by Lisa Yee
But this is different. Though I don’t want to compete, I want to win. I want to show Uncle Benny that I am worthy of Benito’s Taco Truck #4. I want to keep this job. I need to keep it. I’m not going back to Kissimmee, ever.
What would have been my mother’s wedding day is coming up. I wonder if she got the present I sent.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
I get to work early, just as the taco truck pulls up. Jess has posted our list of Benito’s Taco Truck Tenets where everyone can see it. When I don’t see anyone inside with her, my pace picks up. Hopefully Uncle Benny’s a no-show. Just thinking about the test has left my stomach in knots.
“Hey Jess. Is the torture test still on?”
“Yep. Uncle Benny’s coming after the lunch rush. Now, Maybe,” Jess lowers her voice even though there’s no one around. “Do your best. You know, just do what you’ve been doing all summer. When Uncle Benny does his taste test, he’ll see how great you are.”
“You did fine on your own before you met me,” I protest.
Jess acts like I’ve thrown a glass of water on her. “Maldita sea, Maybelline, what is your problem? You’re a wonderful cook, you can do this— “No I can’t! Jess, I don’t want to be in some competition. Besides, why is Uncle Benny getting so bent out of shape? It’s just tacos.”
“It’s not ‘just tacos,’” Jess says angrily. “I can’t believe you would say that.” She turns her back to me and takes out the tortillas. “Do whatever’s best for you, Maybe. I don’t care.”
The silence echoes in the taco truck.
“Here, give those to me,” I offer, reaching for the tortillas. Jess ignores me. The truck feels like it’s getting smaller. I finish slicing the limes and then step out to get some air. Maybe I’ll just go to Sammy’s. Jess is fine on her own. She really doesn’t need me. I would just embarrass her in front of Uncle Benny.
I can hear Jess calling after me as I cross the busy highway. The line outside the truck is starting to form. Jess motions for me to come back, but I don’t respond. After a while she gives up .
CHAPTER SIXTY
HONK! Someone is honking at me. “Hey, baby, want a lift?”
“Ted, what are you doing here?”
“I’m hungry. Plus I’m picking up a painting for Miss de la Tour and I was in the neighborhood. Why are you standing over here? Shouldn’t you be in there?” he says, gesturing to Benito’s Taco Truck #4.
There are only a few people milling about the truck now. I check my watch. Was I standing in the same spot for almost three hours? I adjust my baseball cap.
“Jess wants me to cook for Uncle Benny,” I try to explain. “He doesn’t want a gringa on the truck unless she can cook. I guess he’s afraid I’m going to be an embarrassment to the taco world.”
Ted flips open his cigarette case and takes out two candy cigarettes. He tucks the second one behind his ear. “Well, let’s think about this. Yeah, you could be an embarrassment, I can see that.”
“Gee, thanks, friend.”
“I was going to add that on the other hand you could be a credit to taco eaters everywhere. But now I’m not going to say that. Nor am I going to mention that your running away from everything is getting redundant. Nor am I going to say that Jess saved your sorry butt by giving you a job. Otherwise you’d be wiping up barf from Ike and Tina Turner, or whoever you were supposed to baby sit.”
Crap. Why does he always do this to me?
“You know what I think?” I ask.
Ted gives me a smug smile. “Actually, I do. Come on.” He holds out his arm and I take it.
“Why did the Maybe cross the road?” Ted asks as we dodge the cars.
“To get to the other side,” I answer.
Jess is cleaning up. She greets Ted warmly but ignores me. I bend down to pick up some trash. “You don’t need to do that,” Jess says coolly.
“I want to.”
“I thought you didn’t work here anymore.”
“She’s sorry she’s screwing everything up,” Ted explains as he admires the taco photos. “I’ll take a number three and a number seven.”
“Maybelline, you’re such a pain,” Jess says, shaking her head.
“So I’ve been told. I’m sorry, Jess. Really. I think I’m just nervous.”
Jess’s smile warms me. “Nothing to be nervous about, Maybe. Just be yourself.”
