’t need saving.” I watched a group of little girls press their faces up against the timeline on the wall, gaping at the illustrations of saber-toothed cats being sucked into the tar.
“It’s a billion degrees out. Are you going to walk home?”
Good point. “I can get a car.”
“That would cost fifty bucks or something, give me a break. I’m coming—I’m actually not that far. Don’t leave, okay?”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be here.”
We hung up, and suddenly I was very tired. I stepped outside into the lush atrium, found a bench next to a small waterfall, and lay down. Kids’ voices mingled with the sound of tumbling water, and I took a deep breath. My eyelids fluttered once, twice.
“Clara?”
I woke up with a start. My neck hurt, and I was totally disoriented.
Hamlet’s face appeared over me. “Hey.”
Right. I sat up slowly, my legs stiff. “Hey.”
He sat down next to me, his shoulder hitting mine. “Good nap?”
“Yeah, I give this Airbnb four stars.”
He smiled. “I don’t think you give stars for Airbnbs.”
“Oh God, whatever.”
His expression more serious, Hamlet looked at me. “What happened? Your dad didn’t really tell me much.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Kind of seems like a big deal. Like, this was very drama.” He held up jazz hands.
“Well, you know how I entered us in the food truck competition?” He nodded. I continued, “Rose told my dad about it because he was bummed that an investor backed out of his restaurant plans. She thought he’d be excited, and instead he was a total dick.”
“How so?”
Anger built up inside me, seeping out in tiny, toxic increments. “He got mad I entered the truck and said he didn’t want to do it!”
Hamlet was quiet for a second. “Did he say why?”
“Just something about it being a hassle. I was so freaking disappointed.” My voice trembled, and my eyes filled with tears.
He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, a gesture that instantly soothed me. “I understand.”
The tears fell before I could wipe them. “Do you, though? He got me to care about this stupid truck, this stupid job—and then he let me down. So hard.”
Holding my hand, he said, “Well, I don’t think he meant to let you down. He must have his reasons…”
“He got me invested in this, and now I’ve wasted my entire summer.” I thought of all my time on the KoBra with Rose, my summer spent away from my other friends to be with Hamlet. All these little threads holding this new version of me in place. A line appeared between his eyes, on top of his nose. His voice was quiet. “Wasted seems a little harsh.”
And even though I knew why it stung for him, I felt a flare of frustration where compassion should be and I pulled my hand out from his grasp. This was just so much.
And then, I knew what I wanted to do.
“I’m going to Mexico.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Screw my dad. Screw the competition. My mom wants me there so I’m going.”
Hamlet’s expression was incredulous. “Are you kidding me? How … And what about your punishment? Don’t you have to work the entire summer to avoid suspension?”
“Who cares?” I felt the weight of the past couple of months lifting off me in big chunks, making it easier to breathe, to be myself again. The threads loosening.
“Who cares?” His voice was loud now.
All around me, a thin, invisible barrier formed—a translucent thing covering every inch of my skin. I felt my expression slacken, my eyes turn into two cold stones. “You’re being a drag, Hamlet.”
Hamlet looked at me, his expression hardening as well. “You know what? You’ve asked me why I like you. I’ve given you reasons. I’ve even told you I love you.” I flinched. He kept going. “And while you’ve never told me why you like me, I have my own theories—the main one being that you’ve surrounded yourself with people who enable this side of you, and I don’t.”
“What side of me?” My voice was acid.
“The side of you that can’t handle being real, that thinks it’s special not to care.” He stood up and put his hands into his shorts pockets. “But, Clara, it’s the least special thing about you. It’s the exception.”
There were so many comebacks that flew to my mouth, so many mean things I wanted to throw at him. But his words cut straight through my chest and into my heart. Before I could recover, he walked away from me, leaving me alone with a bunch of ferns and aimless koi fish.
CHAPTER 27
I eventually got home after the most expensive cab ride of my life and ran straight up to my dad’s room. Ignoring Flo rubbing on my legs and still wearing my shoes like an animal, I grabbed the laptop off his desk and took it to my room.
During the ride home, I had stalked my mom’s Instagram account, looking through her Stories to make sure I had her location right. She was staying at the Lotus Hotel and had arrived today. Perfect.
I opened the laptop and Googled “flights to Tulum.”
The part of me that wanted to run after Hamlet, to call my dad—it was overshadowed by that familiar need to escape, to have some breathing room away from everything.
By the time my dad came home, I had purchased a one-way flight to Mexico for the next morning with my dad’s credit card. I felt only a
slight pitter-patter in my chest when I hit Finalize Purchase.
