Page 98 of Resurrection
25NAOMI [THE PAST]
It wasone of those Sundays when the whole house smelled like posole, and you had to yell over Adri's loud music to ask him to turn the volume down.
We sat crowded around the old kitchen table, the one with claw marks from the raccoon Adri tried to make a pet when he was twelve. Poor animal lasted three days before running off into the wild.
Mom gave me a look. Dad's expression matched hers. We had a family subscription for looks like that, bought in bulk and saved for emergencies.
Mom lowered her spoon. "The grant,mija, it’s not something you just throw away."
"I’m not throwing anything away, Mom," I countered.
"This camp can open up a lot of doors," Dad added.
I shifted in my seat, touching my napkin to my lips. "LA's my first choice," I announced, projecting my voice across the table to make sure it landed. They heard me all right, but their silence was louder. Ever since I’d floated the idea of moving to LA with Ty last weekend, it’d been like this—walls going up and conversations skidding sideways.
Senior year flipped everything on its head too quickly for me to keep up. One moment, I was nose-deep in textbooks and food truck work, and the next, I had a ticket to ride into celebrity-chef territory.
The reality show producer who frequented The Gobbler while his crew was filming in Palm Springs brought his culinary genius of a friend to the food truck one day—a guy who made magic happen with rice and saffron on TV. Even my dad knew him from Food Network. He was the one with the newshow idea.
One word led to another, and then Adri was driving me to LA, where we met him at his restaurant in West Hollywood.
For two whirlwind days, I was tethered to the kitchen like it was some sacred temple bubbling over with spices and savory secrets waiting to be unraveled. Each dish he crafted was more jaw-dropping than the last. It felt like watching art come alive. When we were finally about to leave the city, the chef had handed me a golden ticket: an invitation to his culinary boot camp for aspiring chefs. And a check for five thousand dollars to pay for travel expenses. I was headed for three weeks of nothing but the majestic Colorado mountains and food.
For someone who wanted to be on Food Network one day, this was a dream come true. But Tyler Brady’s dream overshadowed mine. His dream seemed more important, more urgent.
"When you said you had a backup plan," Mom went on, snapping me back to reality, "we didn’t think you meant the Colorado trip was it. We thought going to Los Angeles was the backup plan. Plus, you've been accepted to UC Riverside."
"It’s stupid," Adri barked from the other end of the table.
Dad watched me with those big, intense eyes, the ones he gave to me and Adri. Right now, they looked better on my brother, and I wanted to slap him for it. Or maybe just for hating on Ty.
"It’s not up for discussion," I said. "I’m just informing you that I want to go to LA after graduation. I’ll be eighteen then. You can’t tell me what to do." I took a deep breath, one of those that made you lightheaded. "It’s decided."
Mom set down her spoon, and the clatter seemed to go on forever. I glanced at the wall, where our family stared back at us from mismatched frames. My first birthday, Adri's high school graduation, Dad trying to look serious and failing. I didn't remember who'd taken that photo of him, but he'd taken most of the ones he wasn't in.
Presently, he was squinting at me, a little softer now. "So culinary school isn’t a priority anymore,mija? You’re betting everything on the Brady boy?"
There it was. They were making me choose again. "It's still an option," I countered, but I don't want to study chemical engineering. And that's all they have to offer in UC Riverside that has anything to do with food. I'd still be transferring later on. Why waste time? I'd rather make money first and so I can pay for culinary school."
Adri laughed, a short, sharp sound. "An option? I didn't drive you to LA for nothing, Shrimp." He tossed a piece of bread into his mouth, leaning back in his chair.
"I mean it." I looked right at him to match his stare. My fork slipped out of my hand and hit the floor, and Mom got up to fetch me another. "Ty and Iplanned this." I felt my back stiffening. My spine was as straight as the dining chairs.
Mom's eyes were concerned. "Getting noticed by a celebrity chef is no small matter."
"I understand, but—" I shifted again, the cushion rough under me. "Colorado is a backup plan. Because what's the point if I can't afford to go to an actual culinary school right after?"
Mom exchanged a look with Dad, their wrinkles forming a little map of disapproval.
"Mija," Dad pressed. "You shouldn't bank your entire future on this boy."
This boy. Ty was everything to me. Hewasmy future. "You know we're seeing each other, right? This isn't new." We never really announced our relationship. By the time, our parents saw us holding hands openly, the rest of the Coachella Valley already knew. It kind of just became pointless to hide.
"Doesn't mean we have to like it," Dad muttered, wiping a spot of sauce from his sleeve. "Following him to LA?—"
"I'm not following," I said. "It's what we both want. LA is the place to be if you want to meet celebrities. Isn’t that what you want for me? To be on TV and not to work on the truck for the rest of my life like some low-level servant?"
The room went quiet except for the old clock ticking above the fridge. Tick. Tick. Like my time was running out. As soon as the phrase left my mouth, I wanted to take it back. I knew I was wrong, but I was too proud to apologize.
