by Maurene Goo
Confusion clouded his features. This guy’s emotions were closed-captioned on his face. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” I asked, almost just as confused.
“What’s Carrie?”
My jaw dropped. “What! You don’t know what Carrie is? Jesus, do you live under a rock?”
He shrugged. “I grew up in Beijing.”
Rose shoved me, getting closer to him. “Wow! When did you move here? Your English is flawless.”
I tsked. “That’s so racist.”
She bit her lip, mortified. “Oh! No, I didn’t mean…”
Hamlet laughed and held up his hands. Two nice, strong-looking hands, with elegant fingers. “No, no, it’s fine! I moved here in sixth grade. I’ve had time to get pretty good.”
Rose tilted her head and smiled. “Cool! I’d love to talk to you about that experience one day!”
For Pete’s sake.
“Oh, for sure! But I actually have to run—starting my second shift,” he said regretfully, picking up his sign. “It was great meeting you guys. I’m sure I’ll see you around this summer then?” Was it my imagination or did he hold my gaze a bit longer than necessary?
He ran off, leaving us with a clear view of my dad. Pai was grinning. “Oh, you girls.”
“What!” Rose blurted, spending an inordinate amount of time tucking her hair into her cap. She glanced at me. “Do you think he was offended when I made that comment about his English?”
But I wasn’t paying attention. Instead I watched Hamlet run toward a coffee kiosk under a big shady tree. He whipped off his shirt, tugging it from the back of his collar. My mouth went dry. He was bare chested and glorious for a full two seconds before pulling on a white polo shirt, a navy apron, and a matching cap. Then he served someone coffee.
“What in the world?” I asked out loud, pointing at Hamlet.
Both my dad and Rose looked to where I was pointing. Noticing us, Hamlet waved and yelled, “Jack-of-all-trades!”
Before I could stop myself, I laughed. My dad smirked at me, and I threw a towel at him.
CHAPTER 9
The morning and lunch crowd at the office plaza was pretty mellow, and we managed okay. That is, when Rose and I didn’t have to talk to each other. She handled the customers, and I was in charge of the food again. Then we swapped. My dad helped, and other than a few little missteps (oops, leaving oil smoking on a pan for too long and giving someone a twenty-dollar bill instead of a five), the first stop went smoothly.
Every once in a while, Hamlet would holler jokes, and he even came over with iced drinks for us. At every contact, I felt his gaze linger on me for a half second longer than necessary. Hm. Was this dweeb crushing on me? But I pushed the thought aside; I had no desire for a food truck summer romance. I just wanted to get this over with, no strings attached.
We wrapped up the Pasadena stop and headed back to the commissary for a break before our next stop, a bar in Echo Park where we’d catch the happy hour and evening crowd.
After cleaning up the truck, Rose sat down in the passenger seat and pulled out a thick AP biology book.
“A total beach read,” I said as I locked up the cabinets holding our supplies.
She responded without looking at me. “Since I’m not going to summer school, I’m taking night classes at the community college for credit. Is that okay with you, nosy?”
“Your boring life, not mine.”
She put her earbuds in and propped the book on her knees.
My dad was handling some bookkeeping and social media updates, so I had time to grab an ice cream from the liquor store across the street.
Much too freaking soon it was time for us to get back to work, and we arrived at the bar just as the sky turned a pale peach. There were a ton of people there already. It seemed like once you became an adult, your life revolved around the next glass of rosé.
Parking the truck, I pulled on my cap and apron, then turned on the griddle. Rose parked next to us and hopped into the truck, pulling out the cashbox and the iPad Square.
My dad opened the order window, then turned to us. “Ready to roll?” he asked, looking at both of us sternly.
“Yup,” Rose answered, with her patented future president smile.
I held up my plastic-glove-covered thumbs.
Things went smoothly for a while—I realized that working in the KoBra was almost like a finely choreographed dance. Because the space was so small, the three of us had figured out a way to stay in our little spheres. It helped that I was so short; both my dad and Rose were able to reach for things above my head, and I was able to duck easily under various limbs to get what I needed.
