To my wife, Beth. You believed in me before I believed in myself.
ONE
My stomach lets out a hungry growl. Or maybe it’s my nerves. We’ve only been on the road for thirty minutes, and already I’m breaking Audrey’s only rule—don’t make a sound. And here I am making the most monstrous noise a stomach can make.
Audrey shoots me a look. “You didn’t eat before we left?”
“I’m fine.” She knows I didn’t have any time to eat.
My stomach betrays me with another moan.
“I’m hungry, too,” she says. “I’ll stop somewhere.”
“Let’s keep going.”
“If I don’t eat, I’m going to pass out. Besides, we have like three more hours until we get there, and the last thing I want to hear is your digestive system.” Audrey cracks a smile, but she knows this trip isn’t a joke to me. Her face softens. “It’ll be fast. Drive-through only.”
I nod. Sisters can be all right.
Audrey makes good on her word. We’re in, out, and back on the interstate in less than ten minutes.
“Hello? You awake in there? I said ranch me.” Audrey waves a chicken nugget under my nose.
“Sorry.” I peel back the wrapper, allowing her to dunk her chicken nuggets one-handed. I owe her big-time for this. I’ll probably be holding her ranch until I’m eighty. She finishes, tosses the empty nugget carton, and uses my shirt to wipe the crumbs off her fingers.
Let me amend my last thought. Sisters can be all right sometimes.
“Relax, Gary. She’ll be okay.”
I rub my nose.
Audrey cranks up her awful pop-punk music. My cue that she’s done chatting. I force down a bite of my burger, watch the billboards whip by, and think about what I’m going to say to Gloria Buenrostro when I see her.
If she’ll even speak to me.
TWOTHEN
This summer was a bit of a weird one—one where time seemed to speed up to a frenzy or slow to a trickle whenever it felt like it. So in that regard, it’s hard for me to pinpoint exactly when this whole thing with Gloria actually began. If I have to name the moment it started, I’d have to go back to the very first Thursday of summer break.
When people say they were doing nothing, they usually don’t mean that. They’re usually doing something, like checking their phone, watching something on their laptop, napping on the couch, whatever. When I say I was doing nothing that day, I literally mean I was doing nothing. I was lying on my bed, trying to imagine drawings in the cracks of my ceiling. A pretty standard start to my summers. But I remember thinking that a very specific water stain looked like a horse galloping when my best friend, Preston, called me.
“I’m coming by to get you in five,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“I drove by Circus Burger. Everyone’s there. I saw Jordan’s car. Wear something decent.”
Before I hung up, I had already zipped up my least wrinkled hoodie and had one leg in a pair of jeans. It would have to be enough.
Preston ended up being late, but outside my house he blasted his horn like I was the one keeping him.
“Easy,” I said, hopping into his Protege. “What happened to five minutes?”
“Had to go through the gas station drive-through. You want us rolling up there in a dust cloud?”
“You just washed your car earlier this week!”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
Preston Trương and I went way back. Our moms had met working at the restaurant and became fast friends. His mom was a single mom too, so whenever one of them got stuck working overtime or got called into work at the last minute or any other emergency popped up, they would cover childcare for each other. Our moms worked their magic and somehow managed to snag us boundary exceptions for both middle school and high school on the rich side of town—never get between a Viet mom and her kid’s education. Growing up together, Preston and I pretty much didn’t have a choice in the matter—we were going to be friends.
We were a lot alike in some ways. We were both Viet kids, we didn’t know our dads, we both coasted on decent grades, but it wasn’t like either of us were geniuses, and we were practically invisible to everyone in school. If I didn’t have Preston, I would have been alone in the vast emptiness that was middle school and high school. We needed each other.
We were barely a week into summer break, and Preston and I were already making a habit of cruising by Circus Burger, seeking out these spontaneous meetups. It was a little pathetic, but what choice did we have? It was either that or Preston and I would end up in his room, playing the same video games we’ve beaten a thousand times. Rinse and repeat for the entirety of summer vacation.
Circus Burger was a popular hangout spot for the cool kids, despite the fact that it wasn’t exactly near our school. The rich kids had to come east, over to our side of town—a testament to just how good Circus Burger’s double-fried fries were. It was open late at night, the parking lot was big enough, the lines designating the parking spots had long faded with time, and none of the managers seemed to care that a bunch of high schoolers blasted their music from their cars.
The beautiful thing about these spontaneous hangs in the parking lot was that anyone could go. It wasn’t like a house party where you could only get in if you were invited. It was the parking lot of an old burger joint, for crying out loud. Anyone could show up at any time. You just had to know when these gatherings were happening. Luckily for me, Preston had a car.
It was packed for a Thursday night. But it was summer, so I guess every night counted as a weekend. The popular kids (or “the perfects” as we called them) had their expensive cars lined up at the very back of the lot. Of course the one that stood out was Jordan Tellender’s baby-blue BMW—windows rolled down, doors open, base thumping like a jukebox on wheels. We got lucky—there was only one spot left, and it was right next to Zac Simmons’s pickup truck. A major score.
Preston and I sat cross-legged on his hood as we sipped on bottles of pineapple Jarritos. The perfects were only a car space away from us, but it felt like miles. It was like we were shooting a nature documentary, keeping our distance as if not to startle the very animals we were studying. These were people we’d known since elementary school, but they felt like strangers. Or rather, we were strangers to them. Our whole lives, we’d been watching. We were the invisible ones.
I swirled the pineapple soda in my mouth, savoring its sweetness. Jessica Krebs sat in the back of the truck, tearing a piece of a steaming chicken strip before handing the fry basket over to Nicole Warren and Eliza Kennedy. Another car over, a bunch of other people were huddled around a phone, cracking up over some video. Jordan popped his trunk and lifted a soccer ball high above his head to a smattering of cheers and applause.
The perfects were part of something. They were always in sync, moving together like a shoal—those massive schools of fish. There was a glow about them. An unspoken otherness. I knew, logically, they weren’t that much different from Preston and me. We grew up going to the same schools. I sat next to them in class. I was even part of their group projects. But they were a complete mystery to us. And they were always smiling, always laughing. What were they laughing about? I’d been asking myself that question for years.
“What do you think is so funny?” It was more like a rhetorical question. It wasn’t like Preston had any more insight on the situation than I did.
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re laughing at us.”
“You think?”
Preston leaned back on his elbows. “No, of course not. They aren’t even thinking about us.”
Jordan stole the ball from Blake Haggart and changed course; I thought he might be walking straight toward us. I nudged Preston and we sat up a little straighter. But he went to the girls in the truck bed.
Jordan juggled the soccer ball, keeping it in the air with precise, gentle taps of his shoes. “Gloria coming around tonight?”
Eliza shook her head. “Don’t think so.”
“What’s her deal? She’s missed the last few hangouts.”
“I texted her. We all did.” Eliza checked her phone. The other girls nodded. “She didn’t say anything back.”
“Maybe she’s on a date!” yelled Tyler Myers. That got a real laugh from everyone.
Charlie Dryer jumped on the hood of his Escalade. “Yo, if Gloria Buenrostro is on a date, then everyone here owes me ten bucks.”
Jordan kept juggling. He was up to thirty-two. “You only got until school starts until that bet is invalid, brotha.”
“Maybe you wish it were you.” Charlie smirked.
Jordan grinned, but kept his juggling streak up. “Right. Like anyone here wouldn’t give their left nut to be the first person to go on a date with Gloria Buenrostro.”
“Ew. You’re so gross,” said Eliza. “She’s not on a date. She probably volunteered for the night shift at the animal shelter.”
“Or she’s off organizing a coat drive or baking a cobbler or she’s signed herself up for another half-marathon,” said Jessica Krebs. “You know how she is.”
Jordan’s eyes stayed focused on the ball. “Too good for us?”
“Too good for you, maybe.” Eliza’s joke got a good laugh from the others. I noticed that Jordan didn’t join in.
