There was a stubborn and petulant part of Fatima that was determined to be as miserable as possible. Having a good time implied that she was okay with just being whooshed out of her world. And she didn't want to be okay with it. She was born a control freak and she would die one.

Still. A girl had to eat.

And Fatima--a true California girl--couldn't resist the promise of something spicy.

Whatever it was delivered. It wasn't exactly her mother's cooking, but Fatima decided it would do. And she was almost, maybe, sort of enjoying herself. Until a lightweight nearby accidentally spilled milk all over her.

At least he was cute. And apologetic.

Fatima smiled, taking a napkin from him. "Which one was that?"