The Way You Make Me Feel(23)

I slammed the door shut, making Flo yowl and causing our clock from the dollar store to rattle. It was orange and plastic and uggo beyond belief, but my dad had a fondness for it. I knew he liked it precisely because it was ugly. My dad had a sick need to adopt and foster rejected and unwanted things. We’d been at the register when he spotted it in the sale bin. In case it wasn’t obvious, the sale bin at the dollar store was seriously like the crème de la crème of sadness.

What a pair we made.

“How’s my darling daughter?” he called out from his reclined position, not even lifting his lazy head.

“Wonderful.” I grabbed a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer. But there was only a small scraping left—with a fine layer of frostbite on top. “Pai! Can’t you be on top of ice cream duty for once?” I said as I emptied it into the sink.

“You only talk to me to yell at me?”

Our stupid faucet had the water pressure of a gentle breeze, and it took forever for me to rinse out the carton before tossing it into our recycling bin. “Yeah, that’s what you deserve.”

Pai sat up on the sofa and looked at me, his arms draped over his bent knees. “So, it went just as terrible as I suspected?”

I leaned against the sink and looked at him. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not totally incompetent.”

“Good to know. So you guys did okay? You didn’t text anything but barnacle photos.”

Heh-heh. “You’re welcome. And yeah, it was fine. I don’t know what you thought was going to happen.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a fire.” Flo wriggled out from the blanket and stretched before making her way over to me.

I bent down to scoop her up, kissing her white-dipped front paws. “Well, there was just that small grease fire.”

“What!”

I laughed, making Flo squirm out of my arms. “You’re off your game.”

My dad harrumphed, settling back into the sofa. “Don’t forget to tally how much you made in the Google doc.” The KoBra had a Google doc shared between Pai, Rose, and me. Whoever was in charge of cash was supposed to fill in the day’s total profits.

“Rose handled the money, so she’s going to do it.”

“Well, good job, Shorty. I’m proud of you for not killing each other and not burning the truck down.”

“Such high expectations.” I picked some cat hair off my shirt. “I feel like Rose has some issues that might explain why she’s so annoying.”

Pai adjusted his reading glasses and looked a little concerned. “Like what?”

“I dunno. Something. She’s a little too stressed out all the time. And holding herself to some impossible standard.” I yawned. “Anyway, I’m gonna take a shower. I smell like a walking barbecue.”

As I headed upstairs with Flo close at my heels, my dad shouted out, “How was Hamlet?”

I stalled on the stairs. What was with everyone and Hamlet? “He’s fine, why?”

“Just curious.” The silence that followed was so heavy with insinuation that you could cut it with a pastry knife.





CHAPTER 12

Hamlet greeted us with iced lattes a few days later when we were back in Pasadena.

It was already ninety degrees out, and I grasped the cold drink gratefully. “Thanks.”

Rose looked at the cup he was holding out with mild trepidation. “Um, thank you. But did you use whole milk?”

Hamlet glanced down at the drink, assessing it. “Yeah. Uh-oh, are you lactose intolerant?”

“She’s delicious intolerant,” I said before taking a nice, long swig from mine.

Rose shot me a dirty look. “I’m a dancer. I have to watch what I put into my body.” She looked back at Hamlet apologetically. “But it’s okay! I can just drink it.” When she brought the straw to her lips, it was almost in slow-mo, her reluctance clear in every micromillimeter of movement.

I grabbed it out of her hands. “For Pete’s sake! I’ll drink it. Hamlet, please make her something else.” Sometimes Rose was such a contradiction—a bulldozing boss one minute, and someone fretting over hurt feelings the next.

But then, look at who was the object of her worry.

Hamlet’s strong shoulders shrugged in his form-fitting mint green T-shirt. “Not a problem. Why don’t you tell me what you want?” As the two walked over to his coffee cart, I watched them with irritation.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Felix: Pool today?

FOMO seared through me. Last summer, I had spent almost every day poolside with Felix and Patrick, reading crappy magazines at a community pool no one else seemed to know about. It cost two dollars for the day and always had hot lifeguards. Summer was usually sweaty make-outs, sunscreen, and sneaking into air-conditioned theaters.

Now it was about Rose Carver and grilled meats.

I had leveled down hard-core.

Working

Felix texted back: Ditch it

Normally, I would. But when I glanced up at Rose and Hamlet, two earnest little citizens, I didn’t feel like it. There were actual consequences with my dad if I ditched this time. And I needed to do a good-enough job to make it to Tulum.

Can’t. Don’t get sunburned on your scalp again.