The music changed to some catchy bop. Jordan bounced the ball up before giving it a good kick, sending it back to his friends. “How about a dance for hurting my feelings?” He reached out his hand, which Eliza took even though she rolled her eyes. And wouldn’t you believe it—they danced.
If I tried to do that, I’d look like a complete clown. I’d be laughed out of the parking lot. How did Jordan make it look so easy? What was the secret to the perfects? How could he allow his mouth to form and say those words with so much confidence?
Maybe that was the key. Maybe it was about not caring about the outcome. Taking a giant leap of faith and hoping for the best.
“What are we doing here? We’re going to be juniors next year, Preston.” I rubbed the smooth bottom side of the bottle cap with my thumb.
“Tell me about it.”
I whipped the bottle cap into a dumpster. “Do you know how many dances our school hosts a year? I’ll tell you. Four. And we’ve missed every single one. And that’s not even counting all the ones from middle school.”
Preston laid his head on my shoulder. “Okay, I’ll be your date.”
I shoved him off, fighting back a smile. “I’m serious. Aren’t you even a little curious what it’s like? We should be doing stuff like that.” I nodded to where Jordan was lip-syncing, bumping his hip into Eliza’s, causing her to laugh even harder. “We should be doing … I don’t know. Something. Anything! Whatever they’re doing.”
I knew Preston wanted to be one of them. We both did. It wasn’t like Preston could afford his Protege or the meager upgrades he put into it. And he spent a year growing out his hair so he could transform it into a new undercut/heavy swoop. Preston was a peacock trying desperately to get attention.
He snorted. “If you want to go over there and make an ass out of yourself, I won’t stop you.”
It was a challenge. The annoyance in his tone wasn’t lost on me, either—it was something that was becoming more frequent these days. I’d been getting this creeping feeling that Preston was getting sick of me … that I was bringing him down, holding him back. He was taking his frustration out on me. Not that I blamed him. Maybe two people weren’t meant to be each other’s only friends. We were two prisoners in a chain gang, locked together forever by a pair of ankle shackles. He was right. I needed to stop whining and do something about it.
“They say fortune favors the bold,” I said, gulping the last dregs of my soda before sliding off the hood.
It was Preston’s turn to laugh. He stopped when he realized I was actually heading over. “I was kidding. You can’t just walk up there.”
“Why not?” I tried to play it off like I didn’t know what he was talking about, but we both knew that walking up to that crew was a big deal. It wasn’t like I was afraid that they were going to hurl insults at me or beat me up or pants me or try to humiliate me—at least not intentionally. They weren’t the bullying type. But it wasn’t like they ever asked Preston and me to hang out after basketball games. We’d never been invited to the house parties they threw. It was like we didn’t even exist to them. Which somehow made it worse.
“Because we’re us and they’re them,” said Preston.
“Maybe I’m tired of being us,” I said. If high school was a big game, Preston and I weren’t even on the bench—we were in the bleachers. In the nosebleed section. “We only have two years left. We have to do something. Let’s be part of something.”
“Drop the cool guy act, Gary. I know you’re peeing yourself!”
It was true. But I wasn’t going to admit that to Preston.
Jordan’s dance was interrupted when the soccer ball arced in his direction. He trapped it with his chest and shot it through the makeshift goal made of empty to-go cups. Then Jordan made a victory lap, high-fiving all the outstretched hands. They loved him. Everyone, the guys and the girls, all clung to his every word. If I was going to make a move, I had to wait until Jordan was isolated, away from the pack. When I saw him make his way over to the soda fountain station, I knew that was my chance.
I gave Preston my best two-finger salute and made my way to Jordan. I didn’t have a plan. I was hoping that the adrenaline would kick in and miraculously come up with a string of coherent words for me.
Jordan stood at the fountain, his finger hovering over the Orange Bang! tab. I had to act now before he returned to the pack.
“That’s a good choice,” I said, the words gushing from my mouth like a broken fire hydrant.
“What is it?” Jordan didn’t even look up as he pressed the button.
“It’s kind of like a melted orange Creamsicle,” I said. “It’s pretty good on its own, but my trick is to add a splash of soda water.”
Jordan handed me his cup. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I kept telling my brain not to mess this up by spilling it everywhere. I gave the soda water a solid two-second pull before handing it back. “That should be perfect right there.”
Jordan took a sip. My fist balled in anticipation. Then he nodded, smiling. “Whoa. This is amazing. Why doesn’t every place have Orange Bang?”
“I’ve been saying that for years.” I didn’t know how I was doing this, but the words kept going. I only hoped he couldn’t detect that I was completely freaking out.
“You’re Gary, right? Didn’t we have Algebra II together?” he said, taking another sip.
He knew my name? He. Knew. My. Name.
“Yeah, that’s right.” I knew I needed to throw Preston a bone, too. “I’m here with Preston Trương. You know him?”
Jordan squinted over at the Protege. Preston returned a sheepish wave. “I don’t think so…” I beamed. He knew me. Me! But I’d have to lie to Preston and tell him that Jordan recognized him, too. “What are you guys doing here?” I had to keep Jordan talking. I had him by the hook. I just had to tire him out.
“Hanging out. Got hungry,” said Jordan. “Actually, we were trying to check out that abandoned house over on Poppy Street. Couldn’t find a way in, though.”
My eyes lit up. Poppy House was only a few miles from me. Preston and I used to sneak in whenever we got really bored.
“Oh yeah,” I said, trying to temper my voice. I couldn’t believe he was still engaging in conversation with me. “Did you guys check out the cellar door? There’s an old lock there. I know the combination.”
“How?” Jordan asked. I had his attention now.
I couldn’t exactly tell him that Preston and I had way too much time on our hands and had spent weeks killing time trying to crack out the combo. Figured it would be a lot cooler to remain mysterious. “I have my ways. Fourteen, four, thirty-six.”
Jordan gave a satisfied nod. “Thanks, man.”
Maybe this would be it. Maybe this would be the moment Jordan would invite us to go with them. This was my way in!
Instead he said, “Maybe I’ll catch you around this summer. Later, Gary.”
And with that, he went back to the others.
Okay, so I wasn’t getting an exclusive invite to hang out with Jordan and his buddies. But I wasn’t going to let that minor setback ruin my victory. I’d had a conversation, a real conversation, with Jordan Tellender. This was huge. This was major. I couldn’t wait to tell Preston. Maybe we were closer to knowing what they were always laughing at.
Thinking back on that night now, I was so caught up in the Jordan Tellender of it all that I missed an important detail that would eventually change everything. If Gloria Buenrostro wasn’t with the other kids in the parking lot, where was she? I was about to find out.
THREE
Preston tried to downplay my conversation with Jordan, but I knew it was his way of trying not to get his hopes up. It didn’t stop him from asking me a million questions on the ride back home.
“Wait, wait, hold up,” said Preston, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me Jordan needed a way into Poppy House and instead of offering to go with him … you just straight up gave him the lock combination? Dude. What’s wrong with you? That’s called leverage!”
I groaned. Preston wanted this just as much as me. I joked that I’d try to get him an introduction the next time we ran into Jordan at Circus Burger.
My chat with Jordan, which had lasted less than five minutes, had taken everything out of me—I was ready to pass out and call it a night. But when I opened the garage door, Audrey came out to meet me. She was wearing the same faded hoodie and baggy pajama pants from the past three days. For a second I thought she was going to ask me to join her for a spontaneous movie night. It was our little summer tradition to show up to the theater and watch whatever happened to be playing.
“You want to try to catch something?” I asked, waiting to hear her answer before taking off my shoes.
“What? No.” Audrey’s face scrunched in annoyance. Like what I proposed was the most ridiculous option she’d ever heard. “I’ve been trying to call you. Check your phone. Mom wants you to run to the Jig and clear out their fish sauce.”
