Page 2 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Good.
Let them worry. I’m not here to blend in.
I strut toward the meter, my personal soundtrack blaring in my head—“Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett, obviously—my anthem since before I wore a bra.
Beverly Hills is like the ultimate rich girl’s Instagram feed—flawless, filtered, and fake as hell. Pretentious designer labels. Botoxed smiles. Entitled, holier-than-thou attitudes. Royalty in their own minds. The trees are trimmed to perfection, the trash bins smell of eucalyptus, and even the pigeons may have had a little nip and tuck.
I should know. I grew up here.
I jam my quarter into the parking meter, but it bounces back as if it’sallergic to poor people.
“Come on.” I try again, wiggling it, but the slot is clearly jammed. “Take my money, you greedy little troll!”
I yank out my debit card and tap it against the reader. It blinks. Then nothing.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I tap it again.
Again.
Nothing. No mocking beep. No error message.Shit!
“Screw it. The Beverly Hills meter mafia doesn’t scare me.”
I cram my card back into my wallet, where it lounges in sad solidarity with my maxed-out Visa and an expired condom. I mutter a final curse at the meter. I now have forty minutes to inhale my lunch and talk to my besties. Then it’s back to the hellscape that is my brother’s office.
I step into California Pizza Kitchen and inhale. The holy trinity: dough, cheese, and overpriced IPA.
Edison bulbs dangle like they’re trying to look edgy, abstract art vomits color across the walls, and the crowd is peak LA—assistants power-lunching and tourists who wandered in thinking this is where the celebrities eat.Amateurs.The real power players are three streets over, drinking liquid gold and eating endangered species off the backs of unpaid interns.
The bar’s got a few open seats left, so I slide onto a high-top stool, the leather still warm from someone else’s ass.
The hot bartender’s rocking a man-bun, sleeve tattoos, and a face that says,I may have been an actor in that biker show you didn’t see. He slides me a menu.
“Don’t need it. Whatever IPA is on draft. BBQ chicken pizza. Extra cilantro. No judgment.”
“Why would I judge a woman who knows what she wants?”
“You say that to all the overworked assistants or just the ones in combat boots?”
He grins. “Only the ones who might bite.”
I like him immediately.
As he walks off to place my order, I tap the greenCallbutton on my contact labeled:CPK Forever.
The name’s a tribute to our college obsession with California Pizza Kitchen. Also, our initials: Cam, Petra, Katie.
Camila Morales and Katie Crawford.
My ride-or-dies since freshman year of college.
The people in my life who accept me exactly as I am. Themewho went through a devastating heartbreak and ugly-cried so hard in a bathtub, they both climbed in and hugged me fully clothed.
In my experience, finding friends like that is a fucking miracle, so I cherish the hell out of them.
Katie’s face pops into frame, her blonde hair in perfect waves—despite what looks like a very bumpy bus ride.
