North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  “And not to add to the pressure or anything, but Vic’s been needling her on social media. She’s kind of being a bully.”

  “Argh, I know. Camille’s mentioned it. It’s not Vic’s fault. She’s only doing what she’s been told to do.” But I can’t wait any longer. I’ve got to stop all of this.

  “Well, before you go all Batman and save Gotham, and before we head into that nasty locker room, I need to run something by you.”

  I slow my heart, seeing my cousin bite down on her lower lip. “What’s up?”

  “You mentioned trying to get an interview with a food blogger, and I found one. She’s supposed to be the best in the city. All my friends follow her religiously. Kaya Banks?”

  “Don’t know her.”

  Her eyes roll back elaborately. “Of course you don’t. You okay with me getting ahold of her?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. In fact, how about seeing if we could get her out here before the opening? Like a preview?”

  “Great idea.”

  “We should put her on the guest list for the grand reopening, too. That’ll be double exposure.”

  “Got it.” She sighs. “I’m so glad you’re here. We wouldn’t be doing any of this stuff if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Don’t thank me. It was Camille’s idea. She’s a whiz at this stuff. Obviously.”

  “Obvs.” Bryn pinches her chin, then says, “There’s got to be an answer to all of this.”

  I climb out of the car and meet Bryn at the hood. “I’ve thought of everything, every option. We’re supposed to see each other tomorrow night, and I have to tell her. I’ve waited too long as it is.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.” Pausing while I open the door to the stadium, toward the locker rooms, she pinches her nose. “Sorry, locker rooms aren’t my favorite place. Gross. What are we planning to tell Blake?”

  A slew of deep voices echo down the hallway, with one I recognize distinctly. “You aren’t telling him anything. I think this will go better if you stay outside.”

  She shrugs. “Fine by me. I’ll be over there where there’s fresh air. I’ve got phone calls to make. Text if you need me.”

  The Marin Spartans are staffed by players who love the game of baseball and still have the dream of getting scouted for the high minor, and hopefully, the major leagues. Matt and Blake have been at their dream for years, playing Little League, high school, and college baseball. Getting drafted into Single-A wasn’t exactly the grand prize, but they jumped into it despite the long season, constant travel, and low pay.

  While major league players roll in dough, Single-A players get paid zilch, at best minimum wage. Livable wage doesn’t start until a player moves up to Double- or Triple-A’s, but it’s a pyramid’s climb to the top. Blake says he gets paid by the thrill of the game, but baseball’s expensive—gear, travel, fees. So I don’t get why he’s blowing off the job I asked my pop to give him. With my conversation with Matt about Blake’s partying lingering in my head, I decided only a face-to-face confrontation will do.

  The stench of body odor, feet, IcyHot, and deodorant fills my nose when I enter the locker room. The Spartans are using BAU’s facilities part time while their field’s undergoing maintenance, so the locker room has a mix of students and players. Blake is easy to spot. All I do is follow his booming voice and the group of guys congregated in a corner.

  Blake’s wicked expression switches to worry when he sees me. After excusing himself, he meets me at the front, slinging his bag over his shoulder. With a nonchalant nod, he says, “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is Drew Bautista near a sporting facility? What’s up, man?”

  We shake hands and shoulder bump. “Hey. Don’t mean to bother you. Just wanted to check in. Haven’t seen you around. You’ve missed a couple of shifts.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m good . . . Ah, listen, sorry I didn’t get to work yesterday. Or the other time. Something came up.”

  A couple of guys pass us, and I wait till they’re out of earshot. “I get you’re busy. But the opening’s coming up. Kinda want to make sure we’re square with this. I mean, do you want to work at True North? Because I won’t be offended. But we need to know if we have to find someone else—to cover down. I mean, we can’t have a hole in the schedule. You understand, right?”

  Beats pass. “Yeah. I do want the job. I need the money, you know? And your parents are flexible with the game schedule and practices . . .”

  I nod and wait for more, but Blake doesn’t say anything else. “So I’ll be seeing you soon? Contractors have taken over the place, but we have a staff meeting in a couple of days.” I stare into his eyes, hoping for a sign of remorse or that he’s going to follow through.

  He clears his throat and smiles his trademark grin. “Yeah, of course, man. I’ll be there.” He offers up a fist, which I bump.

  His word will have to do. Lightening up the moment I say, “Need a ride? Bryn’s out front waiting. We can grab something to eat.”

  Blake cracks a smile. “Nah. I’m trying to hook up with this girl. She lives right around the corner from here.”

  “Trying to?”

  Sheepishly, he says, “She’s giving me the runaround, but I’ll catch her.”

  “Good luck with that, bro.” We step out of the locker room doors. “So I’ll see you?”

  “You will,” he says definitively.

  Our final good-bye is sterile and cordial, despite a shoulder hug. I walk out of the glass double doors as Bryn jogs over. “How did it go?”

  “Not really sure.”

  “Huh. Time will tell.” When we get to the car, she says, “Kaya Banks responded right away.”

  “Who?” My mind is still on my conversation with Blake and his nonchalance.

  “The food blogger.” She rolls her eyes. “She’s down for a preview, probably as early as tomorrow. Score.”

  I slap her five and hang on to that small win of the day. At least something is going well.

  27

  CAMILLE

  @Lucianna: Thanks for the support today! Sold out! We’ll be back tomorrow. Usual time, usual place.

  * * *

  “What do you mean, you’re sold out?” a customer says, her voice whiny, like nails on a chalkboard.

