The Way You Make Me Feel(39)

“Hey.”

I glanced up to see Hamlet with an actual frown on his face. “What’s up?” I asked uneasily.

“Sorry, but would you mind changing the date to … dinner at my grandparents’?”

Would I mind doing what? My face must have said it all, because he looked down. “Ah, never mind. Sorry, I think we’ll have to do this another time. I’ve gotta get over there right now.”

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

He sighed. “Probably. I don’t know. My grandpa’s grumpy because he’s been sick a few days and insists on going out when he shouldn’t. My grandma wants me home to distract him.”

And I don’t know whether it was the little smile or the worry in his eyes at odds with that smile that made me say, “Sure. Let’s go there, then.”

He gaped at me. “Really?”

“Yeah. This place gives me hives, anyway.”

He laughed and scooted his chair out so quickly that he bonked into the lady again. Before she could say anything, he tucked his chair back in and said, “Sorry. Nice hat.”

We rushed out of there, laughing.





CHAPTER 18

When we pulled up to Hamlet’s grandparents’ house, I took in the suburban-ness of it all. The street was wide, clean, and flanked by uniform Aleppo pines and streetlamps. Everything glowed a bit pink and orange as the sun set, light bouncing off the dramatic range of mountains behind the neatly lined tract homes.

The San Gabriel Valley was almost as far east of LA as you could get. Everywhere in this valley you saw the San Gabriel Mountains, and it was probably the prettiest view in this otherwise concrete landscape.

Hamlet parked in the wide driveway. The yard and house were tidy, the lawn brown and dead like every other lawn by July. How had I even ended up here, at Hamlet’s grandparents’ house? I didn’t know what I was expecting on a first date with Hamlet, but it sure wasn’t this.

As we headed toward the front door, Hamlet stopped to check the mail. Then he used his own set of keys to let us in. I looked at him curiously as we took off our shoes in the foyer. “You have the keys to your grandparents’ place?”

He slipped off his Nikes. “Yeah, because I live with them?”

Oh.

“Hamlet! Hamlet, is that you?” A woman’s voice echoed through the house, which smelled delicious. I sniffed the air. Sichuan peppers and sesame oil. And lamb?

“Yeah, I’m here!” he shouted back, then glanced at me. “I brought my friend!”

“Dinner’s almost ready. Come over here!” Her voice came from around the corner and when we followed it, we landed right in the kitchen. His grandmother was at the stove, sautéing food in a large, nearly flat frying pan. She looked anywhere from fifty to seventy years old (Asian genes always hiding your true age!), small and sturdy with black hair tied in a low ponytail. She wore maroon track pants and a loose T-shirt that said STOP DRUNK DRIVING with an illustration of a cracked rearview mirror.

“Give me a small bowl,” she said with her left arm extended, not even looking up at us.

Hamlet opened a cupboard and handed her a porcelain bowl. “Nainai, this is Clara.”

She used the bowl as a ladle, scooping up some food in the pan and sniffing it. “This is probably perfect.” She looked at me. “Clara, try it and tell me if it’s perfect.”

Her English was precise, and her eyes shrewd as she watched me take the bowl. I glanced inside to see little pieces of meat with green onions and peppers. “Toothpick lamb?” I asked.

She looked impressed. “Yes, good job.” She looked me up and down. “But you’re not Chinese. Korean?”

I nodded before picking up a piece of perfectly charred lamb and popping it into my mouth. The taste of cumin and peppers instantly hit. Mmmm. After I finished chewing, I said, “Yes, I am. Well, my grandparents are from there. My parents grew up in Brazil.”

She waved her hand in the air. “That’s nice. How’s the lamb?”

“So good!” I gave her a thumbs-up. “And I’ve had the lamb at Sichuan Dreams.”

“Pft. That place sucks.”

I choked. Hamlet ran across the kitchen to grab me a glass of water. I gulped it gratefully. “Sichuan Dreams doesn’t suck!” I gasped. “Beloved food critic Stephen Fitch loves it, and everyone says it’s the most authentic Sichuan in the city.”

“Are those people from the Sichuan province? Because guess what, my family is!” She put her hands on her little hips and glared at me.

I frowned. “Well, it’s still good.”

“Clara, did your Brazilian parents not teach you to respect your elders?”

Hamlet swiveled toward her. “Oh my God. Nainai.”

She waved her hand at him dismissively. “This one’s tough, she doesn’t care.”

I shrugged. “It’s true. But also, my dad taught me to stick up for what I believe in. And I believe in Sichuan Dreams.”

Hamlet’s grandma rolled her eyes dramatically, turning back toward the stove. “Give me a break, that’s the problem with you American kids. You think all your opinions matter. So annoying.”

I laughed. “We are annoying.” When I glanced over at Hamlet to see if he agreed, he was staring at me. A small smile hovering over his lips, eyes focused on me and only me.