In no time, Jess and I are back in the truck laughing and talking. This feels like home and I’m having so much fun that I’m taken off guard when a maroon Chevy Monte Carlo pulls up. Los Lobos blasts from the car.
“Uncle Benny,” Jess whispers.
Quickly, I wipe my hands on a paper towel and follow Jess. Ted has already cornered him. “You’re scary Uncle Benny?” he squawks. Both Jess and I groan at the same time. “I thought you’d be really old with a big fat belly. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight,” Uncle Benny says. He looks confused as Ted grills him about his work, the silver hood ornament on his car, and his choice of hair-care products.
Uncle Benny wears the scowl of a male model. His black hair is slicked back, but there’s a wave to it. His mustache is trimmed neatly, and his muscles bulge beneath his Benito’s Taco Truck T-shirt.
“. . . so I told Maybe—that’s her over there.” Ted gestures to me. I give Uncle Benny a small wave. “I told her, why are you scared of Uncle Benny? You haven’t even met him yet. And she said, ‘What if he’s a jerk I hide in the truck. I can’t take this.
“Maybe?” It’s Jess. “Come on out. I want you to meet him.”
As Jess pushes me toward Uncle Benny, Ted is still going full force. Now he’s talking about Gloria de la Tour.
“I thought she died a long time ago,” Uncle Benny says.
“I know!” Ted says, waving his arms. “That’s why I am orchestrating her comeback.”
“Uncle Benny,” Jess interrupts. “This is my friend Maybe.”
I feel myself shrinking as he looks me over. He scowls. “So you think you can make tacos?”
“She has been. All summer. And they’re good,” Jess says.
“We’ll see.” Uncle Benny crosses his arms. The skull tattoo on his biceps makes me cringe. “Benito’s Taco Trucks have a reputation to uphold. It’s a family-run business, and we’ve never had an outsider work for us before. You’re not even Mexican.”
Uncle Benny is staring at me so hard that I wonder if he can see me back in Kissimmee living above a charm school. I take a deep breath and raise my eyes to meet his glare. “I can understand why you would want to make sure that you have only the best on your taco trucks. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have Jess. But she’s the one who trained me, and you’ll see that she’s good at what she does.”
I turn toward the truck, then call out, “What would you like me to make?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Slowly I step into the taco truck. It feels like the first time I’ve ever been here. I tie a fresh apron around my waist and fire up the grill and the burners. At first I overcook the carne asada, so I have to do it over. I sprinkle too many onions on the carnitas. I spill the salsa. But after a while, I start getting into a rhythm and stop thinking about Uncle Benny. Instead I think about tacos.
A good taco is like a work of art. It’s not showy or pretentious. It’s unfussy. It’s familiar, yet each bite is like a wonderful surprise. The meat is grilled just right—slightly crisp on the edges, but juicy and tender when you bite down. We use only fresh ingredients like firm red tomatoes and deep green cilantro. The onions are caramelized or chopped, depending on the order. Handmade yellow corn tortillas are warmed on the grill, never served cold. They are thick enough to hold the taco, but they don’t overwhelm the fillings or fall apart.
The salsa is made daily. The guacamole is hand-mashed and chunky, using ripe California avocados, green onions, and spices.
The carrots and radishes that are served on the si
de are pickled and crunchy. But really, it’s all about the taco.
Each taco is made fresh. I can size up a taco eater by the way he orders. Jess has taught me to listen to the customer. If they hesitate or ask questions, they’re a newbie and we should go mild on them, even if they ask for hot. “You can ramp up the heat later, but you can’t take it down,” she once said.
I’ve seen men come here hungry and in foul moods, and I’ve watched their faces change when they take their first bite. I’ve seen them eat eagerly, lick their fingers, and use a bit of tortilla to sop up the juices and scoop up the last bit of meat. I’ve watched them return to work happy and satisfied, ready for whatever comes their way.
A taco is not just a taco.
For the next hour I am chopping, grilling, seasoning. I even whip up a batch of salsa when we’ve run out. Jess races back and forth between the truck and Uncle Benny. With each taco I send out, I feel better. I am actually enjoying myself. Anything Uncle Benny asks for, I can make. Plus I’m fast.