The county fair was only a few weeks away, and Mom needed to stock up on as much fish sauce as she could get her hands on. I’d tried to convince her to buy in bulk, but she insisted on going to the corner store, as she’d done for years. Good luck trying to convince a Viet mom to break her habits.
“Wanna give me a ride?”
“It’s like two miles away.” Audrey typed away on her phone, half listening.
“It’s almost eleven. Come on.” I tried masking the disappointment in my voice. For months I’d been looking forward to Audrey coming back from her first year at college. Audrey and I always goofed off together during summer break. But ever since she went away for school, she’d been acting totally strange. Like I was the last person she wanted to see. It had been a week, and she was still refusing to leave her room. The only time I’d see her was when we’d wait for each other to finish with the bathroom. She hardly even said more than a few sentences to me.
“Take the bike, then,” she said, eyes glued to her phone.
Audrey was gone before she could hear me laugh. The only bike we owned was my mom’s, and it was a relic from the eighties. I wouldn’t be caught dead riding it around the neighborhood. Walking was worth the risk.
It was about a forty-minute stroll to the Jiggity Jig (we only ever called it the Jig for short), thirty minutes if you picked up the pace. One of those places that wasn’t really that far on paper, but slightly annoying when you were forced to actually make the walk. Our family had been going to the Jig for years. It was our corner store, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. It was the only place within walking distance that carried a decent selection of Asian ingredients, medicines, and vegetables. I jumped and slapped the dusty green awning, as I always did, before I stepped inside.
The only employee in the store was a stone-faced cashier who Audrey and I called Frogger, on account of his wide mouth and his eyes, which always looked slightly farther apart than they should have been. We never bothered to ask his real name, but it wasn’t like he ever talked to us anyway. It was the same guy every time. Been that way for years. Frogger was completely bald on top with a ring of frazzled black hair that wrapped around the back of his round head. In all the time I’d been going to the Jig, Frogger had never lost any additional hair. It was always the same amount, which I chalked up as one of the great mysteries of the world—right up there with the ancient pyramids and dark matter. I waved and he barely acknowledged my existence. If he smiled, it was hard to tell, thanks to his bushy mustache. It was our little routine.
The Jig was your typical neighborhood corner store. There was a section for produce where a leaky sprinkler system kept the cilantro and banana leaves hydrated, a wall of cheap liquor displayed behind the counter, and tight, dusty rows packed with standard groceries. I maneuvered my way past the same tower of boxes that I was convinced would someday fall and crush me to death and nabbed the last two bottles of Three Crabs fish sauce—the only brand my mom would use.
I spotted Tulipán, the store’s cat, perched on a crate of plantains, and gave her a good scratch behind her mangy ears. It had taken me years (and a lot of cat treats) before she’d even let me get within a foot of her. I was daydreaming, enjoying listening to Tulipán’s car-motor-esque purrs, when she leapt from the crate and dashed to the entrance.
“I guess we’re done with pets today, huh?” Tulipán reminded me of Audrey with how quick she was to get away from me. I looked to see who had suddenly grabbed her attention. To say I was shocked was an understatement. It was Gloria Buenrostro.
I froze. Like a startled possum caught in headlights. If this was any other kid from my school, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Even if it was Jordan standing there, I might find it strange, but seeing Gloria standing in my neighborhood corner store caused my body to lock up, my brain to short-circuit. The thing about Gloria was that she transcended popularity. She was somehow bigger than all that. Gloria Buenrostro was known to all, but it was hard to believe that anyone actually knew her. She was so talked about that she was somehow more than human.
I’d known Gloria from way back when we were in first grade together. Ask anyone about her, and the first thing they would tell you was how beautiful she was. She’d inherited her mother’s sad dark green eyes. Her father’s deep-set dimple. The faint spattering of freckles across her nose looked like it was created by a delicate swipe of an artist’s brush. Catch her on the right day, and her smile could send you straight to the nurse’s office.
Like everyone else, I admired her from afar. In addition to her beauty, Gloria was a busy bee—her grades were immaculate, she did layout for the yearbook, she had her own baking column in the school newsletter, the community fridge down on Townsend was her idea (and was always stocked), she was a favorite volunteer at the animal shelter, and she was the only freshman to ever be cast in the senior play, earning a standing ovation for playing Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest. But off the stage, she was pretty quiet. Most people mistook her shyness for being stuck-up, but I never saw her that way. She always seemed too focused, too busy flitting from one extracurricular activity to the next to ever worry about anything else. Maybe that was why no one ever had the chance to get close to her—there was never any opportunity to.
And here she was. The most popular, most beautiful, most discussed and dissected girl in school standing in my corner store and petting my corner store’s cat. How Gloria managed to get cheek to cheek with Tulipán without getting a face full of claws was a miracle. A pair of sunglasses was perched on the top of her head. Her hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail. Some frayed jean shorts hugged her thighs. She lugged a bulging load of laundry in a worn canvas bag.
I was too far away to hear anything, but whatever she was saying was making Frogger laugh so hard that he was actually slapping his knees. I couldn’t believe it. You have to understand that I’d been shopping in the man’s store since I was old enough to walk and I’d never seen him so much as crack a smile. And this girl had him giggling like a ticklish toddler.
It went on like this for a few minutes before Gloria grabbed a basket and picked exactly three plums, two limes, a bag of persimmons, and a bundle of lemongrass. I ducked down the cereal aisle to get out of her line of vision. When she went back to the counter, Gloria and Frogger engaged in a couple minutes of haggling. She kept trying to shove a ten in his hand and he shook his head. She finally gave up, or so I thought. When Frogger turned his back for a second, Gloria slipped the bill into Tulipán’s collar.
She was good.
Gloria must have heard me chuckle, because she looked right at me. I snapped up a box of Fruity Pebbles, making it look like I was very interested in the nutrition section. “Riboflavin … yes, good, good,” I muttered. I could have died right where I stood.
When I felt enough time had passed to be safe, I looked up and she was gone. Which was impossible. The front door is fastened with a motion detector that emits an annoying beep anytime someone comes or goes. I would have heard it. I made a quick check of the store. Nothing. She’d just vanished.
I was about to break my eleven-year tradition of never exchanging a word with Frogger.
“Hey, uh,” I said, prepping my best middle-school Spanish. “¿Dónde está la chica?”
Frogger raised a bushy brow. Maybe my accent was just that bad. I needed to try again.
“¿Dónde está—?”
“I heard you the first time,” said Frogger. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m a friend of hers from school.”
Frogger eyed me again. I suddenly felt very self-conscious.
“Home,” he said. “She’s at home.”
Home? It wasn’t possible. First off, she lived on the complete other side of town with all the other rich kids. Second, there was the whole motion-detector mystery that was still unsolved. I repeated the words over and over again as I stepped out into the parking lot. Home?
Maybe this was all some hallucination. I was about to chalk it up to the potent cleaning product fumes that permeated the Jig when I spotted her for the second time that night. There was a row of barred-up windows connected to the Jig that I’d never taken a close look at before. But now I could see Gloria through one of them. She was unloading the plums into a fruit bowl. Then I made out a faded house number scrawled on a mangled mailbox so old, it was hanging on its last hinge. The rain gutters barely clung to the roof. Paint peeled off the siding. It must have been in violation of a hundred safety violations. Frogger wasn’t lying—Gloria was home. In an apartment bolted onto the back of the corner store, as if it were an afterthought. She lived at the Jig.
I took a shortcut home, walking over the freeway overpass. As I felt the rumble of traffic zipping by under my feet, I tried to make sense of it all. Gloria Buenrostro had no business being in my neighborhood, let alone living in my corner store. Gloria lived in a mansion. One with a pristine manicured lawn. An automated sprinkler system. Wind chimes dangling above a freshly painted porch swing. Suddenly I saw my neighborhood in a different light. Our lawns had more dandelions than they did rosebushes. Chain-link fences protected empty, overgrown lots with weeds that went up to your chest, sprinkled with one-shot liquor bottles. Frayed, droopy nets clung to the rims of rusted basketball hoops shoddily nailed above garages. I was meowed at by more than one stray walking home. None of it made sense. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she with all of her friends at the abandoned house on Poppy? Why was she in this neighborhood?
