Chapter 1
Los Angeles is disgustingly hot in October. I lug two large pink boxes full of egg tarts and sesame balls as a river of sweat snakes down my back. Pressing my pink-and-white sequin sneakers against the front doors of this random church, I step inside, carefully putting down the boxes when I notice the stained-glass windows.
Sunlight streams in—a rainbow of blood red, royal blue, and succulent green on the blond-gray hardwood floor. I marvel at this perfect potential gallery space with its wide-open layout, bare white walls, and mid-century boho chic furniture. I shake my head. No. I’m done with curating.
“Chloe?” a Latina woman asks.
Her brown curly locks bounce as she shakes my hand. I admire her flowy floral dress and the jangle of crystal bracelets along her bronze arms. She’s got a very relaxed LA style—a mood I still haven’t figured out.
“I brought the samples.”
“Perfect.” She extends a hand. “I’m Lourdes Hernandez, the owner of Ruby Street.” She opens the lid of one box. “Ooh, these egg tarts smell divine.”
“My mom made them this morning.”
Lourdes lifts one out and cups it in her palms. Taking a big bite, she smiles wide. I know the feeling. The combination of the buttery tart crust and the smooth yellow custard is like eating sunshine for breakfast.
“Divine!” She wipes crumbs from her mouth. “Come.”
I follow her. She smells like oranges and sandalwood. I’ve decided sandalwood and pot are the official scents of Los Angeles. I gawk at this church that’s not a church. The interior is more coffee shop/fancy workspace, but the exterior has a church steeple, pointed roofs, and marine-blue paint. The way the sunlight streams in is ideal for art. Not that I’m interested. I’m just impressed. She stops in front of a corner area with a smooth white marble counter, an empty pastry display case, and a black espresso machine.
“This is where we envision the pop-up café. My idea is that different local vendors rotate on a monthly basis. The moment I tasted your dad’s coffee, I knew we had to have Sweet Yen represented. Now that I’ve tasted the pastries, I know our clientele will love it.”
I snap photos for my dad and mom. Dad will be thrilled. He’s been wanting to expand the café beyond the storefront.
I turn around from the coffee counter and stare at the sea of white tables with clear rolling chairs. A coffee table that looks like a slab of wood from a tree. White and gold orbs hang from the ceiling to illuminate the space.
“What is this place? A tech start-up?”
Lourdes laughs. Her jewelry jangles too. “We’re an event space, wedding venue, co-op workspace, and, soon, an art gallery.”
My eyes widen. “This place is my heaven,” I accidentally say out loud.
“We’re going to have a teen night too. You should come.” A buzz sounds from her back pocket. She pulls out her phone. “I gotta take this. Thanks, Chloe!”
I slowly stroll through the different rooms. My mind fills with ideas of what I could do with this sprawling space. In New York City, galleries are closet-sized, but here, there’s so much open area. Sculptures, black-and-white photography, even a light show like James Turrell. Imagine what I could do with a fiber artist like Jake, my handsome, long-distance New York boyfriend, who was called “an eighteen-year-old art phenom” by The New York Times. Thinking of Jake while I’m stuck in still-eighty-five-in-October Los Angeles creates a dull ache in my stomach. I click on my phone’s lock screen to stare at his sparkling sepia eyes, his broad brown nose, and a smile that instantly makes me weak.
I take a few pics, buzzing with the beginnings of several ideas. I bite my lip. I’m getting carried away. I rush out of the not-a-church and hope my buzz disappears as I step outside, cringing at another walk as a total tourist.
No one walks in Los Angeles, and anyone who does moves like a snail in mud. My internal monologue behind each person is: Hurry up!
As I walk back to my parents’ café, I text Jake pics of the space.
Me: Look at this undiscovered gallery space!
Jake: Did you get my package?
I smirk and send him an eggplant and peach emoji. Ever since we had sex six months ago on my sixteenth birthday, it’s all he thinks about. Who am I kidding? It’s on my mind too. But we usually trade texts like these at night under the cover of bedsheets, not in broad daylight. He doesn’t respond.
Before I walk into the café, I decide to send him a selfie. I pose in front, whisking my black bangs into submission. I take seven shots before I’m satisfied. The photo pops up in our long-running text chain. Me: pink V-neck tank top to show off my fantastic bust, a mid-length rainbow skirt that I altered for my petite legs, and a perfect pink lipstick pout that pops against my olive cheeks.
I have a ridiculous smile on my face, thinking of Jake sending back a selfie. At 4 P.M. on a Tuesday, the café is filled with screenwriters typing away on laptops and a few students from my new public school. I’m not in any school clubs yet, so I’ve been helping out. When we arrived, Sweet Yen needed a major makeover. Mom and I took three weeks to clean and spruce it up. I credit my many hours binge-watching Queer Eye (thanks, Bobby Berk!) and my artistic eye for the upgrade in my ahma’s café. It went from functional to modern indoor oasis for creative types. We’ve lived with my ahma Yen ever since a neighbor called my mom at 8 A.M. East Coast time, 5 A.M. here, to tell her that Ahma was in the street in her pajamas. The only person I’d leave NYC for is my ahma. So here I am.
