The Way You Make Me Feel(37)

I chewed my fourth slice of pizza thoughtfully. “Maybe the truth is … nothing is weird about dating in high school. Everyone is different, and we need to stop reading so many magazines giving us dated-ass relationship advice.”

She held up her cup. “Hear, hear!”

“Rose. Stop saying stuff like that.”

“Cheers to that.”

I threw a Parmesan cheese packet at her.





CHAPTER 17

After Rose left (making sure I verified the time of my date), I cleaned up lunch and took a shower. Confession: I hate taking showers. They’re just so much time and effort. I have the thickest hair on the planet, and it takes hours to dry.

Once I was dressed, I swiped on some eyeliner—making a cat eye with a little swoop at the end. Then I grabbed a glittery teal eyeshadow and extended the end of the swoop. I blinked and looked in the mirror. There. Properly fancy.

I heard my dad’s voice echo through the hallway. “Clara! He’s here!”

Why my dad had to get home in time for my date was beyond me. Cosmic timing. I grabbed my mini black leather backpack and headed downstairs.

I stopped in my tracks. Oh boy. There was Hamlet at the front door, grasping yet another bouquet of flowers. My dad was holding the door open, and they both looked up at me at the same time.

“What is this, some teen movie?” I cracked, suddenly feeling so nervous that I almost tripped down the stairs. I saved it with a little jig, but their weird expressions confirmed that it was not a smooth move.

I stopped in front of my dad and pointed at him. “No speeches, no warnings, no anything. None of that paternalistic stuff.”

My dad grinned and leaned against the doorway. “I’m paternal by biology, Shorty.”

“You know what I mean,” I said while pulling on my sandals, avoiding Hamlet.

Suddenly a bunch of flowers were in my line of vision and I sprang up, knocking them out of Hamlet’s hands. “Sorry!” I bent over to pick them up at the same time he did, and we bonked heads. Ugh. What was happening to me? I was never this flustered! Hamlet managed to re-create the bouquet and held it out to me again, a lock of hair falling into his eyes.

They were a spray of white snapdragons. “Thank you. They’re pretty,” I said as I took them from him.

He flushed deeply, red creeping up from the collar of his crisp, white button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and the shirt fit him perfectly, paired with dark blue shorts that hit his knees. He looked like he was about to make an Asian cameo in a Nicholas Sparks movie. (Did they have Asian cameos?)

After I got the flowers in a vase, I rushed out the door with Hamlet, waving at my dad. “See you, Pai.”

Before the door shut, I heard him holler, “Come home in time for breakfast!”

Now it was my turn to blush. What even. I couldn’t make eye contact with Hamlet. I just flew down the apartment stairs.

When we reached the sidewalk, I stopped abruptly. “Did you drive?” I asked.

A car beeped in the street. “Yup,” Hamlet said as he walked briskly toward the sound.

When we reached his car, I held up my hands. “Whoa, mama.” The car in front of us was a slick white Lexus. “This is your car?!”

He held the passenger door open, pressing his lips together. “Yeah. Um, my parents overcompensate for not spending enough time with me.”

As I slipped into the leather interior, I thought about how at odds Coffee Kiosk Hamlet was with this car. Who knew he was some rich kid? It annoyed me, and I felt uneasier with each passing second until he got into the driver’s seat. I was never comfortable with people who had a lot of money. I knew I shouldn’t care, but it was just one of those things.

“So, um, I didn’t want to assume you would eat where I picked, so I made a few different reservations,” Hamlet said, placing his hands on the wheel but not yet starting the car. “They are Three Leaf, Café Lola, or Hawkins & Post.”

My lips curved up into a little smile. The trifecta of hipster restaurants. Hamlet trying his hardest. “Um, I guess we could try Café Lola? I haven’t been to Highland Park in a while.”

“All right, Café Lola it is!” he announced cheerfully as he headed toward the 110. Highland Park was north of us, between here and Pasadena, where the office park was. He tapped the steering wheel. “I’ve heard good things about this place.”

“From who?”

“From … people.”

I opened my window, letting in a gust of warm summer evening air. “Like real people you know or the Internet?”

He laughed, all ease. “Okay. I just read the Yelp reviews.” Then I saw him shut off the AC with a near-imperceptible flick of his wrist.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had the AC on, sorry,” I said, rolling up the window.

“That’s okay! The night air feels good!” Hamlet said, rolling down his own window.

Discomfited by his niceness, I opened my window halfway as some kind of awkward compromise. We passed the next couple of minutes in strained silence. Then Hamlet picked up his phone and swiped a few times and music blasted, startling me.

“Sorry!” He immediately lowered the volume.

After a few seconds, I felt this irritation creeping in as I watched Arroyo Park flash by my window. What in the world was annoying me so much? Then a male voice screeched.