Was she in some kind of trouble?
That night, I kept thinking about Gloria. It was as if a Greek goddess had decided to come down from Mount Olympus to live among the mortals.
Audrey knocked on my door before poking her head in. “Did you get that fish sauce?”
I slapped my forehead. I’d left the bottles in the aisle when Gloria spotted me. “Whoops. I forgot.”
She shook her head. “You better go back to the Jig tomorrow before Mom wakes up.”
I was already planning on it.
FOUR
I slept through my alarm the next day, so walking to the Jig was out of the question. My mom had already taken her car to work, and I wasn’t about to risk Audrey’s wrath by waking her to ask her to drive me in her precious Geo Metro. There was only one option. And I wasn’t looking forward to it. I didn’t think it was a stretch to say that my mom had a hoarding problem, a habit left over from the days we’d been really struggling to pay the bills. She kept everything: stacks of magazines, broken fair equipment that we’d replaced years ago, dusty stuffed animals that Audrey and I had long forgotten, camping gear from the seventies she got for free from a garage sale (despite the fact she hates the outdoors). I had to squeeze, push, and crawl my way over a maze of boxes before I finally reached what I was looking for, but there it was hanging on the wall: my mom’s old tandem bike.
I didn’t recall my mom ever riding the bike, or couldn’t imagine who she’d ever have ridden it with, but there it was as if it were waiting for me. It didn’t take long to fill the tires with air and grease up the gears. I could only pray to the high school gods for mercy that no one from school would notice me. It was humiliating enough to be riding a tandem bicycle, but to be riding one by myself was a completely new level of loserdom that I wasn’t ready for.
Thanks to the tandem, I made it to the Jig in half the time it would have taken me to walk. I bought mom’s fish sauce, raced home to drop it off, then circled back. The fish sauce was an excuse—I had to know what Gloria was up to. I waited across the street for an hour, hoping I didn’t miss her in the minutes that I was gone. Just when I was about to give up, she emerged from the rusty screen door. The same pair of giant bug-eyed sunglasses she’d worn the night before covered half her face, but today she wore a white dress covered with an orange and lemon print and a ratty baseball cap pulled down low. I almost wouldn’t have recognized her if it weren’t for her silver bracelet with the whale charm dangling from her wrist. She walked out dragging an old beach cruiser behind her. Stuffing poked out of the banana seat. Frayed tassels spewed from the handlebars. The squeaky chain creaked. It looked worse than my mom’s tandem—and that was saying something. Maybe we could be bike losers together.
In one arm she carried a neatly folded stack of clothes wrapped in tissue paper and a crisp dress shirt on a hanger. In her other hand, she swung a dinged-up blue-and-white travel cooler onto her bike rack.
There she was. Right across the parking lot. I gobbled up the last of my breakfast—half of a stale baguette soaked with a little bit of Maggi sauce—then bent down, pretending to tie my shoelaces. For the first time, it dawned on me that I had no goddamn clue what I was doing here. I had just woken up with nothing else on my mind but to figure out why. Or maybe it was bigger than that. Maybe I was riding the high of talking to Jordan last night. Could it be that simple? I came over without a plan. Now was my chance. But to do what? That was the question. I needed to do something. Anything.
Before I could land on an option, Gloria leaned her bike against the wall and walked around into the Jig’s front entrance. Maybe I could have gone back inside under the pretense that I had forgotten to pick up something else, but my legs refused to cooperate. She nearly caught me spying on her once. I wasn’t about to risk it again. So I waited for her for a solid ten minutes. Watching the heat waves sizzle from the dumpster while I baked in the morning sun. What was she doing in there for so long? If Frogger was running a convenience store, it didn’t seem very convenient.
Finally she emerged, mounted her bike, and she was off. I had to do something. Anything. I don’t know what came over me. Panic, maybe. But I didn’t exactly have time to consider all of my options. All I knew was that if I didn’t go after her, I’d miss my chance to see what she was up to. So I shoved off in Gloria’s direction. Keeping a safe distance, of course.
All I could do was follow the flap of her dress until my brain decided to cooperate and figure out my next move. What I was doing was so completely outside of okay. I had no plan. Even if I caught up to her, I wouldn’t know what to do. I could only hope some inspiration would hit me the longer I rode. With each push of the pedal, I had to convince myself to see this thing through—whatever it was. Maybe if I followed her long enough, I might learn something about her. At the very least, why she was spending so much time in my neighborhood.
The morning consisted of a series of stops at houses and apartment complexes. Every stop was the same: Gloria would fish through the clothes on her handlebars, pick an assortment after checking the tag, and deliver them. Each time bringing her cooler along with her.
By the time noon arrived, I still didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to be doing. All I knew was that I was working up a serious sweat following this girl around town while she ran errands.
Then she spotted me. We had taken a right on Pinewood when she whipped her head around and stared right at me. No, it was more than a stare … It was a glare. Then she took off. I panicked, pedaling faster to keep up with her. She miraculously turned a beach cruiser into a speed bike. And my mom’s tandem wasn’t exactly the best at maneuvering tight turns. I thought I actually might lose her, until Gloria hit a nasty pothole. She shuddered and pulled to the side of the road. I yelped, slamming on my brakes. I tossed the tandem onto the sidewalk, sprinting toward her.
She couldn’t have been more than a block away, but it felt like I was running the length of a football field. I looked down at my clothes and instantly regretted my outfit choice. I’d dressed like a little boy—cargo shorts and a striped shirt. I should have worn jeans. Jeans would have been a much safer pick, even if it was eighty-five degrees out.
“This is not happening. This can’t be happening.” Gloria stared at the sky, her hands balled into fists. She was trembling.
“Are you okay?” I asked, catching my breath.
She turned, looked straight at me. Her green eyes shimmered like tears would overflow at any second. Her face was flushed with embarrassment and accusation. Before she could say anything, I knew that whatever had happened to her was my fault. “Why are you following me?”
My heart stopped. A chill ran through my body. This was all wrong. This wasn’t the way I wanted it to go.
“No … I … wasn’t exactly … I mean, I was, but…”
“No, you know what? Never mind. I don’t need this. I don’t have time for this.” Gloria knelt down and held the broken frame in her hands. There was a clean break, right where the rust buildup was the worst.
“Let me help you, at least,” I said quickly. The words just tumbled out. I didn’t know how to fix a broken bike frame, but I figured the longer I kept talking, the greater the chances were that I’d spout something to save me. Or, manage to squeak out a proper apology. “There’s gotta be a bike shop around here somewhere.”
Gloria shook her head. “Unless you have a welding torch hidden on you, this bike is done. I have to get all of these deliveries out before he comes over.” She inhaled, willing herself not to cry. “And now I have to pay for a new bike. Why is this happening? Why today?”
“Wait here.” I backtracked, picking up the tandem. “Just tell me where you need to go.” The words kept gushing out like some busted fire hydrant. Chauffeuring Gloria around this neighborhood on my mom’s crappy bike all afternoon … What was I thinking?
“I wouldn’t have gone over that pothole if I hadn’t been so focused on trying to lose you.”
I blanched. I didn’t know why I thought she’d share a bike with me. She was within her right to laugh in my face and walk away. I couldn’t even muster up the courage for a proper apology.
To my surprise, she hopped on the back of my bike.
“This thing isn’t going to crumple under us, is it?” Gloria bounced in her seat, testing the bike’s structure. “I don’t know if I can handle two bikes failing me today.”
“I doubt it. This thing is built like a tank.” I took my place at the front. My hands, slick with sweat, tried to find their grip on the handlebars. Gloria Buenrostro. Right here. Sitting behind me. I hadn’t been this close to her since she helped me with that long division quiz in seventh grade.
