The Way You Make Me Feel(58)

I looked at my dad for his equally celebratory reaction, but instead he had this strained expression on his face.

“Hello? Pai? Aren’t congratulations in order?”

He ducked into the driver’s seat before answering. “Yeah, definitely! All right, let’s head over to Mid-City before traffic gets bad.”

I glanced at the clock. It was almost five. Fat chance.

Nearly an hour later, we arrived at a craft fair set up on a big parking lot off Wilshire.

As my dad and I prepped the food, I glanced at him. “So, what’s up?”

My dad kept his eyes on the green bell pepper he was chopping. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you acting all weird?”

He made a face but didn’t look at me. “I’m not?”

“Yeah, you are.”

He sighed. “Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind right now.”

“What is it?” I asked, a little nervous. My dad rarely stressed out in front of me, and it only really happened when things were serious.

My dad finally looked at me. “The investor I was counting on for the restaurant just backed out.”

I felt a knot form in my stomach. Growing up without much money, it was still an instant reaction—a wave of dread passing over me every time my dad worried about finances. “Oh no. What does that mean?”

“It just means that after all my work and planning this summer, everything may have to be put on hold.”

I blinked. “Sorry, Pai. That sucks.”

“What about the competition?” Rose piped up from the order window.

I whipped my head around and stared at Rose with huge eyes, telepathically telling her to shut up.

“What competition?” My dad glanced over at me.

Rose looked at me apologetically. “Sorry, I know you wanted to keep it a secret, but it could solve everything, right?”

A tiny flare of hope shot up into my chest. Maybe Rose was right. “Well, I wanted it to be a surprise, but…”

“Clara.” My dad’s voice was short with impatience. “What’s this about?”

I looked at Rose and she nodded, her eyes supportive. I took a deep breath. “Well, there’s this food truck competition on August eleventh—”

“I know what competition you’re talking about,” my dad interrupted, his voice clipped. “And no, I don’t want to enter that.”

“Why not?” both Rose and I yelped.

He tossed the bell pepper scraps into a compost bowl. “Because. It’s a circus. I don’t have time for it.”

Since when did my dad have this attitude? I frowned at him. “What? What do you mean? What could possibly be the risk? If you win, you win ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

“So what, Clara? Do you know how many trucks enter that thing? It’s nuts, the chances of winning are so slim, and I don’t want to go through that headache. Plus, the deadline to enter probably passed.”

I felt Rose’s eyeballs digging into my skull. “I already entered us,” I whispered.

“What!” Pai yelled, making me startle and drop the spoon I was using onto the floor.

Rose immediately tried to de-escalate the situation. Something she probably learned in the Young UN Club or something. “Clara wanted it to be a nice surprise if we won, Adrian! It was—”

“I don’t care! You did this without my permission! Are you two out of your minds?”

The silence that followed was like a vacuum—the air sucked out of the truck, my ears ringing with the absolute voidness of it all. Betrayal and disappointment were so heavy in my chest that I could barely breathe. It was unfamiliar, and I didn’t like it.

“You okay, Clara?” Rose asked quietly, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. No, I wasn’t okay. And I wasn’t okay with not being okay. My emotional investment in this truck came crashing down on me, as if to say, “Ha-ha, this is what happens when you care.” I felt suffocated. By my dad’s reaction to me trying to do something nice. By Rose’s concern. By this stupid truck.

I tossed my cap onto the counter. “See you guys later.” My voice shook, and it took all my willpower to not burst into tears as I stepped out of the truck.

“Clara!”

I ignored my dad’s voice and walked rapidly toward the craft fair exit, and kept walking until the fair was far behind me, my face hot with tears.

*

Feeling disoriented, I looked around and noticed that I was headed west on Wilshire. My feet kept moving—past traffic and the big office buildings.

Before I knew it, I was at the La Brea Tar Pits. I hadn’t been here since I was a kid. There had been more than one field trip to this ancient, bubbling mass of tar sitting smack in the middle of the city. I entered the museum grounds, the scent of sulfur hitting me as I walked by the lake of tar and the expansive lawns. When I stepped inside the museum itself, the cool, circulated air hit me. Air-conditioning in LA was almost healing; it made every place feel the same, a guarantee of something familiar.

I didn’t move for a few minutes, letting the air cool off the fine layer of sweat on my face. Letting time slow everything down—my thoughts, my pulse, my anger.

After a few seconds, I paid for a ticket and entered the main exhibit hall. There were big informational displays about the last Ice Age, showing dire-wolf skulls and animatronic woolly mammoths roaming the earth. Reading about long-extinct animals made me feel insignificant, which calmed me down.