The Summer of Jordi Perez (And the Best Burger in Los Angeles)(19)

“Fashion can be art. And art doesn’t have to be big,” Jordi says. “It can be just for you.”

“It’s okay if I come with you?” I ask. “It’s not like, a private thing?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t okay, would I?”

I have no idea if this means anything, but I agree regardless. As if there was a chance I wouldn’t.



Maggie ends up leaving right after lunch, so instead of looking like a social media badass, if there is such a thing, I continue helping Laine. She ends up sending Jordi and me home early because, without Maggie there, there aren’t really any new projects to take on.

We walk to Jordi’s house together. I expect to go in with her, or at least wait here by the shiny gate so she can do whatever she needs before taking off for photography.

“Meet back at seven?” she asks instead.

“Sure!” I say and force myself to walk home without enacting some kind of grand farewell. I’m seeing her in less than three hours, and even if I wasn’t, that would be unnecessary.

“Big news!” Mom says when I walk inside, and for just the splittest of seconds, I think my parents know about my photography non-date. I come back to reality very quickly, though.

“A publisher wants your mom to write a cookbook.” Dad grins and wraps an arm around Mom’s shoulders. They look like a stock photo for happy middle-aged couples; blonde and sunny and fit in that way Californians are expected to be. “How exciting is that?”

I’m not entirely sure. She’s on local TV at least once a week and has been on the Food Network more than once. Is a book more exciting than TV?

“Everything’s paying off,” Mom says, and I nod. “How’s the internship?”

“It’s great,” I say. “Anyway, I’m going out tonight, if that’s okay, and I need to get ready.”

“Have fun,” Dad tells me. “I’m taking your mom out to celebrate.”

Their last celebration dinner was at a raw food restaurant, so I find it unlikely the celebration will be too … celebratory.

I review myself in the full-length mirror in my room. I wore a really basic yellow dress to work today—and if Jordi doesn’t like me—and why would Jordi like me?—changing would be really weird. This isn’t a date. You can’t make something a date by just hoping it’s a date and wearing a good dress.

I settle for applying mascara and lip gloss.

Jordi’s waiting outside when I arrive back at her house. She’s also wearing the same thing as earlier, though she’s layered an army green jacket over her outfit and switched out her boots for black Vans.

“Hey,” she greets me.

“I’m still thinking about that soup!” I say, even though I mean to just respond with a similarly chill hi. “Also, hi.”

She smiles. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going? Do you have one place you like to take pictures? Or just all over? Is something happening tonight you want to specifically photograph?”

Oh god, so many questions. How can I know it’s too many questions but ask them all anyway?

“I don’t have anything specific in mind.” Jordi lifts her camera out of her bag and takes off the lens cap. “I like not having anything I’m after.”

Then it happens before I can react: she points the camera at me and snaps a few photos.

“Agh!” I fold my arms across my chest, and that feels awkward, so I tuck them behind my back, and then I worry my hips look big in this dress, so I just let my arms hang straight down. Now I feel like I have monkey arms.

“Sorry,” Jordi says. “But this is why I don’t ask.”

“Because I have monkey arms?” I ask, except that’s a term I came up with in my head and not aloud, so Jordi’s confused look is more than fair.

“Because no one looks like herself when she knows she’s being photographed,” Jordi says. “But before you knew, you did. And you don’t have monkey arms.” She holds out her arms to her sides. “My arms are way longer than yours.”

“But you’re taller!” I step closer to her and hold out my arms. “No, yours are way longer.”

We’re standing face to face, inches apart, and Jordi automatically knew what monkey arms were. My face feels warm, and my lips are suddenly something I feel very aware of. I’ve known of the general feeling of wanting to kiss someone, but I’ve never felt the specific wanting to kiss someone right in this very moment before.

Click.

Jordi smiles at me. “Got you.”

“When you take a picture, can you tell what a person is thinking?” I ask. “Does it show in the photograph?”

“Why?” Jordi asks. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” I say. I say it more quickly than I’ve said anything in my life. Speed can be very suspicious, I realize.

“Too bad.” Jordi turns from me and continues down the sidewalk. I try to predict when she’ll hold up her camera as I turn those two words over and over in my head. I think some graffiti on the curb might interest her, but it doesn’t. Too bad. I don’t even notice a patch of flowers emerging from dry grass, but Jordi does. Too bad. I think the sunset might be a cliché, but Jordi’s camera clicks while it’s pointed at the horizon.