“You cool?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah.” At least, I thought I was. I probably should have called a cardiologist to check my heart rate.
“Then why aren’t we moving?”
“Oh.” I shook my head, trying to recover. “Where are, um, we going?” I asked.
Gloria shoved some purple gum into her mouth.
“Hfcnshon.”
“Uh. What?”
Gloria chewed before shoving the gum to one side of her cheek. “Bubbaloo. Got a gooey center. I can’t get enough of the stuff. You want some?”
“No. I’m good, thanks.” It was kinda funny watching Gloria chew a massive wad of gum. Not exactly prim, proper, or refined. Not at all what I expected from her.
“Blowing massive bubbles helps pass the time, trust me. Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go. Hockinson Ave.”
And with that, we were off. Me and Gloria Buenrostro. Pedaling together on my mom’s creaky old tandem bicycle. I wouldn’t have believed it if it didn’t happen to me.
FIVE
“Here!”
I slammed on the brakes, sending loose gravel flying. Gloria leapt off before I came to a full stop in front of an old apartment building. A crooked, busted-up intercom directory box stood at the gate not serving any purpose. The sidewalks were gnarled and uneven—I read somewhere that developers preferred to plant cheap trees, not caring that the roots would demolish the concrete. The trees were eventually removed, never to be replaced, and the sidewalks were left unrepaired.
Gloria started up the stairwell and when she reached the second floor, she cupped her hands around her mouth.
“You coming?” she hollered down at me. By her tone, it sounded like it was a given that I’d be following her up the stairs. “Grab that cooler, will ya?”
I did as she told me. I found her three doors down, standing in front of a door with chipped orange paint. Gloria knocked, and the door cracked open a bit, stopped short by a chain.
“¿Quién es?”
“It’s Gloria, Mrs. Espinosa. I have your cardigan.”
The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of the chain being unlocked. Out poked a wrinkled brown face. The lady’s fishbowl-sized glasses magnified her pupils to a cartoonish degree. Her frown full of mistrust.
Gloria thumbed through her stack of clothes, landing on a caramel-colored wool sweater. “Good as new!”
Mrs. Espinosa’s eyes darted back and forth as if she were expecting some government agents to pop out from behind the nylon bushes. “Thank you, sweetheart. Although I’ll be honest, I thought you were coming with news about Sir Ivan. I printed out some more flyers. Would you mind posting them when you’re out and about?”
“I always do.”
“Who is this? Who are you?” Mrs. Espinosa pushed the rim of her huge glasses up her nose, giving me a once-over.
I was positive that Gloria wouldn’t remember my name, but before I could get it out, she said, “Gary Võ. He’s a friend from class.”
She knew my name? I was her friend?
“Võ, huh? Laotian?”
“Vietnamese, actually.”
Mrs. Espinosa got right up to my face; I could make out my reflection in her glasses. “Full? You don’t look full.”
“Half.”
“Gringo, eh? Do Vietnamese have a word for that?”
“Not that I know of, but I think I know what you mean.”
Mrs. Espinosa gave a satisfied sniff before turning back to Gloria. I guess I’d passed her test. Whatever it was. “Good. You finally got some help.” She shoved a stack of flyers into my arms—it was one of those “Have You Seen Me?” posters. Except this one featured a green parakeet with a flaming red beak. Mrs. Espinosa clicked open her purse. “It’s a tragedy. You’re too young to be spending your summer working like this. You both should be out there chasing down ice cream trucks, playing in sprinklers, getting into trouble…”
Gloria smiled at me. “I think we’re a little too old for sprinklers.”
“No one is too old for sprinklers, honey.” Mrs. Espinosa gave me a swift jab with her elbow.
“We should get going.” Gloria took the cooler from me. “Have you had lunch today?”
A smile crept across Mrs. Espinosa’s face, and she pulled out a wrinkled five-dollar bill. “I’ll take two.”
Gloria plucked out two small wrapped bundles from the cooler, paused for a slight second, then grabbed a third.
“My eyesight might not be what it used to be, but I can still count.” Mrs. Espinosa handed a tamale back to Gloria.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Espinosa. I … uh, have a special today. Buy two, get one free.”
“You’re talented at so many things, but you’re an awful liar,” Mrs. Espinosa said, patting her cheek. “Don’t be giving away your product for free.”
Gloria smirked, knowing full well that she’d been bested by the old lady. “Okay, okay. Call my mom if you need any more alterations.”
“I will.” Mrs. Espinosa started to close the door but then hollered, “Can I put in two requests for tomorrow?”
“Always.”
“That sweet puerco with ancho is perfect for these hot nights.”
“And your other request?”
“Leave your hat and glasses at home. Show the world your pretty face.”
Gloria was already walking away when she called out over her shoulder, “I’ll save you some puerco!”
“If you run into Sir Ivan, be sure you address him properly!” Those were Mrs. Espinosa’s parting words of wisdom before locking the door behind her.
I quickened my pace to catch up to Gloria. “She was … something.”
“Just wait until you meet the others.” Gloria raised a fist to another door. She gave me a look when she noticed I was starting back down the stairs.
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment. “There’s more?”
“Yeah.” Gloria gestured to the clothes slung over her arm. “You up for it?”
“Totally.” I prayed she couldn’t hear my hesitation.
Gloria and I spent the rest of the afternoon finishing her deliveries, posting Mrs. Espinosa’s flyers, and dropping off various articles of clothing that her mother had either altered or repaired. I got to meet all of Gloria’s regulars. There was a stressed-out mom holding wailing twin toddlers who ordered a patched-up pair of overalls. A towering, twitchy man who needed his slacks hemmed for a job interview. A young baseball coach who let out an earsplitting whoop when Gloria handed him a bundle of uniforms, each with a “Championship League” patch sewn on the shoulder.
Every delivery was always followed up with an order of tamales. Gloria even had to tell some customers that they couldn’t take as many as they wanted for fear that she’d run out before we finished her route.
I was in awe watching Gloria interact with her loyal customers. Her deliveries weren’t just about dropping off product in exchange for money. She’d sit and gab, catching up on the latest neighborhood gossip or asking them about intimate details of their lives—which they were more than happy to dish. When they joked, she’d sling jokes right back. I got the sense that for some of these people, a visit from Gloria was the highlight of their day. Or maybe even their only social interaction. Gloria didn’t take notes or check her phone—I don’t know how she was able to keep all those different addresses and which clothes went to which person and who ordered what tamale in her head, but she did. They loved her for it. This wasn’t the solemn, quiet academic who aced spelling bees and spent hours fretting in front of a mirror. She charmed everyone we came across. I wondered what else we all had wrong about Gloria.
The sun was starting to dip by the time we returned to the Jig.
“Thanks for all the help today,” she said, dismounting. “I thought for sure you were going to bail on me after Mrs. Espinosa’s interrogation. She can be pretty intense.”
“Dare I ask how Mrs. Espinosa lost a pet parakeet?”
“She was taking him out for a walk when he broke out of his leash,” said Gloria, as if it was the most normal explanation in the world. “I’ve been trying to find him.”
“She takes her bird out for walks?”
“I try not to ask too many questions,” said Gloria, shrugging. “But I figure if I’m running around town anyway, I might as well put up some flyers to help her.”
“Do you ever take a break?” My calves were throbbing from riding a bike and climbing stairs all afternoon. I was going to sleep well tonight. I couldn’t imagine getting up and doing that all over again tomorrow or even the day after that.
“Some days are lighter than others.”
A trail of sweat dripped down my forehead, stinging my eye. “Are you going to be okay now?”
Our eyes met. I caught a hint of sadness in her face. I wondered if I’d said something wrong. “What do you mean?” she asked.
I shifted in my seat. “When your bike broke, you said, ‘Why today?’”