Just as I was in the zone, concentrating on skewering some beef onto a stick for the picanha, I heard a familiar peal of laughter. My skin prickled in recognition.
“Felix, get me a pastel, yeah?”
Cynthia and Felix.
“Yo, isn’t this Clara’s dad’s truck?”
And Patrick.
I shuffled over to the dark corner farthest away from the truck’s windows. Of all the people to run into! My dad walked over to me to reach for the picanha plate. “Clara, what are you doing? Get the two pasteis orders plated.”
“Shh, Pai. My bozo friends are out there. I don’t wanna deal with them right now,” I whispered loudly.
But the truck was small, and Rose had the hearing of a bat. She popped her head out the window, practically on tippy-toes, so half her torso was hanging out. “Hey! Are you guys Clara’s friends?” she shouted out.
“Shh!” I hissed, shrinking farther into my corner.
I heard Patrick’s voice again. “Rose?” Confusion and disbelief.
Rose waved. “Hi, guys. Didn’t you hear? Clara and I are working the KoBra this summer.”
In fact, they hadn’t heard. They knew I had to work, but I had left out the part about Rose. I didn’t even know why. Sometimes I simply didn’t want to deal with the Patrick and Felix peanut gallery. It could be a lot.
“She’s right here,” Rose said with a smile, looking back at me. Like an obvious cartoon villain.
Handing my dad the two pasteis, I reluctantly walked over to the window, mouthing You’re dead to Rose.
When I looked out, my heart sank. It wasn’t just Patrick, Felix, and Cynthia. They were with a few other people we partied with. No doubt they were using their fake IDs to get into the bar tonight. Pangs of jealousy and resentment flared again.
“What’s up?” I asked, not a care in the world.
Patrick and Felix were grinning, and Cynthia looked pleased to see me in a compromising position for once. She held on to Felix’s arm with less possessiveness than usual, her denim jacket tied around her waist.
Felix tapped the top of his head. “Sweet hat, Clara.”
“You look adorable,” said Cynthia with a giggle.
“Better than your ratty Cubs one,” I said easily to Felix. “Which I still have, by the way.” I didn’t even look at Cynthia, but I felt her glare. You simply couldn’t out-jerk a jerk like me.
“Save the socializing for after-hours, children,” my dad said, handing an order out the window. “Clara, back to the kitchen.”
Heat crept up my neck. Patrick widened his eyes at me and cocked his head to the side, telepathically signaling, “Come out here.”
Every part of me wanted to toss my cap on the floor and join them—preferably by jumping out the window in a swan dive into the line of people.
But I couldn’t. I ignored him. “Have fun at happy hour, kids,” I said before stepping back to my station.
A crappy mood settled over me. Every single thing Rose did made me want to scream. I tried to zone her out, concentrating on cooking. When we got an order for a vegetarian option—a grilled eggplant in place of lombo—I tossed some thinly sliced Chinese eggplant into a skillet.
Suddenly, Rose was all up in my space. “Did you cook pork in this pan beforehand?”
“Yep.”
<
br /> “Clara! You can’t do that! Some vegetarians are really picky about that! And pork is actually forbidden by some religions and cultures.”
I watched the eggplant sizzle in the oil, bubbles popping. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. They’ll just have to wonder why their food is suddenly more delicious. Hint: pork.”
Rose gasped. “Clara, I’m serious!”
“I know you are, and I don’t care.” I grabbed a bunch of scallions and chopped them. Aggressively. “If I had to use a new pan for every freaking vegetarian order, I’d be behind and washing pans constantly.”
“But it’s the rule!” Rose said. “Adrian went over this our first day. Right, Adrian?”
My dad turned from the pickup window. “What?”
I threw the knife onto the cutting board with a clatter. “Are you kidding me right now? You just narced on me to my dad?”
