North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  “You’re probably right. Besides, our customers love us. They love you.” She wraps the bills with a rubber band, sticks them into a black fabric money envelope, and hands it to me. “We did good today.”

  “They really loved the cannoli. We’re going to have to bring it back next week.”

  “Everything you make is excellent.” She loops her arm around my neck. She smells like the truck—smoke, garlic, and oil—and she was next to the window the entire shift. I probably stink, and it makes me more grateful she hasn’t yet let go.

  “Thanks, Jaz.”

  “Tell Ally I hope her interview went well. She’s cool. Talks in her sleep, though.”

  “She used to sleepwalk, too. Creative minds. They work overtime.”

  “Like someone I know. I mean, I bet you haven’t stopped thinking of Drew.” The way she says his name is wistful and needy.

  And while I really haven’t been thinking of him, all caught up in our fiasco, the mere mention of his name sends my heart to running speed. “Whatever. Today was proof. I don’t have the headspace.”

  “Oh, honey. It’s not headspace you need. It’s heart space.” She slings her messenger bag across her body. “I have to go. I’ve got a coffee date across the street.” She winks.

  “Really? With who?”

  “Some guy from the business school.”

  “Wait, this isn’t the IT guy . . .” I rack my brain for his name. I love Jasmine’s sense of freedom, and her willingness to embrace fun and risk. I can’t lie, at times I live vicariously through her adventurous spirit.

  “Nope. That was Nick. This one’s Carson. It’s our first date.” She winks. “But yeah, no more up-front customer service for you. You and your unwieldy temper.”

  The silence is deafening when I shut the rig door, and after a moment to compose myself, I sit on a folding stool, log into my phone, and type my password slowly.

  Nonna, if you are up there right now, please spare me the utter humiliation of my wrongdoing.

  I open Lucianna’s social media app, taking in the big red number. I have about a hundred notifications. Which means someone has tagged me at least one hundred times by name or by picture.

  No.

  I scroll down. And scroll. And scroll. Photos of Blake, palms up in surrender, my profile barely hidden by the truck’s awning. Faces of people around him in obvious horror, dotted by others who are doubled over in laughter.

  My heart hammers in my chest as I read the comments.

  @foodlover: Looks like someone made @Lucianna mad. Get it girl. Set ’em straight. #Girlpower

  * * *

  @foodido: I was in line behind this loser! He deserved everything that came at him.

  * * *

  @princessfoodie: @Lucianna is this a joke? Who treats customers this way? Spartans, to boot! #Block

  * * *

  @pickymommy: You’d better believe I’m not paying another cent to this truck. #Block

  * * *

  And more.

  My stomach plummets. How will I spin this? This is supposed to be my forte, this communication with customers. In our business, we need it to survive. Now I’ve screwed it up.

  I put my face in my hands and growl. What the hell do I do?

  I take two deep breaths and throw myself onto my feet. I do what I know will calm me down, what will help me think. My fingers turn on the press and pull out Gruyère and cheddar from the fridge and two slices of ciabatta from a cupboard. After greasing the grates of the press generously with butter, I layer cheeses onto one slice of bread. My mouth waters when the pungent smell of Gruyère hits my nose, when the bread browns and cheese escapes from the sides and sizzles on the pan. With a spatula, I push the cheese right up against the bread, every bit of it delicious and crunchy. None of it should be wasted.

  While I plate my panini, Nonna’s words come to me: Unless it’s burned to a crisp, there’s a way to save it.

  She was right. I have to take these burned edges and gather myself together. For Lucianna, for Ally, and for me. The only choice is to flip this situation around.

  May 14

  Drew,

  Do you really want to know what I’d love? I’d love it if you had friends who weren’t jerks. What is it with that asshole Blake?

  I stare at my words, the beginning of a bitchfest I’m dying to let go. But my pointer finger and the last bit of my conscience denies me the satisfaction. It presses the delete button on my phone until every letter is erased.