Consider it my summer bonus, Pai.
A few minutes after he got home, there was a knock at my door. This time, I ignored it. Flo meowed and I shushed her.
There was another knock. I turned up my music—lots of incoherent screaming with clanging piano. I let that do the talking.
I only turned it down when I heard his footsteps fade away.
To avoid feeling whatever it was I was feeling about my dad, I packed, focusing on how surprised my mom was going to be instead. I threw several bathing suits, shorts, and tanks into a duffel bag.
While I was loading up my phone with podcasts, there was another knock at the door.
“Clara.”
Hearing him say my name almost shattered my resolve. I closed my eyes and concentrated on Mexico. The beach. Mãe.
“Clara, please. Let’s talk.”
I couldn’t ignore him forever, so I spoke through the door. “Can we talk tomorrow? I need time.” If I saw his face, I knew I would cave.
He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Tomorrow. Did you eat?”
My stomach grumbled at the mention of it. “I’m fine.”
“You should eat.”
I smelled it then—kimchi stew. I took another sniff. And an omelet. “Maybe later.”
“I’m not going to leave you a tray of food. No one died.”
I almost laughed. “Whatever.”
“I’ll leave it on the stove for later so you don’t have to look at my monstrous face.” I heard him go downstairs shortly after that.
Later that night, when my dad was asleep, I crept downstairs and saw the stove light left on for me. The rice cooker was full and warm, and there was a small stone pot filled with kimchi stew, sitting next to a chunk of omelet wrapped in plastic.
I ate my food in silence, and in the dark.
* * *
The closest airport to Tulum was Cancún, and there had been no direct flights left that were affordable. So, after getting up long before the crack of dawn for a seven a.m. flight and taking an airport shuttle to LAX, many, many hours later I finally landed in Mexico at eight p.m. My phone was dead, so I could avoid hearing any voice mails or seeing any texts from my dad for now. He would have found the note I left on the counter for him hours ago.
I wondered if he would have contacted my mom. Probably. Would she be at the airport to pick me up?
Feeling like a shriveled corpse with greasy hair, I made it out of customs and into the fairly small but busy airport. Although I had met up with my mom plenty of times in various cities, this was my first time traveling to another country alone.
There was no sign of my mom. Okay, so maybe she didn’t know I was coming after all.
Luckily, I had saved New Year’s cash from my grandparents, so I had some money on hand for a cab ride. I went to the currency exchange desk and switched out my American dollars for pesos. Next, get a taxi.
Nervous, I walked to an information booth. My Spanish wasn’t the best, but between growing up in LA and speaking some Portuguese, I’d survive. “Perdón,” I said to the man behind the counter in a quiet voice, embarrassed already. “¿Dónde están los taxis?”
With a friendly smile, the young dude with short wavy hair and thick glasses pointed to my right and directed me in accented English. I nodded and said, “Gracias!” As I walked to the taxi stand, I glanced out the bank of windows to my left and stopped in my tracks.
What.
There was a storm raging outside—the palm trees bent, rain pouring in a slant, and everything blanketed in gray mist.
It had not been raining when we landed. The storm must have just started. What was this? My summer getaway hurricane?
After I grabbed a receipt at the taxi stand and waited in line outside, a cab was pulled up for me.
I slipped inside and took out a scrap of paper from my pocket. It had the hotel address, which I showed to the driver, an older man wearing a fedora and sporting a soccer jersey. He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. “Okay!” he said.
“Gracias,” I said in my quiet foreign-language voice, and settled back into the seat, the rhythm of the windshield wipers lulling me.
After a few minutes, the driver held out a phone charger. “¿Necesitas?” he asked.
“Oh, sí. Por favor.” I hooked up my phone. “Gracias.”
After a few seconds, my phone buzzed to life—alight with a flurry of texts from my dad, Rose, and Hamlet. I didn’t open them.
We headed into the storm, and my stomach felt as tumultuous as the weather surrounding us.
CHAPTER 28
We got on the highway and passed through Cancún—full of large, looming resorts that gave off eerily empty vibes during this storm. But after about an hour and a half, we turned onto a road that transported us from the busy, touristy, spring-break vibes of Cancún onto a more remote, low-key thoroughfare. There were people on bikes, even in the rain. Everyone looked less spring break and more yoga retreat. One side of the main road was jungle, and the other, just across the street, was beach. No large resorts here, just tucked-away “eco hotels” with discreet entrances off the main road. We pulled up to the Lotus Hotel—a small but elegant thatched-roof, two-story building with rustic wood columns. Despite the weather, the windows and doors were thrown open, with only gauzy white curtains separating the lobby from the elements. The driver helped me with my bag, and I thanked him.
