The Summer of Jordi Perez (And the Best Burger in Los Angeles)(12)

“Fine,” he says, but with a grin. “C’mon. Let’s order some burgers.”

Best Blank isn’t complicated. You enter the restaurant’s name and what you ordered. Jax assures me that by the time the app actually launches, most of this will auto-fill for you, but even as it stands now, it’s not difficult. You just rate the burger—or whatever else you’re eating—on five scales: taste, quality, service, value, selection. It takes no time at all, and I can totally see how people will want to do this on a regular basis. One thing I’ve learned from blogging is that people love giving their opinions.

“Did your dad invent this?” I ask.

“Sorta,” Jax says. I expect him to elaborate. “Seriously, let me tell you about this dream I had last night. Taylor Swift was—”

“Stop,” I say. “Let’s agree to keep our dreams to ourselves this summer.”



The photoshoot has ended by the time I’m home. While I’m glad not to deal with strangers in our house, it does make it hard to get past Mom and Dad working in the living room.

“You’re supposed to let us know where you are,” Mom says. “You know that.”

Last year, Rachel would have filled in Mom and Dad for me. I’m still learning how to function as an only child. “Sorry. I was just out with a friend.”

“Maliah?” Mom asks.

“Just this guy,” I say.

Mom and Dad exchange a look. I’m so afraid it’s a look of hope that I escape to my room without another word. I have a post to write about tank tops anyway.





CHAPTER 5


On Wednesday morning, I wear my favorite skirt—printed with peppermint candies in various states of unwrap—with a soft and fitted T-shirt. I pull a loop of beads around my neck—an accessory I recommended in yesterday’s post—and apply lip gloss before heading out.

I’m positive Jordi already has the real job locked down, but style I can handle.

While I’m focusing on untangling my earbuds, a person falls into stride next to me. Our neighborhood is fairly safe these days, but I still find myself on instant Stranger Danger. Mom says it never hurts to be suspicious.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice, and I realize that it’s Jordi. We’ve just passed a slate-gray house. It’s small, like mine, but I think the color makes it much cooler, as does the smooth and polished wooden gate surrounding it.

Jordi’s dressed similarly to how she was on Monday; today she’s in a long draped black shirt over black leggings and the same short black boots. She looks thoughtful, professional, the kind of girl you’d want as your intern. Maliah’s rumors couldn’t be true, except that there’s something else about Jordi. I’m sure there’s something different about her beyond the haircut. She looks tough, or tougher, at least. I imagine her punching someone, but someone who deserves it.

“I like your Christmas skirt,” she says as we walk off toward the shop.

“It’s not a Christmas skirt,” I say, looking down at it. “Wait, is it? Are peppermints seasonal? I thought they were year-round.”

“Maybe so.” She pauses her Jordi pause before I get another smile. Each one feels like a reward I’ve earned.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

I couldn’t like Jordi, could I?

Oh, no.

“What’d you do on your day off?” she asks me, and suddenly it’s as though I’m walking way too fast for a normal person. I slow down. Now I feel like I’m walking too slow, but when I speed up it’s like I’ve lost the ability to judge what normal walking speed is.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, fine, sure.” I try to match my pace with hers. Why is this so difficult? “I ate burgers. It’s a long story.”

“Burgers can be a long story?” she asks.

“I mean, anything can be, I guess,” I say. “Under the right circumstances?”

“Sure.”

“What about you?” I ask as we turn onto Glendale Boulevard. A breeze lifts her hair off her neck and I think about its gentle curve and, oh no, oh no.

“I took my little brother to the library,” she says.

Immediately it seems right that Jordi is someone’s big sister, but then that feels like the most ridiculous thought that could come over a person.

I don’t like this at all.

Today, Maggie walks up to Lemonberry as we do and lets us in right away. Next to Jordi, I can’t help but worry I look too bright, too big, too literally candy-coated, but Maggie smiles at me. She looks just as disheveled as Monday, but I can see in her eyes that something’s different today. I think something’s better.

“Great skirt,” Maggie tells me. “Vintage?”

“Thanks! It’s old but I’m not sure it’s old enough to be vintage. I got it off eBay.” I glance at Jordi and bite back going into more of my internet shopping techniques. When it’s only you and an adult, it feels safe to share lots of yourself and all of your enthusiasm. It’s weird how the truth can feel so fake in front of someone your own age, though.

“You can both head to the back,” Maggie says. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

We walk to the back room, and Jordi reaches into the black bag still strapped across her, takes out a lunch bag, and leans past me to shove it into the refrigerator. I scan the open spaces to figure out if there’s a spot for my bag. I’m sure my tostadas will survive until lunchtime if they don’t fit.