“My dad’s coming over tonight.” Gloria took off her hat, allowing her thick black hair to cascade around her shoulders like some majestic waterfall. “If I didn’t finish those deliveries, I would have set us behind, which would put my mom on edge, which would put my dad on edge…” She trailed off as she stared at her front door. A sigh of relief. “It would have been a nasty domino effect.” She started to her apartment but then turned back. “You really should get a light for that bike. Those potholes come out of nowhere. You almost killed us.”
“Oh yeah, sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t usually—”
“Monday you need to be back here. I start early. Eight o’clock.”
My jaw actually dropped. “What?”
“My bike is done for. You got a phone?”
I fumbled to pull it from my pocket before handing it to her.
Gloria held my phone up. “You need to unlock it.”
“Oh right, yeah.” I didn’t even question why she needed it unlocked, but I plugged in my pin and handed the phone back. She could have asked me to spill government secrets and I would have given up everything I knew.
Gloria typed something in and then tossed the phone back to me. Someone must have been watching over me that night, because I actually managed to catch it.
“There. You have my number now. The way I see it, unless a new bike miraculously shows up on my doorstep—I own you.” She twiddled her fingers at me. “See you on Monday.”
Before I could process what I had been signed up for, Gloria disappeared inside.
SIX
I needed to tell someone about what had happened. I was a bubbling teakettle about to burst with steam. If I didn’t let it out, I would implode. I’d spent a whole day with Gloria Buenrostro and I couldn’t keep something like that to myself. Preston was going to flip out.
“Oh my God, what the hell is that?” Preston got up from under his car, took one look at my monstrosity of a bike, and dropped to his knees. He was shaking, literally shaking with laughter. “Will you ditch that thing before someone sees you?” He stretched his neck out to look down both sides of the street. “Wait. No one saw you, did they? Please tell me no one saw you.”
“Shut up, man.” I rolled it into his garage. “It’s my mom’s old bike.”
“Well, your mom should keep it.” Preston lay back on his creeper and rolled under his car. I should mention that the only reason I know the actual name of that little rolly cart that mechanics use is because cars are the only thing Preston talks about and I once tried to learn all of the terminology before giving up. “Since when do you bike here anyway?”
There it was. My opening.
“Since I started taking bike rides”—I waited, to give it a little dramatic flair—“with Gloria Buenrostro.”
Preston peeked out again. “Maybe I need to put my muffler back on, because I didn’t hear that right. Did you say Gloria Buenrostro?”
Hook. Line. And sinker. “Yeah, that’s right.” I launched into detail about how I saw Gloria hanging out at the Jig, that I discovered she’d moved into our neighborhood (I left out the part that her new home was a convenience store), and that I found out she delivers tamales and altered clothing as her summer job.
Preston was on his feet, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry, slow down a minute. You’re telling me that Gloria Buenrostro moved into our neighborhood and all of a sudden you’re palling around with her like you’re besties?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re besties, but yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
Preston laid both hands on my shoulders. “Don’t joke about this. I’m serious, man. If this is all some big joke, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I’m seeing her again on Monday.” I couldn’t help cracking a smile.
He leaned in so close, I could make out my reflection in his eyes. “Are you falling for—do you think you like her?”
“I like her just fine.”
“Shut up, dude. You know what I mean.”
“She’s cool, Preston. Way cooler than we thought. What do you want me to say?”
Before I could finish, Preston smushed my cheeks. “Are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth? I want you to own this. You’re hanging out with Gloria Buenrostro! Do I need to repeat myself? I feel like I need to repeat myself.” Then he stepped back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and belted, “Gary Võ is hanging out with Gloria Buenrostro!” Some far-off neighborhood dogs barked in response.
I could feel my cheeks reddening. Hearing those words, for a fraction of a second, I got a taste of what it was like to be cool. I’ll admit it felt good to have something over on Preston. A look of what … admiration? Certainly better than pity.
Preston put his hands behind his head. “When you said you wanted to do something bold, I didn’t think that meant squirreling your way in with Gloria Buenrostro.”
“Maybe she could help us?” I said, keeping the momentum going. “She could introduce us to the rest of the perfects.”
“You’re onto something. She could be the key. The key to getting us in.” Preston mumbled to himself. “If you’re friends with Gloria…” Preston trailed off as he whipped out his phone, fingers flying.
“You think there’s a chance she’ll put in a good word with Jordan and his buddies?” I asked.
“Anything’s possible at this point. Put the bike in my trunk. I’ll give you a ride home and save us both the embarrassment.” Preston raised his phone to me. “Listen to me though. Keep your phone close.”
I could practically see the gears churning in his head, but I was too afraid to ask what he was cooking up. As I tried to angle the tandem in the back of the Protege, an inkling of dread crept over me. I’d known Preston long enough to know that when he had an idea, he was determined to see it through—and his plans always came with headaches. Looking back, I had no idea that telling Preston about Gloria was only the beginning of my troubles.
SEVEN
I didn’t have to wait long to find out what Preston was up to. The next evening, after I washed the dishes, I found about a thousand text messages waiting for me on my phone. My first reaction was to panic—no one had ever flooded my phone with that many texts. I thought something was seriously wrong.
Gary. Call me back. ASAP.
Where are u?
Seriously. This is important.
GARY.
GARRRRYYYY?
Poppy House. Meet me there.
Jordan Tellender asked for us.
That last text made my eyes bulge. Like a shot of espresso right to the heart. I tried calling Preston back, but it went straight to voicemail. I guess I was going after him. I hollered inside that I was going out for a bit—not sure why, seeing as my mom was already at the restaurant and Audrey couldn’t care less where I was going.
With summer vacation only beginning, it meant there was still a bit of sunlight, even when the mosquitoes were starting to buzz. I wasn’t about to bike there, but it wasn’t far anyway. Poppy House was an old abandoned two-story tucked back in its own cul-de-sac. It had two signs up: a “For Sale” sign that had been there since before I can even remember and another that said “No Trespassing” that we ignored. I didn’t think it looked too bad on the outside, and I may have, once or twice, dreamed about buying it and fixing it up someday. But when you stepped inside, it was clear why no one had scooped it up. It was rotting. Copper stripped from the walls, leaving nothing but frayed bare wires. We definitely shouldn’t have been hanging out there. It was a miracle the roof had never caved in on us.
When I arrived at the end of the cul-de-sac, I recognized Preston’s souped-up Protege parked next to a row of much nicer cars.
“I told you he’d show up,” said Preston. He was flanked by Blake Haggart and Charlie Dreyer—the two guys who had been kicking around the soccer ball at Circus Burger. They were both indistinguishable for the most part, but were always seen by Jordan’s side. I had trouble remembering which one was which. Blake and Charlie didn’t exactly stand out—they would have been forgettable if they weren’t best friends with Jordan Tellender. And that was enough to earn Preston’s and my envy.
On the other hand, Jordan had accomplished quite a bit. I don’t know too many high school sophomores who have established their own brand. Jordan ran his own Twitch channel—kind of a mishmash look into his life. He started off recording himself playing video games (I’ll admit that I looked up his videos for tips on how to cheese some tricky boss battles), but then the channel transformed into a way for him to show off his new shoes or hats or gaming headphones or pretty much whatever free stuff companies would send to him. Once he started making prank videos with Blake and Charlie, I stopped watching. Not that he would have noticed he lost a viewer. Jordan’s videos get tons of hits. He’s a big deal.
“So you’re the one who helped us get into this place?” said Blake. I felt a swell of pride. “I’m Blake and this is Charlie,” said Blake. Charlie stared at me with the same glossy look in his eyes that he always had.
“I’m Gary,” I said.
I wasn’t exactly shocked that Blake didn’t recognize me. For a long time, I didn’t want to be recognized. There’s a saying that a single nail that stands out gets hammered back down in the wood. I wasn’t the nail—I was the grain in the wood. If you don’t stick out, no one pays attention to you, and if no one pays attention to you, no one notices that you wore the same outfit twice in a week or that your sneakers are the same pair from last year or that you eat the same three-dollar Vietnamese sandwich every day for lunch.