I spot a customer’s cup flipped down on its saucer. I grab the coffee pot to refill it and hustle over. My ahma started one-dollar refills for her regulars, and Dad keeps it going.
“Thanks,” says one. “I need a serious sugar fix to get through this next scene.”
“I highly recommend the taro buns with the custard filling,” I say. “It’s a sugar bomb stuffed inside a carb explosion.”
He nods and I go behind the counter to grab one. The purple bun is bursting with fresh white cream and topped with coconut shreds. It has the perfect squish as I snatch it with tongs. I plate and present it.
“Chloe, mail for you,” says my dad. He wiggles his eyebrows as he froths milk for a cappuccino. “It’s from Jake,” he says all singsongy. “Go ahead and take your break now.”
Oh! Jake meant an actual package. Now I feel like a total perv. I rush toward the back room and push through the cardboard boxes, sacks of sugar, and towers of coffee beans. There it is. Swoon. Like real snail mail. I rip open the brown craft paper to reveal an Adidas shoebox. I slip off the lid. Nestled on top of white tissue paper is a note.
For C-Lo
In his black pen scribble. I bring the notebook paper to my face. It smells just like him. I inhale like it’s his T-shirt after I’ve snugged into him during a scary movie. I close my eyes and picture his strong bronze arms around me. I let myself think of his thick lips on the inside of my neck. I open the letter with a stupid grin on my face.
Hey C-Lo:
I’ve had some time to think since everything happened at my exhibit. Then you and your family had to jet so quickly. To be real with you, I think it’s for the best you left. Your move is a good reason for us to end things.
Hold up. WHAT. I reread the last sentence several times. My vision blurs as I read the rest.
I care about you, you know that. But things got off track in the last few months. You pushed me to do the exhibit, even when I said I wasn’t ready. None of us were, but you were dead set on it. I respect your drive and vision. Hell, you’ve got your whole life planned. Anyway, I’m sending back some of your things that you left behind. Please hug your ahma for me.
I’ll always care about you,
Jake
I riffle through the shoebox. A yellow and black MetroCard from our first date. The three-dollar black umbrella I bought on the street when it downpoured on us, and when Jake kissed me for the first time. The takeout menu from Mamoun’s Falafel where he drew a cartoon version of me with flames coming out of my mouth after I asked for the ghost pepper hot sauce that set my tongue on fire for the entire night. My heart stops at my Met ID pass. The one that Jake doodled all over after my student internship was up. He hid hearts and our initials throughout. His signature style. My heart cracks open when I see the misshapen black and gray knit hat I made for Jake after he taught me how to stitch.
I wipe my tears with the back of my hand and grab the box, heading for the dumpster outside the back of the shop. I can’t believe I lost my virginity to a guy who would dump me through an Adidas shoebox. Seriously. How messed up is that?
Before I chuck the box, I grab my phone to FaceTime my best friend, Selena. I instruct Siri to call Selena, but instead it says, “Here’s what I found. Serena Jameka Williams is an American professional tennis player.”
“Oh my god, phone! I hate you!”
Then, the box slips out of my hands, the contents spilling out onto the black concrete. The flimsy umbrella is splayed out like an octopus. Great. I’m so frustrated that I stomp on the ground like a toddler having a tantrum.
This is the worst day ever.
“Hey,” says a Latina girl. “You okay?”
Oh great. Somebody was watching me. She looks vaguely familiar. Her long brown hair is pulled into a ponytail sticking out of her blue LA Dodgers hat. A sticker-covered skateboard waits like a dog by her feet.
I attempt to appear together by blinking away my tears and smoothing my hair.
“Totally,” I mutter.
“Claire, right? You’re in my AP chem class.”
“Chloe, actually.”
Her name escapes my memory. Jake was always a whiz at remembering names. He’d come up with clever tricks, like calling someone Cat because she wears a cat bracelet and her name is Cathy. We were a good team, we could work a crowd. He’d charm them and I’d figure out exactly what they liked.
“I’m Francesca.”
Francesca surveys the scene. I am embarrassed that all my stuff is on the ground, like the world’s worst stoop sale.
When she turns back to me, she smiles. “Let me guess. You’re throwing your ex’s things in the dumpster.”
I cover my face. “Is it that obvious?”
An ice cream truck’s off-kilter jingle rings behind us.
“I understand what you’re going through.” She wiggles her phone out of the back pocket of her black skinny jeans. “Angela Alvarez.”
I see a gorgeous tattooed Latina smushed against Francesca. Angela’s bright red lipstick is imprinted on Francesca’s left cheek.
