The Summer of Jordi Perez (And the Best Burger in Los Angeles)(18)

Maggie walks out from the back room. “Oh, no, are we talking about Eat Healthy with Norah? One of my friends is obsessed with her. I, on the other hand, find her incredibly irritating.”

“Me too,” I say with a sigh. “Norah’s my mom.”

“Oh, Abby, I’m sorry,” Maggie says. “I never would have said—”

“It’s really okay,” I say. “Trust me, I understand.”

“So …” Jordi says. “It’s a website?”

“It’s a website, and a segment on the local NBC affiliate, and other shows bring her on as a healthy eating expert all the time. It’s wraps with cucumbers instead of tortillas, and sandwiches with lettuce instead of buns, and a grilled cheese except that the bread is actually made from cauliflower. And everything’s tiny little portions.”

I wonder if I just seem like a fat girl complaining about not getting to eat enough.

But then Jordi’s neutral expression turns into a frown.

“I’m glad I rescued you, then,” she says. “Extra glad, now that I know about the cauliflower.”

“I’m not even sure how you’d make bread out of cauliflower,” Maggie say. “I mean, I understand I could look it up, but I think bread is great.”

“Bread is great,” Jordi and I chorus, and then we exchange a tiny grin. Well, Jordi’s grin is tiny. I’m pretty sure that mine is somehow wider than my face.

Maggie gets Jordi started on downloading her photos from her camera to the computer in the back room before taking me into her office to chat about social media, or at least that’s what I assume we’ll talk about. I have my notebook of ideas ready to go.

“I really am sorry,” she says. “I had no idea she was your mother. I never would have—”

“No, seriously,” I say. “She is incredibly irritating.”

“Anytime you want someone to buy you real bread,” she says, “just say the word.”

“Deal.” I open my notebook. “So I just wrote up some preliminary ideas for different social media platforms, just sort of based off of wanting to get people excited about new arrivals, but also maybe to get more followers?”

As the words come out of my mouth, it’s almost as if I can hear myself as someone else. And I sound like I know what I’m doing. I sound like someone who can compete with Jordi.

Ugh, why do I have to compete with Jordi?

“First, I saw that—”

Maggie’s iPhone buzzes on her desk, and she frowns at the displaying number. “Let’s talk about it later. I’ve unfortunately got to handle this and it might take a while. See if Laine needs your help.”

So instead of sounding like a professional, I spend my morning learning the right way to fold sweaters for a display. At first it feels like a waste of my time, but as we organize by color and size, it feels like something’s come alive. Who wouldn’t want to pull a sweater from this organized rainbow?

The morning flies by, and I try not to look too eager when I follow Jordi to the breakroom and wait as she takes two Tupperware containers of soup out of her lunch bag.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s really nice that you—your dad—”

“It’s nothing,” she says, but she smiles as she sets the containers in the microwave. I stare at the caldo de pollo as it rotates. Soup of love! Well, probably not, but I’ve decided that’s what caldo de pollo translates to.

After the microwave beeps, Jordi unceremoniously takes the containers and two spoons over to the table for us. I feel sorry for the soup because it’s come to represent all my current hopes and dreams, and that’s a lot for soup to live up to. But it is delicious, and not just because of its potential meaning. It’s full of huge pieces of zucchini, potatoes, carrots, chayote, and chicken; if any soup could make me believe, this is it.

“This is incredible,” I tell her. “Thank you. And thank your dad.”

“Sure,” she says. “We have this all the time but … Yeah. It’s really good.”

“Do you know what people like my mom call meals?” I laugh even though maybe no one else thinks this is funny. “Solutions. Here’s a great solution for eating pizza!”

“Man,” Jordi says. “Poor pizza.”

We eat in silence for a few moments.

“What are you doing after work tonight?” she asks. “Stuff with burgers?”

“I …” I take a big spoonful to buy some time to work on my response. “No. Nothing, honestly. I should lie so you don’t think I’m a loser, but, nothing.”

She laughs as she elbows me. “I was going to take some photos tonight, if you want to come with me.”

I think of Jordi’s profile picture, of the light and shadows sweeping over her face. “It’s so amazing you’re a photographer.”

“Ehhhh.” She eats a few spoonfuls of soup. “I’m still working on what I am. I like taking pictures, but I also like painting, and I like sculpture, and I like street art. I like everything I try. But I think photography’s my favorite.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, and then I laugh because I sound much more enthusiastic than I mean to. It is, though. “I think it’s great you like everything. Yeah, I have fashion, but it’s nothing big like art.”