The Way You Make Me Feel(56)
The conversation bubbles were immediate. But took forever. I frowned. It wasn’t like them to take that much time drafting texts to me.
Patrick replied first: Good. I requested a child’s neon green cast.
I laughed.
Felix replied soon after: Okay. My parents are being over the top and keep checking up on me in the middle of the night to make sure I haven’t died.
I texted back: Do they know you’re past the danger zone??
They think Jesus was punishing them for letting me date you.
The laughter felt good, and for just one evening, it was like old times.
CHAPTER 25
WHAT
I could feel the force of Rose’s enthusiasm through her texts. For once, my energy level matched hers, my fingers flying on my phone as I texted back: RIGHT?????????!!!!!
I need to process this. Are you home? Can I come over?
It was Monday afternoon and both of us were off KoBra duty.
Yeah, come over
An hour later, we were sitting in my room, Flo in my lap while the fan rattled inches away from us.
“Nothing? You said nothing,” she said, her voice flat.
I fiddled with Flo’s collar, irritating her. One paw pushed my hand away. “Well, I was shocked. And then his grandparents came in the room!”
She groaned. “Hamlet, what the heck? Why would he say that with his grandparents around?”
“I don’t think he was planning it. It just seemed to slip out.”
“Either way, terrible timing.”
“Agreed.” I let go of Flo, plopping down backward onto the bed.
Rose propped her chin on the edge of my bed. “Do you feel the same way?” she asked.
I stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I mean, yes, I like him. But … love?”
“I know. So serious.”
“SO serious!”
The breeze from the fan lifted my tank top off my belly, making the fabric flutter for a second. “I feel like that guy in a rom-com who freaks out over the obviously perfect-catch girl having feelings for him. Like, why am I obsessing over a love declaration from a nice guy?”
“Rom-com main characters are old. You’re sixteen. Love declarations are weird.”
This was stressing me out, and my room started to feel oppressive. Rose seemed to pick up on this and said, “Let’s do something fun today.”
“Yes and yes.”
Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “You know, there’s a list of all the trucks entering the competition on the website.”
I sat up. “And?”
“Maybe we can check them out. See what we’re up against.”
My mind took that suggestion and spun through other ways to make it more interesting, like prank roulette. By the time it landed on an idea, I was brainstorming.
*
“Is a wig completely necessary?” Rose asked, her voice low and skeptical.
I browsed through the wig bin at my favorite thrift store. “Is anything ever necessary?”
“Hi, Clara!” The woman behind the counter waved at me, her eyebrows drawn high and dramatically, her fake mole shifting on her upper lip as she smiled widely at me.
I waved back. “Hey, Erin!” I glanced at Rose next to me. “I’ve purchased many a disguise here.”
“I am very much not surprised,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she picked up a neon orange bob with her fingertips.
“We’re spies today. We need to be fully covert,” I said, eyeing an electric blue pixie wig.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t we going for inconspicuous here?”
“No way. Just unrecognizable.” I pulled the blue wig on and looked at her. She grinned and gave me two thumbs up.
Rose picked a long, wavy, blond-streaked wig with bangs. She looked amazing in it and I made her take a billion photos. As we sorted through the racks for clothes, she got more and more into it. Clothes were definitely her forte.
When we left the store, I was wearing a short polyester shift dress with geometric patterns. Very 1960s go-go girl. Rose was decked out in a long white caftan with little laced-up booties straight out of Little House on the Prairie. We both wore large sunglasses that obscured our faces.
Rose couldn’t stop giggling, self-conscious as she drove us to the first stop: No Pain No Grain, a grain-bowl truck in Hollywood. Rose parked her car at a metered spot, and the sun beat down relentlessly on the tops of our wigged heads when we stepped out.
I tugged at my dress. “Ugh, should have considered the weather before choosing this piece o’ crap unbreathable fabric!”
Rose was scrolling through an iPad. She had, of course, mapped out all the trucks and made a very thorough checklist. “Okay, so their specialty is making healthy, ‘clean’ bowls full of obscure veggies and various free-range or grass-fed meats.”
“Sounds like the worst.” I peered at the truck through my sunglasses. Their line was minuscule, and it was full of Hollywood’s finest clean-eaters—mostly thin and most likely wealthy as well, judging from the menu pricing. Before Rose could protest, I jumped into line and targeted a young white woman with wavy red hair who was wearing a crop top and loose linen pants. “What’s your favorite thing here?” I asked with a heavy vocal fry.
She glanced at my hair and then my outfit, visibly startled. Probably not the usual clientele she found at her ol’ reliable grain truck. “Well, I usually go for farro topped with okra, black beans, and a sprinkling of gomasio.”