scale so I can really measure it out, you know?”
Mike smiled. “Okay. Cool.”
“Okay then!” If Mike bought ten more grams, Allie calculated—real grams that she had weighed on her father’s food scale—then Jonas’s entire debt would be paid back.
“I’ll follow you to the restaurant,” Mike said, and he stepped out of the car and stuck his hand up for Jimmy, who was approaching. They high-fived, then Mike added a little fist-punch in the air.
Jimmy leaned in the window. “Can I get some money for the gas?” Allie could see he was a nicer guy than Mike, someone whose life was in order. He didn’t do coke. He was a student at UCLA. He worked hard all summer. If he had been Chinese, Wai Po would have approved of him.
Allie handed out a hundred-dollar bill and Jimmy made change from the roll he had in his pocket, then ran off to help the orange Karmann Ghia that had just pulled up at the full-service pump.
“You know, I’m kind of lost,” Allie said to Mike, out the window. “My dad’s restaurant is on Fairfax. Can I follow you there?”
“You don’t know how to get to Fairfax from here?” Mike asked. “And you’re from here?”
“Direction deficit,” Allie said. “I get lost in big buildings.” It was true.
“I don’t believe you’re from here,” Mike said. He reminded Allie of Kathy Kruger’s older brother, who offhandedly and somewhat charmingly dismissed whatever Kathy and Allie did—the music they listened to, the teachers they liked, the shows they watched on TV. Growing up, Allie had felt so alone that she often wished she had an older brother to bump up against and give her trouble. Her life at home consisted only of her parents, who were never around, and Wai Po. When Wai Po died, her mother left to be the tambourine girl in Jet Blaster’s band, Mighty Zamboni. So, for most of her childhood, it was just Allie and Frank. And Frank never even asked about school and which teachers she liked.
“What? No. I mean, yes,” Allie said. “I’m really from here.”
“Yeah, right,” Mike said, and he rolled his eyes, like a girl. “Where exactly is the restaurant on Fairfax?”
“Toward that street the museum is on. Toward the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“Wilshire.”
“Yeah, Wilshire, near the tar pits.”
“The tar pits are on Wilshire. You don’t know Wilshire?” Now there was an edge of cruelty in Mike’s voice.
Allie smiled reflexively. “No, I know Wilshire. I said Wilshire.”
“You said where the tar pits are as if you didn’t know they were on Wilshire.”
Allie imagined a wrench tightening a screw each time Mike spoke. It was as though he was ratcheting himself up into a clenched, angry fist. If he didn’t shut up soon, her attraction toward him would evaporate.
“Well, I know they’re on Wilshire. So let’s go to Wilshire. Okay?” She smiled again.
“Great.” Mike walked toward his red truck without looking back. A giant red toolbox spanned the width of the truck below the back window. Allie wondered if he were a carpenter or builder. Lately, she had been finding guys who worked with their hands sexy. Maybe it was a reaction to her broken heart; she was searching for the anti-Marc. Marc was all about ideas—his business plans, his MBA—and that certainly had done Allie no good.
Prince played in the cassette player as Allie followed Mike. Allie turned up the music so she could dim her thoughts. She knew she should call Beth and let her know where she was with the car, but at this point Beth, in Berkeley, felt connected to Jonas and Vice Versa, and Allie was enjoying the freedom of being hidden in an entirely different city. Also, Allie was worried about how she would explain herself—her presence, the Prelude—to her father when she saw him. The last time they had talked, he had lectured her on the value of hard work. Frank worked seven days a week at the restaurant. Allie didn’t know anyone who worked harder than he did.
Instead of
Mike smiled. “Okay. Cool.”
“Okay then!” If Mike bought ten more grams, Allie calculated—real grams that she had weighed on her father’s food scale—then Jonas’s entire debt would be paid back.
“I’ll follow you to the restaurant,” Mike said, and he stepped out of the car and stuck his hand up for Jimmy, who was approaching. They high-fived, then Mike added a little fist-punch in the air.
Jimmy leaned in the window. “Can I get some money for the gas?” Allie could see he was a nicer guy than Mike, someone whose life was in order. He didn’t do coke. He was a student at UCLA. He worked hard all summer. If he had been Chinese, Wai Po would have approved of him.
Allie handed out a hundred-dollar bill and Jimmy made change from the roll he had in his pocket, then ran off to help the orange Karmann Ghia that had just pulled up at the full-service pump.
“You know, I’m kind of lost,” Allie said to Mike, out the window. “My dad’s restaurant is on Fairfax. Can I follow you there?”
“You don’t know how to get to Fairfax from here?” Mike asked. “And you’re from here?”
“Direction deficit,” Allie said. “I get lost in big buildings.” It was true.
“I don’t believe you’re from here,” Mike said. He reminded Allie of Kathy Kruger’s older brother, who offhandedly and somewhat charmingly dismissed whatever Kathy and Allie did—the music they listened to, the teachers they liked, the shows they watched on TV. Growing up, Allie had felt so alone that she often wished she had an older brother to bump up against and give her trouble. Her life at home consisted only of her parents, who were never around, and Wai Po. When Wai Po died, her mother left to be the tambourine girl in Jet Blaster’s band, Mighty Zamboni. So, for most of her childhood, it was just Allie and Frank. And Frank never even asked about school and which teachers she liked.
“What? No. I mean, yes,” Allie said. “I’m really from here.”
“Yeah, right,” Mike said, and he rolled his eyes, like a girl. “Where exactly is the restaurant on Fairfax?”
“Toward that street the museum is on. Toward the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“Wilshire.”
“Yeah, Wilshire, near the tar pits.”
“The tar pits are on Wilshire. You don’t know Wilshire?” Now there was an edge of cruelty in Mike’s voice.
Allie smiled reflexively. “No, I know Wilshire. I said Wilshire.”
“You said where the tar pits are as if you didn’t know they were on Wilshire.”
Allie imagined a wrench tightening a screw each time Mike spoke. It was as though he was ratcheting himself up into a clenched, angry fist. If he didn’t shut up soon, her attraction toward him would evaporate.
“Well, I know they’re on Wilshire. So let’s go to Wilshire. Okay?” She smiled again.
“Great.” Mike walked toward his red truck without looking back. A giant red toolbox spanned the width of the truck below the back window. Allie wondered if he were a carpenter or builder. Lately, she had been finding guys who worked with their hands sexy. Maybe it was a reaction to her broken heart; she was searching for the anti-Marc. Marc was all about ideas—his business plans, his MBA—and that certainly had done Allie no good.
Prince played in the cassette player as Allie followed Mike. Allie turned up the music so she could dim her thoughts. She knew she should call Beth and let her know where she was with the car, but at this point Beth, in Berkeley, felt connected to Jonas and Vice Versa, and Allie was enjoying the freedom of being hidden in an entirely different city. Also, Allie was worried about how she would explain herself—her presence, the Prelude—to her father when she saw him. The last time they had talked, he had lectured her on the value of hard work. Frank worked seven days a week at the restaurant. Allie didn’t know anyone who worked harder than he did.
Instead of
Similar Books
