The food was symbolic of my dad’s upbringing. People were always confused by my dad’s Korean face and Portuguese-accented English. It helped with the ladies, though, which was gross.
While it hadn’t been a wild overnight success, the KoBra had a pretty loyal following. My dad’s dream, though, was to open a restaurant. He was hoping the KoBra could springboard that.
I pulled myself up onto the counter and swung my legs back and forth as I watched him cook. “Guess what?”
“What?” He drizzled some olive oil on a neat row of green beans laid in a cast-iron pan.
“I got nominated for junior prom queen.”
He looked at me quizzically, a half smile on his face. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, Patrick and Felix nominated me, and somehow I’m on the prom court. Which means people get to vote on whether or not I become promqueen.”
My dad cackled as he opened the oven and slid the pan of beans onto a rack. “You? Prom queen? I would pay good money to see that.”
“I know, right? Anyway, I wasn’t going to take it seriously until this uptight B literally ordered me to drop out. So I’m going to stay in the game.”
He closed the oven and grinned at me as he straightened up and wiped his hands on the dish towel. “Ah, my Clara, always shaking things up.” My dad pronounced my name differently from everyone else,Clahhrainstead ofClerra.
“You know it,” I said.
“When’s prom?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Probably soon since school’s almost over.”
“Time flies, Shorty. I can’t believe you’ll be graduating high school next year. Makes me feel old.”
I snorted. “You’re like two decades younger than everyoneelse’s dads.” My dad was only thirty-four; he had me when he was eighteen, just a couple of years older than I was right now. Patrick called us the Gilmore Girls.
“You age me, every day,” he said, smacking my leg with the dish towel. “Go set the table.”
I grabbed some plates and headed over to the round dining table tucked into a small nook in the apartment. Flo finally came out of hiding and rubbed against my legs.
“Anything as epic as my prom-queen nomination happen for you today?” I asked him.
“No.” He paused. “Well, actually, kind of.”
I pushed piles of bills and mail aside. “Oh yeah, what?”
“Vivian can’t work the KoBra this summer—she got an internship at a production company or something.”
“Bummer,” I said, moving another pile of mail out of the way.
“Yeah, have to find a replacement.I wonder who?” His voice took on a singsong quality.
“Please.”
My dad sighed. “Worth a shot.” Ever since he first started running the KoBra, my dad had been trying to get me to work on it. But the idea of being stuck in a hot, cramped truck for hours on end literally made me want to die. Although my dad had turned his life around from former-punk-kid to man-with-a-dream, I was happy to be kept out of it.
“Good luck, though,” I said as consolation. Then a colorful postcard caught my eye.
I picked it up, already knowing who it was from. The frontof the card had a photo of a bustling outdoor market filled with beautiful baskets and textiles. When I flipped it around, the familiar handwriting made me smile. Large, loopy, and scrawled:
M’dearest Clarrrrrrrra,
You MUST come with me on my next trip to Marrakech. It was INSANE. The hotel we stayed at—oof! Like, fountains IN MY ROOM. Tiles were bananas. I got you a few trinkets that will look GORGEOUS on you. Also, hello, the men there are no joke.
I miss you,filha. But see you SOOOOON! Tulum awaits!