As I hoisted the duffel onto my shoulder, I saw a figure run out from the entrance with a large white umbrella. It was a young guy wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts. “Señorita, let me help you,” he said as he took my bag.
“Oh, thank you.”
He held the umbrella over me as we walked toward the hotel. The second we stepped inside, the stormy weather was muffled, even though we were basically standing in a glorified gazebo. Soothing music played, all flutes and chimes. Scattered between plush white furnishings were various bronze sculptures of elephants and tigers. Candles flickered everywhere, and I had the distinct feeling that someone was about to massage me right there in that lobby.
“Good evening. Do you need to check in?” a woman behind the front desk asked me. To her credit, she gave me and my dirty jeans and sweatshirt only the quickest once-over and managed to stay polite. Who knows how many children of celebrities had rolled in here looking as ratty as me?
“I’m here as a guest of Juliana Choi,” I said.
The woman nodded. “Ah, are you the DJ for the party tonight?”
My eyes darted around. Was I being Punk’d? “DJ? Uh, no. I’m her daughter.”
“Oh!” Her thick, sculpted eyebrows jumped in surprise. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t told there was a daughter arriving…”
“It’s a surprise,” I said, beginning to feel nervous about this whole plan.
As she typed away, I wondered about this party. Did I pick a bad night to visit? She was hiring a DJ? My anxiety mounted with every tap of her keyboard, and I was about to drop my bag on the floor and text Mãe when I heard a shriek.
“Clara?”
I turned to see my mom running toward me, her arms raised and a huge smile on her face. And like every time I saw my mom, I was startled by how pretty and young she was. Petite in height, like me, but small-boned and delicate. Her long, highlighted brown hair was wavy and artfully tousled, spilling over onto a coral crop top that she wore with matching high-waisted shorts. A long, fringed, cream-colored robe was thrown over it all, and she resembled an exotic bird.
She embraced me in a tight bear hug as soon as she reached me. “I can’t believe it!” she shrieked. I caught a whiff of some spicy perfume as she crushed her hair against my face.
“Surprise, Mãe,” I said, laughing at her excitement.
Clutching my arms as she stood back, she asked, “What happened? Did your dad cave as you predicted? He texted me this morning, saying you were coming, but he wouldn’t elaborate!”
I was about t
o answer when I realized something. “Wait, you knew I was coming?”
She pushed aside a lock of my hair and peered at my face, distracted when she answered. “Yeah, but I had no info on when you’d get here. I texted you to ask, but you didn’t respond. I would have sent a car for you, silly.” It’s true—I had told my dad my plans but had purposely left out the flight info so he wouldn’t try to catch me before I could get on the plane.
I also noticed that she said “sent a car” not “picked you up.” I guess it wasn’t surprising. My mom was not the kind of person to schlep over to the airport. She paid someone to fold her laundry for her. Macrobiotic meals were delivered to her home—her refrigerator was empty save for a few cans of sparkling water and iced coffee.
She nodded at one of the bellhops in the lobby and he came over, taking my duffel bag from me. There was something ludicrous about a well-groomed young man in a polo shirt holding my ten-year-old nylon black duffel with a giant rainbow-patterned patch that said DIE on it in huge letters.
“First, let’s get you settled into your villa. It’s amazing. You’re basically on the beach, and the whole place is done up in sheepskin,” Mãe said as she clip-clopped out of the lobby in her Greek sandals. My mother excelled at speaking in italics.
I followed her and the bellhop out into a courtyard, my wet Vans squeaking on the floors. “Wait, I get my own villa?”
Mãe looked back at me, winking over her shoulder. “Of course, do you think I’d make you share a room with me?”
While the idea of having my own “villa” was exciting, I was surprised by the simultaneous disappointment I felt—I had imagined spending tonight with my mom cozied into a giant bed watching Real Housewives and ordering room service, our usual hotel combo.
Instead, we approached a little hut with a thatched roof like the rest of the hotel, petite palm trees planted around its perimeter, a hammock swaying in the wind on a closed-off balcony. The bellhop opened the door, and we entered a room that was simply but stylishly furnished—all boho textiles and sheepskins tossed over rough-hewn wood pieces. There was a canopy bed tucked into a corner by a large window, the mosquito netting pulled aside, and a small sitting area with a love seat and coffee table. Another gauzy white curtain separated the room from the small bathroom with its bamboo-and-granite sink and rain showerhead.
