Ugh, why do I have to compete with Jordi?
“First, I saw that—”
Maggie’s iPhone buzzes on her desk, and she frowns at the displaying number. “Let’s talk about it later. I’ve unfortunately got to handle this and it might take a while. See if Laine needs your help.”
So instead of sounding like a professional, I spend my morning learning the right way to fold sweaters for a display. At first it feels like a waste of my time, but as we organize by color and size, it feels like something’s come alive. Who wouldn’t want to pull a sweater from this organized rainbow?
The morning flies by, and I try not to look too eager when I follow Jordi to the breakroom and wait as she takes two Tupperware containers of soup out of her lunch bag.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s really nice that you—your dad—”
“It’s nothing,” she says, but she smiles as she sets the containers in the microwave. I stare at the caldo de pollo as it rotates. Soup of love! Well, probably not, but I’ve decided that’s what caldo de pollo translates to.
After the microwave beeps, Jordi unceremoniously takes the containers and two spoons over to the table for us. I feel sorry for the soup because it’s come to represent all my current hopes and dreams, and that’s a lot for soup to live up to. But it is delicious, and not just because of its potential meaning. It’s full of huge pieces of zucchini, potatoes, carrots, chayote, and chicken; if any soup could make me believe, this is it.
“This is incredible,” I tell her. “Thank you. And thank your dad.”
“Sure,” she says. “We have this all the time but … Yeah. It’s really good.”
“Do you know what people like my mom call meals?” I laugh even though maybe no one else thinks this is funny. “Solutions. Here’s a great solution for eating pizza!”
“Man,” Jordi says. “Poor pizza.”
We eat in silence for a few moments.
“What are you doing after work tonight?” she asks. “Stuff with burgers?”
“I …” I take a big spoonful to buy some time to work on my response. “No. Nothing, honestly. I should lie so you don’t think I’m a loser, but, nothing.”
She laughs as she elbows me. “I was going to take some photos tonight, if you want to come with me.”
I think of Jordi’s profile picture, of the light and shadows sweeping over her face. “It’s so amazing you’re a photographer.”
“Ehhhh.” She eats a few spoonfuls of soup. “I’m still working on what I am. I like taking pictures, but I also like painting, and I like sculpture, and I like street art. I like everything I try. But I think photography’s my favorite.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, and then I laugh because I sound much more enthusiastic than I mean to. It is, though. “I think it’s great you like everything. Yeah, I have fashion, but it’s nothing big like art.”
“Fashion can be art. And art doesn’t have to be big,” Jordi says. “It can be just for you.”
“It’s okay if I come with you?” I ask. “It’s not like, a private thing?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t okay, would I?”
I have no idea if this means anything, but I agree regardless. As if there was a chance I wouldn’t.
Maggie ends up leaving right after lunch, so instead of looking like a social media badass, if there is such a thing, I continue helping Laine. She ends up sending Jordi and me home early because, without Maggie there, there aren’t really any new projects to take on.
We walk to Jordi’s house together. I expect to go in with her, or at least wait here by the shiny gate so she can do whatever she needs before taking off for photography.
“Meet back at seven?” she asks instead.
“Sure!” I say and force myself to walk home without enacting some kind of grand farewell. I’m seeing her in less than three hours, and even if I wasn’t, that would be unnecessary.
“Big news!” Mom says when I walk inside, and for just the splittest of seconds, I think my parents know about my photography non-date. I come back to reality very quickly, though.
“A publisher wants your mom to write a cookbook.” Dad grins and wraps an arm around Mom’s shoulders. They look like a stock photo for happy middle-aged couples; blonde and sunny and fit in that way Californians are expected to be. “How exciting is that?”
I’m not entirely sure. She’s on local TV at least once a week and has been on the Food Network more than once. Is a book more exciting than TV?
“Everything’s paying off,” Mom says, and I nod. “How’s the internship?”
“It’s great,” I say. “Anyway, I’m going out tonight, if that’s okay, and I need to get ready.”
“Have fun,” Dad tells me. “I’m taking your mom out to celebrate.”
Their last celebration dinner was at a raw food restaurant, so I find it unlikely the celebration will be too … celebratory.
I review myself in the full-length mirror in my room. I wore a really basic yellow dress to work today—and if Jordi doesn’t like me—and why would Jordi like me?—changing would be really weird. This isn’t a date. You can’t make something a date by just hoping it’s a date and wearing a good dress.
I settle for applying mascara and lip gloss.
Jordi’s waiting outside when I arrive back at her house. She’s also wearing the same thing as earlier, though she’s layered an army green jacket over her outfit and switched out her boots for black Vans.
“Hey,” she greets me.
“I’m still thinking about that soup!” I say, even though I mean to just respond with a similarly chill hi. “Also, hi.”
She smiles. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going? Do you have one place you like to take pictures? Or just all over? Is something