  8

  DREW

  I became a full-fledged True North employee by Monday morning. The first order I received: to brave the city’s Planning Department with my mother and apply for our building expansion permit. Which meant hours of waiting for our number to flash in a sterile waiting room, to be helped with something that only takes five minutes. To be honest, I would have rather been scraping seagull crap off of Bryn’s car. Being outside, in the open air, was where I thrived.

  I have been sitting on a maroon-upholstered padded chair for approximately thirty-four minutes when a singular drum beat—an email notification—catapults me from my seat. I dive into my phone and punch in my security code.

  “The sign says no cell phones allowed,” Ma hisses, and purses her lips toward the sign on the wall, below the red digital numbers.

  “This won’t take long,” I say. “It’s a city permit office for Christ’s sake, not the Pentagon.”

  “Iho, do not use the Lord’s name in vain.”

  I mumble an apology, but it doesn’t stop me from scrolling on my phone.

  It’s been two days. Surely Camille will have written back. But after a check and a double check through my in-box, the offending email that caused the notification is spam, from pill pushers promising a larger penis size in six weeks.

  Seventy percent off clearance prices for 50 percent growth. Great.

  After setting the phone screen-down on my leg, I scrub my face. Clean-shaven today. A miracle, since according to Bryn, I’m exhibiting classic desperate behavior—obsessively checking emails, my ringtone volume, and every notification.

  Surely the other night won’t be the end of it? Camille and I fell right into our comfortable banter. Into an honesty I thought went above the normal hookup.

  See? Desperate.

  I grumble into my hands.

  “Don’t worry, we’re only twelve numbers away.” Ma pulls a notebook from her bag and opens it to an empty page. Graph paper. She scribbles a rectangle while she says, “I appreciate you coming with me. I hate driving through downtown.”

  Anything done on graph paper draws me in like a bee to honey. I can’t help it. I bite. “You’re mighty focused on that box, Ma.”

  “Not a box. The kitchen.” She lifts her gaze, and then I see it. Panic. “Your papa wants to me to design the new layout. He wants it to be different, but I’m used to cooking in the kitchen we have now, you know? Ovens on one side, fridge on the other, sink on the third wall. How would I change it?”

  I scratch my chin, just as the number on the wall clicks to the next. The group seated behind us approaches the counter. Behind the receptionist are several desks lined up in rows. There’s virtually no privacy, but the paper traffic is streamlined: from the receptionists, to one table in the back, and then to the billing agent on the left. The group is in and out of the office in less than ten minutes.

  The idea flashes across me as the receptionist says, “Forty-two? Forty-two.”

  “Gimme it.” I ask for the notebook, which Ma hands over. I draft long and short lines, circles and dashes, lassoing my knowledge of space and aesthetic. It’s a moment on the page, but it causes me to sit up in my chair. Like the drafting classes I had in high school, where the minuscule blue boxes held so much potential. Build from the ground up. When the Army recruiter showed me I could work as an engineer
right out of college, I signed up for ROTC, then and there. It was a no-brainer decision to do what I loved.

  After I’m done, my mother rotates the notebook ninety degrees, then she tilts her head to the side. “Three sides.”

  “Yep.”

  “An open box?”

  “An open kitchen,” I say.

  The transformation on my mother’s face is slow initially, the confusion stuck on the frown on her face. Then a hint of a smile appears. “An open kitchen where everyone can see all the fun. Maybe behind glass?”

  I nod. “Some soundproofing might be necessary, but wouldn’t it be fuc— I mean, great to watch the food being cooked? Everyone wearing the same uniform. Then maybe take out the wall here, see”—I point to the eastern wall—“and put in a window here, to view the ocean.”

  The ideas pour out of my mouth easily, encouraged by my ma’s enthusiasm. She grabs the pencil from my hand, extends the line where the kitchen meets the dining room. She draws in circles for tables, another long bar.

  “Nice,” I say, totally understanding where she’s going. “Bar seating for walk-ins. Could introduce some specialty drinks for late-night guests.”