“You’re doing great,” Jess whispers. “He practically smiled a couple of times.”
As Jess takes out a plate of al pastor, I yell out, “Tell him to have it with an orange Jarritos to balance the taste.”
I make the last taco of the day, then turn off the grill and the burners. This one’s for me. Carnitas, chopped onions, cilantro, a squeeze of lime, salsa, and a generous portion of guacamole. Exhausted and exhilarated, I sit across from Uncle Benny and say, “Not bad for a gringa, eh?”
He fixes a stern look on his face, then raises his soda bottle to me. “Maybelline, consider yourself Mexican.”
Jess and I high-five. Uncle Benny laughs.
“See, I told you!” Ted says, shoving me.
“So, your dad took those?” Uncle Benny asks, motioning to the numbered taco photos up on the truck. He doesn’t look as scary anymore.
I nod without bothering to correct him.
“Business has picked up,” says Jess. “I’ve even created combinations for people who don’t have a lot of imagination. Have you seen this?” she asks, pointing to Benito’s Taco Truck Tenets. “It was Maybe’s idea.”
“This friend of yours is quite a businesswoman,” Uncle Benny says. “Where does she get it from?”
“She gets it from her mother,” Ted answers. “But she’ll deny it!”
CHAPTER SIXTY- ONE
As Ted drives me up the hill to Sammy’s, a taxi comes around the corner and almost hits us. “Watch where you’re going!” Ted shouts, shaking his fist like an old man.
I’m in too good a mood to berate cab drivers. Uncle Benny likes my tacos! I’ve got a bag of them for Willow and a couple of jars of salsa for Sammy from Jess. I’m going to suggest that Uncle Benny bottle and sell the salsa in stores.
“I’ve gotta get this painting to Miss de la Tour,” Ted says as he drops me off. “You did great today, Maybe. You’re not a total loser, even if you look like one.”
I shove Ted and he shoves me back, and we both grin like idiots.
I float into the living room. Willow is sitting ramrod straight on the couch, facing someone whose back is to me. When she sees me, Willow rises and walks slowly in my direction as if she has a plate on her head and an egg on the plate. I think she’s going to stop and talk, but instead she hisses through gritted teeth, “Don’t you people ever call first?” Then she keeps walking right out the front door.
Slowly, I approach the couch. I can smell the Shalimar perfume.
“Chessy?”
My mother turns around and stands up. She is in all her glory, wearing what looks like a new peach-colored Ridgeway original. Full makeup. Big hair. She takes one look at me and says, “Maybelline, what did you do to yourself this time?”
“Hello Mother,” I say, touching what’s left of my hair. “Welcome to California.”
I am about to say something more when I see her eyes well up with tears. Mine do the same. She takes a tentative step toward me and I meet her halfway.
Our hug is awkward, but I’ll take it. Neither of us knows what to do afterward. Finally, I say, “So I assume you got my present.”
Chessy dabs her eyes with a tissue. “You know I don’t fly economy. But since you sent a first class ticket, I decided I may as well come for a little visit.”
“I’m glad you did.”
My mother takes a piece of paper out of her purse and slips on her reading glasses. She clears her throat and begins. “Maybelline, I am aware that my past actions may have caused you pain. I know my drinking has been a hardship— “What are you doing?”
Chessy glares at me. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Maybelline! Would you let me finish? I have to do this. It’s part of AA’s twelve-step program, okay? Apologizing to you is number nine.”
“Go right ahead,” I say.
She adjusts her glasses and starts over. “Maybelline, I am aware that my past actions may have caused you pain. I know my drinking has been a hardship and I pledge to make amends for all the suffering I may have caused you.” She puts the paper down. “I’m sorry, Maybelline.” When I don’t respond immediately, my mother says, “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said I’m sorry.”
My breathing quickens as I flash back to her drinking, to her put-downs. To Jake. I look at my mother sitting on the couch clutching her piece of paper. She doesn’t look like the confident beauty queen she once was. She looks like someone who’s scared.
