“Whoa,” Dad says when I walk to the living room. He’s sitting on the floor surrounded by printed recipes, and I’m not sure, firstly, how this happened since I got home, and, more importantly, how I’ll manage to get out. “You look great, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Does everything have to stay on the floor, or …?”
“Just skirt the perimeter,” he says with a laugh. “Big plans tonight?”
“Jordi’s show is opening,” I say. “It’s a big deal.”
“Very cool,” he says. “Tell her congratulations for us.”
“I might be out late,” I say. “I’ll call if it’s super late.”
“If what’s super late?” Mom walks back into the room. “Oh, you look very colorful, Abby.”
I tiptoe around the edge of the room. “Jordi’s photography show. I told Dad I’d call if it’s really late.”
“How late can that go?” Mom asks. “You look at some photos. It can’t take too long.”
“Mom, god, could you be nice about like one thing?” I know that I should stay and make sure she’s not offended and that Dad’s prepared to smooth things over, but I don’t want to. I feel my heels stomping at my frustration or hurt or whatever all these horrible things in my chest are, but then I reach Jordi’s gate and ring the doorbell, and it’s already lifting. It’s Jordi’s night and that kind of makes it my night, too.
“Hey, Abby, come on in.” Jordi’s dad holds open the door for me. “I think she’s almost ready.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want some water or lemonade?” Jordi’s mom asks. “Anything?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “But thank you. Are you coming tonight?”
They look at each other and laugh.
“We are, but later,” Mr. Perez says. “Jordi wants us to—”
“I want you to what?” Jordi walks into the room, and I am pretty sure my heart and brain explode. She’s wearing a silky white and black striped top over black tuxedo pants and shiny black leather Vans. Her hair looks extra purposefully mussed, and her eyes are smudged with black liner. Jordi looks like a goddamn rock star.
“Oh my god, you look amazing,” I say and throw my arms around her. I normally try to act like a restrained and tasteful person in front of Mr. and Mrs. Perez, but how can I stop myself tonight?
She smooths her shirt. “So it’s good?”
“Perfect,” I say.
“We’ll see you later, honey,” her mom tells her. “No earlier than nine-thirty sharp.”
“We’ve synchronized our watches,” Mr. Perez says.
“Stop,” she says, but with a smile. “I just want to get settled and make sure everything’s right. And Pehrspace is always really disorganized, so …”
“We’re teasing,” Mrs. Perez says. “Go get settled. We’ll see you two soon.”
We say good-bye and head outside to Jordi’s dad’s car.
“Do you want to borrow my lipstick?” I ask her as I buckle my seatbelt. “I know you never have any with you. Or maybe at all.”
“I’ll just take yours,” she says and kisses me. Of course it’s just a line, and one that makes me melt at that, but the truth is that when she sits back to start the car, her lips are flushed with my favorite Urban Decay shade of pink. I feel like it would be so boring to date a boy and not be able to share makeup, but maybe that doesn’t feel like a big deal to most girls.
“Are you nervous?” I rest my hand on her shoulder as she drives down to Glendale Boulevard. “Because you shouldn’t be. It’s going to be amazing.”
“I’m allowed to be nervous,” she says. “Which, yeah, of course I am. But I did everything I could. Hopefully it’ll be okay.”
“It won’t be okay,” I say. “It’ll be awesome.”
“I’m worried your friendship with Jax is rubbing off on you,” she says, but she smiles. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”
“Why wouldn’t I? Ugh, I feel bad you have to drive yourself to your own show. This is the sort of thing I should be doing for you.”
“I’ll teach you to drive,” she says. “Which might not be completely legal, but I will. Now that this is finished, I’ll have time.”
“Okay,” I say. It’s the first time the prospect of driving hasn’t sounded scary to me.
Jordi finds parking right away on the curvy street that swoops off Glendale, and even though my photos look like the work of a child next to hers, I make her stop in front of the street to take her picture with my phone. Then she swoops me over and takes a selfie of both of us, and even the selfie looks like a work of art. I make her send it to me immediately because we’ve never looked fancy together before. I envision our future will be full of these occasions.
“Oh, god, people are already here.” Jordi grips my hand and shoves her hair out of her face with her other hand. I notice her standard black nail polish has little flecks of glitter in it tonight. “Do I look like I’m freaking out?”
“I’m pretty sure you aren’t capable of that,” I say. “Come on. People are going to be so excited you’re here.”
We both assume that people are just early to see Murphy Gomez, the band that’s playing later tonight, but as the guy taking money waves us through, I can see how the crowds are clustering around the framed photographs. Maybe people aren’t here for Jordi, but now that they’re around her photography, of course they’re drawn in.
But, wait.
“Jordi,” I say, dropping her hand. I feel like ice and fire together. “Jordi.”
There’s a wall of me.
“Surprise,” she whispers, and I physically pull myself away from the word.
There’s a wall of me.
“Why would you …” I stare at the images. Me in front of Jordi’s gate. Me in the Del Taco parking lot the very first night we hung out. The back of my head and my hands straightening dresses at Lemonberry. Me with a cookie the color of my hair. Me looking freshly kissed in my own bedroom.
“I