  “You are an absolute genius.”

  “Eh, all in a day’s work. But you can always pay me back with arroz caldo.” I nudge my shoulder against hers. “No one can make chicken and rice soup better than you.”

  She pats me on the knee. “I’ll make more than arroz caldo. Crispy pata, too, with your favorite dipping sauce—soy sauce with vinegar and garlic.”

  My mouth waters with the thought of it. Roast pork is my favorite. It trumps every finger food I’ve tasted in every restaurant or food stand. We both know every morsel will be wiped clean from the plate.

  “Too long, Andrew. You’ve been away from home too long. You need food from my kitchen, not ramen and takeout.”

  “I get enough to eat, I promise. I mean, get a load of these muscles.” I flex my left bicep, and then my right. “Impressed?”

  “No. Still too skinny. Women like boulders, not rocks. While you’re home, I’m going to fatten you up.”

  Settling into my seat, I’m warmed by her demands. “Trust me, Ma. Women like my muscles.” I wink, though under this false bravado I’m tempted to ask her for some much-needed advice about Camille.

  Hell, she might actually remember Camille. I talked about her enough my freshman year.

  “Ay nako.” Oh geez. My mom grins back, the smile lines around her eyes and mouth crinkle into folds I’d forgotten about. Or were they there when I left? A pang hits me in the chest.

  Yeah, I’ve missed this, too. In my family, food means love. My parents combed over recipes and filled their round table with different versions of the same dish. It made sense they went into the restaurant business eight years ago. Ritchie, it was called back then, named after my dad. Homegrown Filipino comfort food with mismatched chairs and condiments on the table, clanking pots and pans in the kitchen.

  Everything was perfect until my father assumed I would take over the business.

  “Hey . . . what are you doing?” My eyebrows shoot upward at the sight of my mother texting. “No cell phones in here, lady.”

  “I have to text your papa. He will be thrilled with your idea. No time to lose.”

  I press my lips down for a slight smile. She pecks on her smartphone at a torturously slow pace. Which gives me the opportunity to check my phone again for my own notifications.

  No dice.

  “He says he’s done at the Public Health Department and he’ll meet us here.”

  “Great.” Not sure what to say, or what emotion to show, I look at my watch. There’s no way I can sit with my pop in this office for an hour, not in this quiet. I’d hear every silent complaint, all his disappointment.

  Sensing my hesitation, my mother takes her routine stance in this perpetual chess game. She’s all Switzerland. Neutral. “Your papa is so happy to have you home.”

  I sigh. “He sure has a funny way of showing it.”

  She clucks her tongue. “Ignore him. If I took everything he said to heart, I would be a crumbling mess. You know your father. He is blustery and sometimes rough to everyone—”

  “To me.”

  “Yes, to you, too. But try to read between the lines. What I see is that you have given him a happiness he can’t express, Andrew.”

  I shake my head and change the subject. This office is neither the time nor place to justify my feelings. “I’m fading fast. Want coffee?”

  “That sounds heavenly. But not from the machines.” She stuffs folded dollar bills into my hand. “Bridge to Bridge is one block down.”

  “Ma. I’m a grown-up. I can pay for our coffee.”

  “Go, go.” She pushes me off my chair and shoos me away with a hand.

  Tucking my phone into my pocket, I lumber out of the gray concrete building and onto Market Street. It’s a Monday, so pedestrian traffic is thick. Cars inch along, bumper to bumper, broken up by the occasional food truck. The aroma of fried food hits my nose, and my stomach growls.

  My body is ready to eat itself by the time I get to Bridge to Bridge Cafe. A bell chirps when I pull open the door, and I’m greeted with the soul-jarring smell of coffee and a line that rivals the one in the office I just left.

  But I know there’s a line everywhere in this city. This will have to do. And showing up with a cappuccino might grease the skids when my pop finally arrives. He lives on that stuff, whereas I am all about black coffee. The thicker, the better.