“So what’s going on?” I asked, trying my best to act casual.
“They need your phone,” said Preston.
I kept my eyes on Preston, and he gave me a nod for extra reassurance. I plunged my hand into my pocket, feeling for my phone in panic.
“Relax.” Blake raised his hands. “We have to confiscate all phones. This is kind of an old-school operation. You’ll get it back,” he said. “I promise.”
Preston clocked me rubbing my nose. A nervous tic I’ve never been able to shake. “I already gave them mine.” He rolled his eyes. I hated that I was embarrassing him.
Blake stepped forward, holding out a purple Crown Royal bag. I dumped my phone in with the others. “Follow me.”
Preston and I kept pace as Blake and Charlie went around the back. The cellar door was wide open, the lock unlocked with the combination keys set to the numbers I’d given to Jordan. With each step, I felt queasy, a mix of excitement and uncertainty, even though I had no idea why I was being summoned. Preston was practically skipping. He tried to keep his face cool and disinterested, but his goofy grin kept creeping through. To him, an invite-only hangout with the cool kids was like Christmas morning.
We climbed the stairs and entered the living room. It had been a while since Preston and I had last hung out at Poppy House. The lawn chairs we’d brought with us were still there. An incomplete deck of playing cards sat on a broken coffee table. 7-Eleven hot dog containers and some empty chip bags littered the floor, right where we’d left them. Corner store prayer candles were scattered all about, lighting up the room with an eerie glow. Someone had taken a marker and drawn a thick black streak across the eyes of the saints. Apparently, whoever did that didn’t want the saints to witness what was about to transpire.
And there was Jordan Tellender, standing in front of the fireplace with his arms stretched wide, welcoming us.
“There they are! The guests of honor!”
I probably should have run a comb through my hair. It wasn’t the day to be wearing my old faded tank top with the chocolate stain on the bottom. I straightened up.
“Thanks again for getting us into this place,” said Jordan, giving my shoulder a shake. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a wave of goose bumps. “We needed a new spot for our little operation. It’s perfect.” Jordan looked at Blake. “You got their phones?”
Blake tossed the bag to Jordan.
“Cool.” Satisfied, Jordan turned back to us. “Sorry about that, gentlemen. Preston, you’ve heard this all before, but it’s worth repeating. Let me remind you that the only reason you know about us is because your cousin is a good friend of mine who apparently can’t keep a secret.”
“I won’t say anything,” said Preston, nodding to me. “We won’t say anything, I promise.”
“We can’t take any risks. No pictures. No texts.” Jordan pointed a finger at me. “And don’t even think about posting anything you’re about to hear. No one talks about this place or what we do. We don’t exist.”
That little preamble certainly didn’t calm my nerves. Meanwhile, Preston was practically shaking with joy.
“Not a word of this to anyone.” Jordan stared at Preston and me. Right in the eyes. “Do you agree to our terms?”
We nodded. I still wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to, but it wasn’t like I was going to tell Jordan otherwise.
His dead-serious scowl transformed into a wide grin. “Beautiful. I’ll get right to it,” he said with a clap. “Gary, you’re the man of the hour. You know Gloria Buenrostro, right?”
Jordan mispronounced her last name as “Ben-roost-oh.” I started to correct him but kept my mouth shut.
“Well, yeah, I know—”
Jordan cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Of course you know her. Everyone does. Unless you’re some antisocial cave troll like Blake’s sister.”
He chuckled at his own joke. Preston and Charlie followed suit, except for Blake, who looked like he wanted to punch Jordan straight in the teeth. Jordan circled the sagging stump. “I’m not asking if you know of her. I’m asking if you know her. Preston tells me you and Gloria have been getting chummy.”
“I don’t know if I’d use the word chummy,” I started to stay, but a sharp elbow-jab to my rib cage shut me up.
“He’s kidding, guys,” said Preston. “Gary spent a whole day biking around our neighborhood with her. Making tamale deliveries.”
I shot a look at Preston, who gave me a sheepish shrug in return. It wasn’t like Gloria had told me to keep any of that a secret, but I didn’t expect Preston to blab it to Jordan right away.
“Tamales, huh? On the east side? Interesting.” Jordan chewed on this. He wasn’t the only one who thought it was weird that Gloria was hanging out on the east side. “I knew something was going on when my mom heard that the Buenrostros registered for tent space at the fair this year. Does your family still do the fair, Voo?”
My cheeks flushed. And not because he butchered my last name just like he did Gloria’s. The county fair was a big deal for my family. It was the same weekend every year—smack-dab in the middle of summer. Every year, we had a booth cooking and selling Viet food. I usually didn’t talk about it—it’s not exactly the height of coolness to be a carney. “No—well, I mean, yeah. We’re thinking about it. Probably. Yeah, we are.” I was struggling to piece together what any of this had to do with meeting Jordan Tellender at Poppy House.
“That’s great news. Those noodles you guys hock every year are top-notch,” said Jordan. “I digress. You’re probably asking, ‘What’s all this have to do with us?’
“What you two are about to see is something that hasn’t been witnessed outside of this circle.” Jordan cuffed the sleeve of his plaid button-down and reached up into the fireplace chimney. He pulled out an old cigar box and placed it on the coffee table.
“Go ahead.” He nodded. “Take a look at our bounty.”
Preston and I stepped up to the table, not sure which one of us should open the box. It felt like we were part of some sacred ritual. Preston elbowed me in the side again.
I took a breath and popped open the latch. A series of photographs were taped under the lid. Pictures of girls from school. The first four looked like printouts of screen grabs from social media sites, but the last one, Gloria’s picture, looked different. Her picture looked like it had been clipped from a yearbook. In the box itself was a purple ceramic dish with a polka-dot pattern, a single softball sock, a retainer case, a little toy figure of a bells bag from Animal Crossing fashioned with a string—one of those charms that dangled from a phone, and a clipped black-and-white picture of Gloria. I still wasn’t quite piecing Jordan’s puzzle together, but I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. There was something undeniably creepy about these “treasures.”
“It started off as a goofy game,” said Jordan. “I was talking about how sick I am of social media. It’s gotten boring. Everything we do is digital, on the screen. There’s nothing you can hold, that you can feel. Do you know what I mean?”
I didn’t, but nodded anyway.
“Like, if I wanted to dig up something on Marissa Taylor, all I’d have to do is type her name into a search bar. Everything you would want to know about her is right there at your fingertips. Her birthday, her hobbies, and more photos than I’d know what to do with—”
“We all know what I’d do with them!” Charlie cackled.
“You’re an idiot, Charlie.” Jordan rolled his eyes. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh right. The internet. It’s too simple. Too easy. Where’s the fun? The challenge? I want to earn it. So one day in art class, I swiped Marissa’s project when it was cooling from the kiln. That little dish over there.”
“Ah. I’m picking up what you’re putting down.” Preston was bluffing. I knew he was in the same position I was—he didn’t have a clue what any of this meant.
Jordan plucked the pottery dish from the box, turning it over. “Holding this in my hand, I got this rush, man. A thrill. This crazy jolt of energy. Holding something of significance belonging to one of the hottest girls in school. It was like a drug. That’s when the club was born.”
He cracked a slow smile and waited. The kid certainly knew how to build anticipation.
“We’re curators. Curators of rarities. Becoming a member isn’t easy … You have to make a contribution to do it. We all have to pony up something to what we’ve been calling a ‘token’—one personal item from each of the five hottest girls in school. Charlie over here paid someone fifty bucks to nab Shelby Harrington’s old retainer. It almost got him disqualified, since he didn’t really get it himself.”
Charlie looked hurt. “Hey, come on. I dug into some of my birthday money for that.”
Jordan continued. “And for number two on our list: Blake got one of Allison Austin’s softball socks.” He shrugged. “If she didn’t want us to get it, she shouldn’t have posted a status about how annoyed she was that her locker’s lock was broken.”
