“Oh my god,” I say, even though I am well aware it isn’t the right time to interrupt. “Me too!”
“That’s really good news for me,” she says. “Anyway. It makes it better and worse. My parents are normally the best. We never had fights like my friends seem to have with their parents. So when they didn’t believe me …”
I squeeze her hand but it’s holding an onion so I accidentally squeeze that instead, and we both laugh so hard that other people look.
Jordi feels secure that the onions we select aren’t garbage, and we head back to her house. A boy who looks a lot like Jordi but with glasses is in the kitchen with her parents, and he waves when we walk in.
“I’m Christian,” he says. “I’m thirteen. I know I look younger because I’m short, but I’m thirteen.”
“I’m Abby,” I say and wave back.
“Okay, guys, let’s get started,” Mr. Perez says and directs us all to different parts of the counter and island. Mrs. Perez brings me coffee, fixed exactly how I like it, and then brings me an apron.
“You look too pretty to spill anything on your clothes,” she tells me, and the compliment is so unexpected I just stare at her. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s really good, yeah.” I try to look less awkward and tie the apron around my waist. It’s longer than my shorts, and the top is wide, so I sort of look like I’m not wearing anything underneath. I turn to show Jordi, and she laughs.
“That’s the shortest apron we have,” Mrs. Perez calls.
Jordi snaps my photo.
“Hey,” her dad says. “Be careful with that camera, Jordana. Your mom and I didn’t let you combine Christmas and birthday gifts so you could get beef all over it.”
“I’m nowhere near any beef,” Jordi says, but I’m too hung up on something else to know whether that’s true.
“Jordana?” I ask. “Is your actual name Jordana?”
“I should have never invited you over,” she says but she’s smiling.
“Have you ever made empanadas before?” Jordi’s dad asks me, and I shake my head. “Great! I can’t wait to walk you through everything.”
Jordi and Christian simultaneously groan.
“This takes long enough as it is, Dad,” Jordi says. “Can you work and talk at the same time?”
Mr. Perez smiles but doesn’t move to do any cooking. “Guys, this is your abuela’s recipe. It’s important to do it right.”
“Dad,” Christian says. “Do it right. Not talk about it all night.”
“It’s daytime,” he says, smiling like he’s gotten one over on his kids. Okay, maybe he isn’t actually that much cooler than my dad.
“So I made the dough this morning, because it needs time to chill in the refrigerator,” Mr. Perez continues. “We’ll make the filling now. Jordi won’t chop onions because her eyes are too sensitive—”
“Dad,” she says.
“—so do you two want to split chopping the peppers? Jordi, show Abby how we like them.”
“‘How we like them’?” she asks, but I can see the smile in her eyes. “Come on, Abby. Also, Dad, please, can you blast anything but NPR while we work today?”
Yeah, he’s definitely not actually that much cooler than my dad.
Jordi shows me how to chop the peppers to the desired size and we get to work while her mom chops onions, Christian chops hardboiled eggs, and her dad organizes the ingredients and heats oil in a giant sauté pan at the stove. Everyone compromises on a classic rock playlist that Christian calls cheesy but is full of the kinds of songs you wouldn’t necessarily choose on their own but make you want to sing along.
Mr. Perez cooks the beef and then sautés the onions and peppers. He hands this duty off to Jordi at a certain point and directs Christian to add spices while Jordi stirs the pan. Mrs. Perez asks me to assist her, and we get out five glasses and a couple different beverages from the refrigerator.
“This is actually my favorite part,” Mr. Perez tells me. “Help me divide up the dough.”
We divide it into five chunks, and then Mr. Perez shows me how to roll it into little balls. Jordi and Christian, in the meantime, have stirred together all the ingredients, and then it’s time to seal the filling inside the dough. The Perezes make a contest out of who can do it the fastest—seriously, their lemonades and iced teas are almost immediately forgotten—but I’m slow and methodical instead. The Perezes all swoop in and steal my remaining dough, and Christian is declared the winner. His empanadas are the sloppiest, but as he points out, speed was the goal, not precision.
We’re released from our duties while the empanadas go into the oven so Jordi shows me down the hallway to her bedroom.
“Oh my god.” I take in the sight of a bedroom that’s much, much pinker than I expected. “You love Hello Kitty.”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “So?”
I look at the Hello Kitty stuffed animals on the bookcase, the Hello Kitty headphones on her desk, the Hello Kitty-dressed-up-as-other-characters postcards stuck on a bulletin board. “It’s a surprise. Hello Kitty doesn’t seem very bad-ass. She’s so cute.”
“You can be cute and bad-ass at the same time.” Jordi smirks at me. “Like you.”
“Well, you do have sensitive eyes,” I say, and she snorts.
“I should have never let you meet my parents.”
I look at the framed certificates on the wall. “You won awards!”
“It was art camp,” she says. “Everyone wins awards at art camp.”
“‘First Place in Photography,’” I read. “That doesn’t sound like just a participation trophy.”
Since she doesn’t seem to mind, I keep exploring her room. I inspect a few framed photographs: the downtown skyline, the dry LA riverbed, a block full of brightly painted walls.
“Are these yours?” I ask.
She turns to see what I’m asking about. “They are.”
“You’re so good,” I say. “Like, really good. I can’t wait to