  Settling in, I do what everyone in line does—check my phone—until a sound takes me out of my thoughts. Of a woman laughing. The cafe’s not quiet by any means, and everyone is immersed in their own conversations, but I swear I know that laugh.

  And then the woman snorts.

  Keeping a foot in line, I tiptoe and sidestep.

  I spot the offending snorter at the front of the line.

  This coffee is going to have to wait.

  9

  CAMILLE

  “Oh, man,” I wipe tears from my eyes and calm my breath. “Now that was funny.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it.” Ally’s eyes are alight, and she bites her bottom lip. As a customer sidles by with a car carrier with four to-go cups, she steps in closer. “I mean, who does that? Who brings an apple to an interview? Lame.”

  We edge toward the counter of Bridge to Bridge Cafe, where I get my daily latte. Being a chef doesn’t mean I’m an expert at making all foods and beverages. Example: I can’t make flaky pie crust to save my life. And lattes? My ratios of milk to foam to espresso are never right, and I end up with either a very dry cappuccino or steamed milk with a touch of caffeine. Since lattes are my lifeblood, I owe every workday’s sanity to Josie and her perfectly made cups of magic. That is, except for last Saturday morning, when a cup of Barako at Drew’s fueled me the entire day.

  Quit thinking of him.

  I clear my throat. “Well, I am thoroughly proud of you, Al. Showing your work is the first step. And when you get into the institute—”

  She waves away my suggestion. “We’re not even going to talk about it. It’s too much of a long shot.”

  “Well it’s good to know you’re optimistic.” I roll my eyes. We’re up next, so I yell my order above the paying customer. “Three lattes, Miss Josie.”

  “You got it, ladies,” Josie, the owner, answers back.

  Ally follows me to the left side of the counter where customers are waiting for their orders. They stare silently while their baristas pour, steam, and mix java with variations of dairy and flavor. Dark roast, medium, light. Whole milk, skim, half-and-half, soy, and coconut. Here and to go. Hot or cold. The choices are seemingly endless, and the process is as smooth as the coffee itself.

  Entranced, my sister says, “Just trying to keep it real. On
ly five percent of applicants get into the summer intensive, and I saw a couple of the portfolios. People are good, Cam. Like, hella good.”

  I grab her by the elbow. “So are you. And I’m not saying that because you’re my pain-in-the-butt sister.”

  Ally nods, staring off.

  I could say more. That she’s the most talented mixed-media artist I know. That the institute would be lucky to get her. That at this angle, she’s so much like Nonna, so much like the shadow of what I remember of my mother.

  But that would be too much to say in a noisy cafe and too little to encompass what I feel.

  “Three lattes to go,” Josie says, her voice drowned by the buzz of the frother she’s already moved on to.

  “Thanks,” I say, grabbing the carrier. Looking down at the white foam, I see today’s design is a koala. “You’re amazing, Josie.”

  “Duh, I know.” Her blue eyes dance behind the red frames of her glasses, though half of her face is hidden behind the stainless steel cappuccino maker. “Same spot today? I’m dying for meatballs.”

  “Of course. On our way there now. Though I’m not sure I can make koalas with mine. They’ll be plain ol’ balls.”

  “Plain balls are equally tasty and droolworthy,” she quips. A laugh erupts from the line behind me, followed by a giggle from someone else. “The more meat, the better.”

  “All-natural, lean meat.”

  “Ew!” My sister squeals. “That’s enough. I’m traumatized.”

  I raise the carrier to bid Josie good-bye before heading to an opposite counter where cup covers and sleeves are stacked in baskets. My brain is already buzzing from the strong aroma of coffee beans and the constant roar of the cafe’s machines. As Ally and I prep the cups for transport, I feel a presence to my left that hasn’t moved in the last few seconds. So I do the easiest thing—I turn right to avoid having to run right into the person. Except the body cuts me off, and I’ve got no choice but to look up.

  “How did I know you’d be responsible for a public conversation about balls?” the mouth on the body says. The body that belongs to Drew Bautista.