And this was a game? These guys really needed to take up a hobby.
“Which left two more slots to round out our top five,” Jordan continued. “Bristol Katz was easy. All I had to do was wait for her to post when she had an upcoming track meet. Her bag was right there on the bleachers, completely unattended.” Jordan held up the charm between his thumb and pointer finger. The strings snaked down his forearm. “Her phone charm is one of my favorites.”
My stomach dropped. I went all clammy. By my count, there was only one more girl left. I didn’t have to guess who the number one girl would be.
“Which brings me to the name of our little club,” said Jordan. “The only club of its kind in existence. Named it after number one on the list. Our white whale. A tribute to the girl who needs no introduction. We’re the Rooster Society.”
Ah. Rooster. Buenrooster, like Jordan’s mangled pronunciation of Gloria’s last name.
“We got nothing from Gloria. As you’re well aware, she’s always been a bit of a mystery. She doesn’t even really have an internet presence. Believe me, I’ve searched.”
“What about Eliza Kennedy and those girls?” I asked.
Jordan sat in a lawn chair and picked up the deck of cards, giving them a good shuffle. “I’m not convinced that they’ve really cracked Gloria. Sometimes she hangs out with our little circle, but she’s not really there. I haven’t been able to get close. No one has.
“So that’s the trick, boys. In order to be initiated as a Rooster, you need to get an item worthy enough to be deemed a token. It has to be something personal.” He shuffled the cards into a bridge. “You’re looking at the only members of the prestigious Rooster Society. But we’re feeling generous this summer. Thinking of expanding our operation with some fresh recruits.”
Fresh recruits? Preston looked at me, his eyes as big as a praying mantis’s. He was thinking the same thing I was—this was our chance! The opportunity we’d been waiting for. But then I thought about what I was being asked to do. Was he asking us to steal something? The only time I’d ever stolen anything was a bottle of fancy root beer … and that was from our own supplies at the fair tent. And I’d chickened out and put it back.
Preston nodded with a look of determination I’d never seen from him before. He was practically drooling all over Jordan’s new kicks. “What do we do?”
“That’s the Rooster attitude,” said Jordan, snapping his fingers. He slammed the cards on the table. “First things first. Ground rules. And there’s really only three of them you have to remember. You already know the first—never speak a word of this club to anyone else.” Jordan paused. “Right? We’re still square on that?”
We nodded.
“Second, the target can’t know you’ve swiped her token. If Gloria finds out about the heist or the club itself, you’re done. And the final, and most important rule, is: The token has to be deemed worthy by the rest of the group.”
“What’s considered worthy?” Preston asked. “Because if you need another slobbery retainer, I’m sure I can get you one, no problem.”
I caught Charlie’s dirty look from the corner of my eye, and Preston’s cheeks reddened. Sarcasm was his default. Even I knew that he needed to check himself with these guys.
“Great question. The token has to be something directly tied to the target. Take Allison Austin. Softball is her life. Or Shelby Harrington’s retainer. She didn’t actually get hot until she got her braces off, so that was a no-brainer.” Jordan settled in one of the lawn chairs. “I’ll make it easy on you guys. I want Gloria’s bracelet.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. In all the years I’d known Gloria, she’d never worn the same outfit twice. The only exception being a thin silver bracelet fastened with a single, tiny whale charm. She could be seen wearing it in every elementary school group picture. She never took it off, not even for gym class. During tests, I’d catch her fiddling with it whenever she was stuck on a problem. No wonder Jordan wanted it. It was practically a part of her. And that was going to be a problem.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “For all we know, it’s grafted to her wrist.”
Jordan smirked. “That’s the point, isn’t it? No one’s been able to get close to Gloria Buenrostro, Gary, and you’re the most promising lead we’ve had. If it’s true that you and her are buddies, this should be a cakewalk. Not to mention that you’ll both be carnies together—manipulate the carney code, if there is one. Whatever you have to do! If anyone can get that bracelet, it’s you.”
I wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of stealing something, but this kind of opportunity didn’t come around often. Not only was Jordan offering us a way in—he said that I was the only one who could do it. If I pulled this off, it would single-handedly change the course of high school for both Preston and me. This was what we’d been dreaming about. We’d be in.
The creeping dread of guilt and the logistics of how I was going to get that bracelet would be a later-problem. I felt like crowing.
“We’re in.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Jordan started to make a jab at Preston’s crotch but switched at the last second to a playful punch to the shoulder. “That’s the other part about being a Rooster—you gotta have guts.”
Jordan’s toothy grin gleamed in the candlelight. “Meeting adjourned.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first book only gets made if people take a chance on you. This is for everyone who did.
Friends and family who kept me laughing when I needed to laugh the most. My gals, Trixie and Margot—I do this for you. Mom and Jess, for all of the bedtime stories, never saying “no” to a book request, and for always keeping the family printer stocked with paper.
My agent, Alyssa Jennette. It was your idea to start this journey together, and I’m so glad I said “yes.” Your unflinching encouragement filled me when my well was dry. Thanks for the hustle. I’m glad you’re in my corner!
My editor, Trisha de Guzman. They say it only takes one “yes,” and I’m so grateful that my first came from you. You gave me a shot and for that, I’ll forever be in your debt. Your steadfast patience and your unique insight with story and character are unparalleled. Oh, and thanks for not hanging up on me when I nervously babbled this crumb of an idea to you while trying to pitch over the bird squawking at the Los Angeles Zoo. Thank you for watching out for Gary and Gloria.
Eleonore Fisher and Naira Mirza. Your thoughtful questions and suggestions were invaluable and pushed this story to a place I never could have imagined. You cared for these kids as much as I did.
Kaitlin Severini, for your thorough copy edits and laser-focused scrutiny. All writers need a Kaitlin in their corner! And Amy Cooper, Susan Bishansky, and Kelly Markus, for your sharp-eyed proofreading.
Diana Nguyễn. I pinch myself every time I look at your cover art. How lucky did I get?
Ms. Stone. In fifth grade, you thrust a copy of a book featuring a Vietnamese protagonist into my hands, knowing it would change my life, and predicted that you’d see my name in lights someday. Well, they’re not lights, but lots of paper bound together. I hope that’s enough.
Jesse Klausmeier. For talking me off many cliffs and graciously reading every document I threw at you. You’ve been my literary oasis from the beginning.
Kim Buenrostro Giron and Martha Buenrostro. For showing me how to fold a proper tamale and letting me borrow your beautiful family name.
Nick Edwards: my Shakespeare savior since high school. Hat Night Squad: Wylie Overstreet and Chris Rogers. Shannon Kirk, Elissa Sussman, Margot Wood, Samantha Berger, Casey Gilly, Kim Hutt Mayhew, and Isabel Galupo. The author’s journey to getting their first book published can be a lonely one, but I’m grateful to my writer friends for lending me your shoulders to lean on.
Powell’s Books (shout-out to the Rose Room) and Fort Vancouver Regional Library. Growing up, you were like a second set of parents to me. Thank you for always stocking your shelves with the good stuff.
Many hands make light work. Well, I don’t know how light the work was, but a lot of talented hands touched this project. Much love to all of the folks at FSG who worked on this:
Mallory Grigg, art director and designer
Eleonore Fisher, assistant editor
Naira Mirza, intern extraordinaire
Joy Peskin, executive editorial director
Allison Verost, publisher
Lelia Mander, production editor
John Nora, production manager
Maria Williams, designer
Jen Keenan, designer and hand letterer
Sara Elroubi, publicist
For all the readers who pick up this book. I’m honored to share these words with you.
Lastly, my biggest thanks and gratitude go to Beth. You demanded I pick up a pen when I didn’t have the courage to. Thank you for reading the first draft in one sitting. My favorite beta reader. And for all those late-night note sessions, you really only have your brilliant mind to blame. Love you.
Copyright © 2023 by Brandon Hoàng