Rose blinked. “What? I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were! It’s not enough you got me suspended freshman year, you have to hover over me in my dad’s truck after you got us into this mess?”
A flash of anger passed over Rose’s face. “I didn’t know you would get suspended! And also? YOU WERE SMOKING! You do something wrong and then you freaking blame it on me? You have some real issues with misplacing blame. Hint: LOOK IN THE MIRROR.”
Rage that had been building inside me since prom reached its freaking boiling point. I thought of ninth grade, of how that suspension had put me on a specific trajectory before I even had a chance to figure myself out. “Screw you, Rose. You don’t know me. At all.”
My dad stepped between us. “Hey! Both of you, cool it. Now.”
Rose’s shoulders slumped for a second before she took off her cap. “Hey, Adrian, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this. Thanks for giving me the opportunity.”
Before my dad could say anything, she placed the cap on the counter and left the truck, walking down the street, away from the bar crowd.
“What a drama queen.”
My dad looked at me, hard. “You have so much to learn, Shorty.”
Behind us, the eggplant burned.
CHAPTER 10
The next day, I woke up to my alarm. Not my dad.
Hm. Still in my pajamas with toxic morning breath and cuckoo hair, I crept over to his room and knocked on his door. Nothing. “Pai? Are you still asleep?”
Still nothing. I was about to knock again when someone tapped my shoulder. I jumped about a mile.
“Morning, Shorty.” My dad held out a mug of tea.
I took it and smiled. “To what do I owe this princess treatment?”
He ran his hand through his hair and yawned. That’s when I noticed he was still in his pajamas, too. A worn-out Clippers T-shirt and flannel pants. “Well, there’s a change of plans. You and Rose are running the truck without me today.”
The tea scalded my tongue. “Huh? Are you sick?”
“Nope.”
“Uh, do you have a meeting?”
“Nah.”
“Then what?”
There was a mischievous gleam in his eye that chilled me. A gleam that I’ve inherited. It never means anything good.
“It’s a test.”
I stopped drinking my tea. “No.”
“Yes.”
“FATHER!” I yelled.
He pointed at me, at once stern and ridiculous with his spiky hair and giant threadbare T-shirt. “You and Rose need to figure out how to get along. Not just put up with each other and work, but to actually get along. Rose is cool, and I want you to see that.”
I exhaled loudly. “Okay, Dr. Phil. But Rose quit, remember?”
“I talked to her parents and they convinced her to give it one last try. Actually … a one-week one-last try.”
I shook my head like I had water in my ears. “Pardon me?”
My dad already had one foot in his bedroom. “Yeah, the test is for one week. Good luck today, see you later!” He rushed inside and locked the door.
I banged on it. “No way!”
His voice was muffled. “Rose is waiting for you at the commissary. You guys know the drill by now. I’m not concerned about mistakes, I just want you to make it work, or a fall suspension, and you’ll be grounded for the entire summer!” He paused. “Text me only for emergencies.”
“The only texts you’ll get from me will be barnacle photos!” My dad had severe reactions to images of things with a lot of holes or bumps clustered together, like barnacles and seedpods. This revulsion/fear, called trypophobia, was always my Hail Mary when my dad was being a jerk. Like today.
“So what are you going to do all day?” I hollered through the door.
“Today, I take the day off. The others? Work on the restaurant hustle, handle business to get things started,” he responded, his voice sounding far away and much too relaxed.
“Well enjoy your day off with barnacles.”
By the time I reached the commissary, seven photos and gifs of barnacles had already been sent to my dad. He didn’t respond—but I kept them going. I wanted him to live in abject terror. I was not into Strict Adrian.
Rose was already there, of course. Leaning against the KoBra, in a white cotton tank and powder blue shorts, her feet in dainty brown sandals. She looked at me through her tortoiseshell sunglasses, arms crossed. “I actually thought I liked your dad,” she said in greeting, voice dry.
“Well, even cool dads are actually just dads in the end. Lameness guaranteed at some point.”
