Page 3 of Find My Way Down to You

Dad would love that. Knowing I’m using my gap year to refill toilet paper dispensers. That I’m working at a pizzeria instead of being a freshman in college.

Fall quarter at UC Santa Barbara started this week. That’s where I’m supposed to be. That was the plan.

Our plan.

But even after struggling to fill out the application and pretending the acceptance decision mattered, I knew I couldn’t do it without him.

Without London.

When I emerge from cleaning the toilets, a melodic popsong is playing overhead. Something from the eighties. Viva Catalina’s music taste matches its decor: nostalgic. From the classic red gingham covering the plush booths and stools to the art on the walls. Not the kind of place eighteen-year-olds like me and Max would go voluntarily.

Which is why I like it. I never run into old classmates. Kids who know what happened sophomore year.

“Order sixteen! Double pepperoni to go for Dana!” Max calls out.

I slide behind the counter to fold napkins around clean silverware next to her. “Whatisthis?” I point to the speakers.

She snorts. “Not a fan?”

“No.”

“Well, Angela loves this stuff.”

I try not to grimace. “Does shehatethe customers?”

Max rolls her eyes. She’s unfairly pretty. Silky, straight raven black hair scooped up into a bun on her head. Warm beige skin with hints of rose in her cheeks. She has her mom’s heart-shaped face and her dad’s delicate bone structure.

“No one cares but you,” she comments.

The pizzeria is slow for a Thursday in late September. At the far corner booth, someone sits, head bowed. A group of thirtysomethings share a pie outside on the patio. The regulars gather at the bar: Miranda, crunching on a salad; Howard, piling grated Parmesan on his cheese slice; Hal, peeling off his ball cap, sweat dripping off his pale white skin as he orders his usual. But Max is right.

No one seems to care about the music. Only me.

I feel an itch in my palm. A want to scrawl lyrics on a blank page. To write something different, better. I quickly shut that feeling down. Who would I show it to, anyway?

“Hey.” Max nudges me. She’s a generous five foot six. But I’m six one. The height difference means her pointy elbow collides with my lower ribs. “Can you run an order to table nine?”

“The corner booth?” I look up from the same fork-and-knife duo I’ve folded and refolded three times now. “Why can’t you?”

“I’m busy.”

My eyes narrow. “With what?”

She holds up her phone like that’s an answer. “I’m texting a girl. We met at orientation. I think she likes me.”

“How can you tell?” I ask.

Max gives me an incredulous glare. She once told me she gives off clear sapphic vibes. I laughed until I was breathless. It’s another of the many reasons I love her. There is no greater gift in the world than having a friend as queer as you.

“I need a better excuse than that,” I say.

She ponders. “Best friend law?”

I’ve known Maxine Cho since ninth grade. Back when she fearlessly dumped her jug of ice water on a trio of boys who called me Sideshow Bob and tossed my books across the hallway floor. She didn’t even flinch after they sneered at her. There was a spark in her brown eyes, as vibrant as lightning.

I knew in that moment we’d be best friends.

Since then, she’s always had my back. Even at my worst, Max has been there. It’s still not enough to convince me to do her job for her.