***
Thursday morning I was woken up by blinding sunshine again. I squinted and saw my dad taking a sip of coffee next to the window.
“You have fifteen minutes to meet me downstairs, Shorty.”
Relief pulled me out of bed at record speed. My dad was waiting for me with an avocado toast and tea in a thermos. Not my favorite breakfast, but I didn’t complain. I was just happy that he was talking to me again.
He pulled on his shoes, a pair of pristine black Nikes with neon green stripes running down the sides. “Okay, today we’re doing two of our regular stops. Rose is meeting us at the first stop. And I swear to God, Clara, if you two don’t figure out a way to work together, I’ll have a bigger punishment in store.”
I bit into my toast. “Yeah, yeah.” I hid my excitement at being back on speaking terms with my dad, the bread covering my smile.
***
After prepping the food, my dad and I headed to Pasadena, which was just northeast of us. But to get there, you had to take the Western United States’ first freeway, the 110. Pretty cool, except the lanes were about as narrow as a bicycle and the on- andoff-ramps were two feet long and often set at ninety-degree angles to the freeway.
And this time, I was driving.
“This is, like, terrifying,” I said, my sweaty hands clutching the steering wheel.
My dad patted my shoulder. “You’re good. I taught you how to drive this freeway last year.”
“Yeah, in a normal car, not the KoBra!”
“Nah, you got this.” If only his confidence in my driving skills was at all warranted.
We finally got off Murder Freeway and arrived at our destination in one piece: an office park filled with grass, big shady trees, and depressing 1980s architecture. “Oh, so this is where your youth goes to kill itself,” I announced as we pulled in.
As we parked the truck alongside the curb by the lawn, I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye: an Asian guy my age or so standing on the corner, holding one of those arrow-shaped signs that advertise a business. It said JAVATIMEand had a hand-painted illustration of a mug of steaming-hot coffee.
I wanted to look away from the secondhand embarrassment of it, except I couldn’t. This guy wasgood. He was tossing the thing up in the air and catching it behind his back. Then when he got sick ofthat, he did a backflip and held the sign up with hisfeetwhile doing a handstand.
“What in the world isthatguy putting in his ‘java’?” I asked with a snort of laughter.
My dad followed my gaze, then grinned. He jumped out of the truck and hollered, “Yo!”
The guy caught the sign in the middle of spinning it around the top of his head like a helicopter propeller. “Hey, Adrian!” he called out. He trotted over to us—his step light, his body agile and bouncy. Like a Labrador. He and Pai exchanged an elaborate fist bump involving fingers wiggling, slapping, and some weird elbow tapping. Okay, bros, we get it.
Then he glanced over at the truck, and I almost choked.
Upon closer inspection, the Labrador wasverygood-looking. Not my type at all—I usually fell for guys who looked a little malnourished and tortured. This guy was the picture of health and vigor: broad-shouldered with the lean yet muscular build of a runner, thick hair cut short with a few wavy locks flopping into his eyes, high cheekbones, and the nicest skin you ever saw on a male—he was practicallyglowing. He was like the photo you would find when looking for a stock image of “happy handsome Asian teenager.”
“Hey, you must be Clara!” he exclaimed, walking over to the truck with a giant, toothy grin. His very sharp canines seemed to glint against the sunshine. I blinked.
Smile still firmly in place, the Labrador deftly placed the sign against his hip and held his hand out. “I’m Hamlet Wong.”
I stared at his hand then looked up at him. Who in the world our ageshook hands? I held up my hand in greeting instead. “Hi. Your name’s Hamlet?”
“Yeah,” he answered, unfazed.
“Why would your parents do that to you?”
My dad, who was standing behind Hamlet, shook his head. “Clara.”
I feigned innocence. “What! It’s an honest question!”
Hamlet shrugged. “Oh yeah, I understand. My parents, uh, liked the idea of naming me after a prince.” He laughed loudly, startling me.
My incredulity was genuine. “A Danish prince who no one else in the entire world is named after?”