“I am too,” I say.
Chessy looks relieved. Then, as if the past few minutes never existed, she says, “So, tell me, how’s the taco truck business?”
“You know about that?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d let you come all the way to California and not know what you’ve been up to. What kind of mother do you think I am?”
I don’t answer. Damn that Ted. He’s been telling her what I’ve been doing all this time?
“It’s good,” I stammer. “The tacos are good. And you, how are you?”
“Well, it’s a miracle that I made it here in one piece. The stewardesses were so unaccommodating. Every time I asked for something like an extra pillow or more ice to freshen my drink, they’d act like it was uncalled for. And they looked so frumpy. I always thought stewardesses were supposed to be glamorous. They could use some of Chessy s Charm School, let me tell you.
“Oh! And my luggage. My luggage has gone missing, can you believe that? They claimed they will locate it and deliver it this evening. By the way, do you think Sammy would mind if I stayed here?”
My mother got on a plane to see me and she said she was sorry. Is this really happening?
Chessy appraises the room. “My, my, my, Mr. Sammy Wing looks like he’s done pretty well for himself. Very nice,” she murmurs. “Very, very nice. This place must be worth well over a million dollars.”
My mother then turns her sights on me and frowns. “The hair really is atrocious, worse than before, if you can believe that. You’ve got some color on your face, that’s good, and you look so much better without that Goth girl makeup. However, some mascara and shadow won’t kill you. You know, I really do hurt when I see people who could do a better job with their makeup. I’m like the Mother Theresa of makeovers. Maybelline, did you lose weight? It looks like you lost a ton of weight. But your clothes are hideous. . . .”
As she rambles on about what a disappointment I am, I can’t help but feel good.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
It’s nighttime. My mother is still here. “What do you mean there’s no liquor?” she sounds shocked.
“Chessy, you’re not supposed to drink.”
“I didn’t say I wanted a drink, I just asked if there was liquor in the house. You know, in case of an emergency or something.”
“You know that Sammy doesn’t drink.”
“I would have thought he’d have grown up by now. What about the girl—his girlfriend or whatever—does she drink?”
“Nope. Sammy won’t let her.”
; “That’s ridiculous! Besides, she looked like she could use a drink. Did you see how strange she was acting?”
Willow hasn’t returned and the airline still hasn’t located my mother’s luggage. We’re both at the dining-room table. “These aren’t as good as when they’re fresh from the grill,” I say as I watch her eat a taco with a fork and knife. “I made them this afternoon.”
My mother looks up, surprised. “Maybelline, this is delicious. There’s no way you could have made this. You must have had help from Jennifer.”
“Her name’s Jessica, and no, she didn’t help me. I made them by myself. Her uncle Benny came to judge my cooking.”
Chessy’s eyes flicker with interest. “Did you win?”
“I think so.”
“You think so, or you know so? Did you get a trophy?”
I shake my head.
“A crown?” she says.
“They don’t give crowns for making tacos,” I start to explain. When I see that she’s smiling, I smile too. I didn’t know Chessy was capable of joking about the beauty pageant business.
“Well, they should give you a crown,” Chessy says, taking another bite. “Perhaps cooking tacos is your talent.”
I feel warm inside. It makes me feel good to see her enjoying my cooking. When she’s on her second taco, I tell her, “I met Gunnar.”
Chessy gags, then coughs. She takes a sip of water. “Who?” she asks innocently.
“Gunnar, from Alligator Alley. Only now he goes by the name Gary Germain. Is he my father?”
My mother abandons her tacos and walks around the room, stopping to stare at the ocean. “What does it matter anyway?”
She looks tired. Her makeup is starting to wear thin and I can see the bags under her eyes.
“It doesn’t,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter. He’s a jerk.”
Chessy softens. “Do you think so?”
“I really think so.”
“He is a jerk,” she agrees. She raises her chin and adds, “Of course, Gunnar begged me to marry him. He wanted to bring me to Hollywood and make me a star, you know.”