Rose straightened up. “My parents were going to make me quit the dance team if I didn’t finish this job.” Given that she’d been captain since freshman year, I knew that was a big deal.
We were quiet for a second, neither of us sure where to start. And then we both started talking at once.
“So your dad e-mailed me the social media info—”
“My dad wants us to stick to—”
We both stopped talking. I would have laughed except Rose Carver was like the antidote to mirth. I walked toward the commissary kitchen. “Well, let’s start by looking at the food supplies. Today’s a grocery-run day.”
After a quick survey, we realized we were short on meat, so we needed to head to Koreatown before our usual stop at the office park.
“Should I drive, then?” I asked as we both stood in the truck. Politeness clipped my words.
She shrugged. “Sure, seems to make the most sense,” she said as she buckled herself into the passenger seat. Because I couldn’t stand to make the fifteen-minute drive to K-Town in silence, I turned on the radio. It had been so long since I listened to the actual radio that I had to fiddle around a bit to find a station that wasn’t offensive—something that was playing oldies.
After a few seconds, Rose asked, “Can we listen to NPR?”
I bristled. “Um, no?”
“Just because your dad owns this truck doesn’t mean you automatically get to make executive decisions.”
“I do when it involves listening to freaking NPR.”
“Yeah, because wow, how super uncool to pay attention to what happens in the world.”
I yanked the steering wheel hard as we turned left onto Vermont. “You said it, not moi.”
“Forget it, you’re such a brat,” she huffed, rolling down her window and turning her head away from me. We didn’t talk the rest of the ride, which was fine by me.
Driving through K-Town in a clunky food truck was no joke. No matter what time of day, traffic was always jammed, and my usual weaving, raging style was seriously cramped by both the cars and the unwieldiness of the giant truck. I didn’t really mind; it was always fun to people-watch in traffic since K-Town was one of the few neighborhoods in LA where people actually walked.
There were professionals in business wear; teenagers in giant headphones and backpacks; grandmothers clutching hands of toddlers and children. All within the shadows of the skyscrapers and strip malls pushed up against one another. Koreatown was an LA neighborho
od that told the city’s entire history through its architecture—from 1920s apartment buildings with art deco iron lettering on top of the roofs to the neon, layered storefronts that arrived loudly in Los Angeles via Seoul.
I felt at home here, not only because I’m Korean American, but because it was a blend of old and new LA. I related to this future version of America that wasn’t tidy but layered, improvised, and complicated.
We arrived at the butcher where I had to use my preschool-level Korean to order the beef rump and pork loin. The butcher grumbled under his breath the entire time, and I suspected he was criticizing my bad upbringing as he heaved slabs of meat over the counter.
Back at the commissary, we worked on prepping the food like my dad had showed us—marinating the meats, making the sauces, cooking the rice. Rose reluctantly let me take the lead with food since I had a bit more experience than her. But she watched every move I made with hawk eyes, memorizing everything I was doing like an android. It was annoying, and I felt self-conscious.
“Got that properly downloaded?” I grumbled as I washed my hands.
“It’s not exactly brain surgery,” she said, but I noticed that she still had that little wrinkle of concentration between her eyes.
I started the truck. “I can’t believe my dad actually trusts us.”
Rose rolled down her window and pulled on her sunglasses. “Well, he knows one of us is responsible.”
“You are a delightful conversationalist, you know that?”
She didn’t respond and we didn’t speak until we drove into the office park.
And there was Hamlet, tossing that sign up in the air. This time wearing a dark green baseball cap, white T-shirt, and very well-fitting navy shorts. No socks and sparkling white sneakers.
“Hey, Hamlet!” Rose waved at him from the window before we even parked.
He waved the sign in return. “Hey! You’re back!”
She glanced at me, her smile disappearing then reappearing as she turned back to him. “Yup! Actually, it’s just Clara and me running the truck for a week.”
“Whoa, really?” He walked over to us, the sign still held up high above his head. “Did Adrian go somewhere?”