Francesca slides through more photos of the two of them together: beach sunsets, taco trucks, on top of a cliff. Francesca laying in grass covered in bright neon pink … silly string.
“Is that silly string?”
“Yeah. She used to prank me with it. That stuff gets everywhere.”
I point to a picture of a car’s glove compartment filled with brown sugar packets. “Is this another prank?”
“I’ve got a crazy sweet tooth,” says Francesca. She smiles, crooked teeth showing. “I stashed sugar packets all over the place. In her car. In her purse. Not anymore.” Her smile fades.
She gestures to my random objects. “Want some help?”
I nod. When we finish putting my failed relationship back into the shoebox, she holds up my yellow MetroCard. She pulls out something in her phone case. It says TAP on the light blue plastic card.
“Our shared TAP card.”
“La La Land has a metro system? For real?”
“Angela and I took it everywhere. Down to the beach. Downtown. Santa Monica. You name it, we’ve been there. We were making our way through the map until she dumped me for Emily. A UCLA freshman. If you’re gonna dump me, at least let it be for a USC frosh. Come on, everyone knows that.”
I shrug my shoulders. I have no idea what Francesca is talking about. Now it’s my turn for this bizarre show-and-tell.
“My guy dumped me from New York with this box.”
“Oof. That’s harsh!”
“Right?” I say.
“At least call a girl.”
“Thank you!”
I tell her about each item. Francesca winces and groans. In a weird way, it’s a relief to know that someone else gets it. I hand over the letter. She reads it. Her brown eyes go wide.
“Yikes!”
It’s the way she says yikes that hits me this is real. Jake, my first boyfriend, has broken up with me. I knew I’d messed up Jake’s last art show, but this stupid shoebox confirms it all. I’m a failure as a girlfriend and as an art curator.
“Hey,” says Francesca. She taps her black high-tops against my white-and-pink sneakers. “We’re better off.”
She presses her blue TAP card against the edge of the café’s green dumpster bin. “On the count of three, let’s toss this crap together.”
I don’t know what possesses me, but I grab the plastic card, catching the edge before it falls over into the pile of coffee grinds and empty sugar sacks.
“I’ll give you twenty bucks for the card.”
Francesca’s well-shaped eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious? It’s got five bucks on it.”
“I want to buy it and other stuff you have too. Venmo?”
“Deal.”
I scan her code and within seconds, Francesca’s breakup TAP card is now mine. She tips her Dodgers hat at me.
“Nice doing business with you.” Francesca grabs her skateboard and hops on. She turns back. “For what it’s worth, that Jake guy is making a big mistake.”
I finally smile.
“Angela too.”
She gives me a salute and skateboards away.
And now, I possess someone else’s random relationship item. If Selena were here, she’d say, Girl, what are you doing?
I rush into the back room with my shoebox and Francesca’s card. It’s a tiny closet, but it has a door that shuts. I told myself that I was done with art curating, but the idea forms fast.
Shoot. I don’t have my Happy Planner Yes You Can notebook. It’s at home on my desk with my colored markers and matching stickers.
I have to get this down and the house is too far. I desperately search for paper and a pen. Any pen will do, though it pains me not to have my Pilot G2 blue ink pen.
I turn over some old café menus and write with a black pen. It’s like scratching words with a stewed Taiwanese-style chicken foot, but I eek out what I need to write down.
A gallery show of break-up boxes. Anonymous. Teenagers only. The exhibit would be a list of what’s in the box and a short statement from the person submitting.
Music: breakup songs. On a loop.
Food: Ooh, pints of ice cream? No, it’ll all melt. Something that’s a universal break-up food. What could that be? I’ve never been dumped before. Sad face. Sad face.
Title of the exhibit: Heartifacts (!!!). Too much?
Venue: Ruby Street. That place is so gorgeous. Ask Lourdes Hernandez.
Guest list:???
I stop scribbling with the nearly dead black pen. Right. I’m one month in to Los Angeles, which means I have zero friends and zero connections. It’s not like Selena and my crew are going to fly cross-country for a bunch of rando shoeboxes. And definitely not Jake. Maybe this is a stupid idea. Do I want to be a failure on another coast?
But I post the ad on my @PlanItGirl Instagram anyway. Just to see.
BEEN DUMPED?
For a possible art show, I’ll pay $20 for your break-up objects for anyone ages 13–18. To apply, click the link in my bio and fill out the form. Must share details about what’s in your box, why it matters to you, and why you broke up.
Ship to Sweet Yen Café, 5818 York Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90042. Privacy will be protected and full names will not be listed in the exhibit.
I upload a pic of my Jake box with the personal details blurred out. I quickly create a Google Form. I review it three times for typos, then post a link in my Insta bio.
If no one responds, it’ll be a funny story to tell Selena and only twenty bucks wasted on Francesca’s TAP card. No big deal.
ARTIFACTS OF AN EX. Copyright © 2023 by Jennifer Chen.
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