The Way You Make Me Feel(20)

“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 neighborhood 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.”