“You should learn to drive,” Jax tells me as we walk inside. The Morrison is technically a sports bar, but since they serve food, you don’t have to be twenty-one to get in. “L.A. sucks without a car.”
“I do fine without a car,” I say. “Learning how to drive seems like more trouble than it’s worth. And not everyone’s parents will just buy them a BMW when they turn sixteen.”
“Oh, come on,” he says as we’re led to a booth and given menus. “Making fun of people with BMWs is more clichéd than actually driving one.”
Sadly, I think this is a good point. Also, my mom’s old Honda is sitting in the driveway. Rachel drove it in high school, and now it’s mine, if I want it. Since driving sounds terrifying, though, I don’t want it at all.
“Do you know this girl, Gaby Manzetti?” Jax asks while I’m reading through all my burger options. The Morrison’s menu is extensive. “I think you guys go to the same school.”
“She’s a junior,” I say.
“I’m the age of a junior,” he says. “I skipped a grade. So it’s okay.”
“It’d be okay anyway, it’s only a year,” I say. “And, wait. You? Skipped a grade?”
“Bam,” he says. “I’m smart.”
“Oh, god,” I say.
“Give me your phone,” he says. “I need to put the app on it.”
Against my better judgment, I hand it over. “So are you going out with Gaby?”
“Shit, I wish,” he says. “That’s why I’m glad you’re a girl expert.”
“I don’t know her personally,” I say as he taps on my phone. “I have no pull.”
“I’m not saying you do,” he says. “You’ll know stuff, though. Girl stuff. I’m sure of that.”
“Hmmm.” I take my phone back from him and investigate the newly installed app. “I’m not sure if that’s girl stuff to know,” I say. “Every girl is different.”
I say it with authority because I’m a girl and I have a bunch of friends who are girls. And yet there’s still part of me that feels like a phony expert. Maybe Jax can’t make headway with Gaby, but he’s obviously a guy who normally gets what he wants. I’m too much of a lost cause to even formulate what I want. It’s possible there is some fairly accepted standard for girls in the want division. Maybe there’s girl stuff to know after all.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Every girl’s different.”
“Don’t say that like it’s horrible.”
“Fine,” he says, but with a grin. “C’mon. Let’s order some burgers.”
Best Blank isn’t complicated. You enter the restaurant’s name and what you ordered. Jax assures me that by the time the app actually launches, most of this will auto-fill for you, but even as it stands now, it’s not difficult. You just rate the burger—or whatever else you’re eating—on five scales: taste, quality, service, value, selection. It takes no time at all, and I can totally see how people will want to do this on a regular basis. One thing I’ve learned from blogging is that people love giving their opinions.
“Did your dad invent this?” I ask.
“Sorta,” Jax says. I expect him to elaborate. “Seriously, let me tell you about this dream I had last night. Taylor Swift was—”
“Stop,” I say. “Let’s agree to keep our dreams to ourselves this summer.”
The photoshoot has ended by the time I’m home. While I’m glad not to deal with strangers in our house, it does make it hard to get past Mom and Dad working in the living room.
“You’re supposed to let us know where you are,” Mom says. “You know that.”
Last year, Rachel would have filled in Mom and Dad for me. I’m still learning how to function as an only child. “Sorry. I was just out with a friend.”
“Maliah?” Mom asks.
“Just this guy,” I say.
Mom and Dad exchange a look. I’m so afraid it’s a look of hope that I escape to my room without another word. I have a post to write about tank tops anyway.
CHAPTER 5
On Wednesday morning, I wear my favorite skirt—printed with peppermint candies in various states of unwrap—with a soft and fitted T-shirt. I pull a loop of beads around my neck—an accessory I recommended in yesterday’s post—and apply lip gloss before heading out.
I’m positive Jordi already has the real job locked down, but style I can handle.
While I’m focusing on untangling my earbuds, a person falls into stride next to me. Our neighborhood is fairly safe these days, but I still find myself on instant Stranger Danger. Mom says it never hurts to be suspicious.
“Hey,” says a familiar voice, and I realize that it’s Jordi. We’ve just passed a slate-gray house. It’s small, like mine, but I think the color makes it much cooler, as does the smooth and polished wooden gate surrounding it.
Jordi’s dressed similarly to how she was on Monday; today she’s in a long draped black shirt over black leggings and the same short black boots. She looks thoughtful, professional, the kind of girl you’d want as your intern. Maliah’s rumors couldn’t be true, except that there’s something else about Jordi. I’m sure there’s something different about her beyond the haircut. She looks tough, or tougher, at least. I imagine her punching someone, but someone who deserves it.
“I like your Christmas skirt,” she says as we walk off toward the shop.
“It’s not a Christmas skirt,” I say, looking down at it. “Wait, is it? Are peppermints seasonal? I thought they were year-round.”
“Maybe so.” She pauses her Jordi pause before I get another smile. Each one feels like a reward I’ve earned.
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
I couldn’t like Jordi, could I?
Oh, no.
“What’d you do on