  “I’m sorry. We’ll be back tomorrow, though,” Jasmine answers in a sticky-sweet voice, though it’s edged with impatience. Jaz is done, tired. She’s had it; the line was rowdy, the customers testy with the gloomy wet fog and the sub–fifty degree weather. We’ve been fraught with tiny issues we’ve had to field today, and I can tell she’s about two seconds from telling someone off.

  So I take my head out of the undercounter freezer, midcount of inventory, which isn’t much, to diffuse the situation. The customer’s tone indicates she no longer wants to talk to the front staff. She wants to speak to the owner. I approach the counter and paste on a smile. “Hi, there. I’m the owner. How I can help you?”

  The girl appears to be about Ally’s age, which is almost comical, with how she’s got her hands on her hips like she’s the boss of me. “You’re sold out. Again.”

  “We are, and I apologize. We have a limited amount of food we can store on these trucks. Some days can be more challenging than others.” I mentally pat myself on the back for my well-executed answer, because challenging is the least of it. Now anticipating a deadline, aka Ally’s tuition, I’m in panic mode. Every shift must be maximized to its income potential. My production levels have to go up.

  Painfully, I’ve realized I’m limited by the amount of food I can safely stock in the fourteen-foot food truck.

  It’s growing pains at the worst possible time.

  “I’m Kaya Banks,” the girl declares. “I’m the blogger behind Eat It, San Francisco,” she says when I don’t answer right away. She raises her nose up in the air.


  My thoughts zero in on this dewy-faced person, ponytail tied with a white bow. A messenger bag is slung across her body, over a black hoodie and leggings. The food blogger? I reconcile this just-rolled-out-of-bed-before-class girl to the picture of Kaya Banks on her blog, which is glamorized with smoky eyes, perfectly shaped lips, and skin-smoothing Photoshop magic.

  Oh crap.

  All at once I know the seriousness of her being here. There are hundreds of food bloggers, but few actually have the following, the clout, and the sass to shoot to Internet stardom. Kaya is one of these bloggers. Making this girl happy would be best for my business right now, especially since I need money more than ever. But the fact is Lucianna is out of food.

  I am out of food.

  “I don’t understand how you could have run out. You opened two hours ago,” Kaya whines, right hand clutching the strap of her bag.

  Because I am small potatoes and must take profits from one day to finance the next. Because I’m still figuring out all this strategy, of having menus and submenus, the logistics of refilling the truck.

  Because of the bottom line: I messed up. So instead of spouting off excuses, I smile. Pretending that we’re selling out on purpose, like it’s part of a larger idea of a business plan, seems to be the only way out of this. “I know, right? Usually, we sell out much quicker than that. I’d love to have you come back tomorrow.” My voice is slight, wavering, and I hope she didn’t hear the hesitance and the plea in it. A lukewarm review from her will bring in curious customers. A glowing one will bring Lucianna success through the winter. A negative one? I can’t even.

  “You can’t make me anything? Not one little dish?”

  I bite my lip, indecision battling my pride. Of course I can make Kaya something. I mean, I’m a cook and can take the worst ingredients and make something edible. What people don’t realize when they watch those secret-ingredient cooking shows is that cooks already have running, stand-by recipes that can be enhanced or made simpler by one or two ingredients. It’s science in many ways.

  Concocting something from the bits and pieces of ingredients left on the truck as a business decision? Not a good idea. My signature dishes, the ones that have brought my customers back time and again, are gone, consumed. And Kaya is a food blogger who cares about the total experience.

  I answer, charmingly, “I want to give you the best Lucianna experience, Kaya, and we are literally sold out. I’d love for you to come back tomorrow. Better yet, can I bring something to you tonight? We can deliver to your location, anywhere in the city.”

  Kaya seems to think about this. She scours my face with narrowed eyes, every second pregnant with doubt. “Uh, no thanks. At least I got one good meal today. At True North.” She harrumphs as she walks away, and I wince. Crap.

  “When it rains.” Jasmine breaks the silence.

  A laugh bursts from my chest, and it comes out maniacal. “Do you think she’ll write about this?” I ask, more to myself. My head begins to pound. That would be bad. Horribly bad.

  Jasmine shrugs and sprays down the countertop. “Don’t be pissed at me, but she’s right, you know. It’s awesome to sell out, but not so awesome when you sell out so fast. Pretty soon people won’t want to make their way to us because they’ll think what’s the point?”

  I nod, the spreadsheet figures flashing in front of my eyes. “It’s a space issue. We’re too far away from the commissary to stock up.”

  “Maybe we need to look at moving around, someplace closer so we can replenish our stock? Or maybe get a bigger truck?”

  I chortle. “Ha. Like that’s going to happen. But I like your idea about having a location closer to the commissary. The BAU—”

  Jaz pops the gum in her mouth, then frowns. “Nope. Taken. Sorry, I forgot to mention it. CroNuts slid in a couple of days ago.”

  I groan, rubbing my forehead for answers. Wake up, brain. More inventory, longer hours, more economical dishes. Focus.

  A whistle cuts through the air, taking me from my roller coaster thoughts. Drew is at the back of the truck, his face visible through the Plexiglas.

  “Did you know he was coming?” Jaz asks.

  “Um . . . we didn’t make total plans, but I guess, yeah. I did invite him.” I flatten my ponytail. Crap, I’m a hot, sticky mess.

  “You’re smiling like a fool right now.”

  “Shut up,” I say, without any malice, because she’s right. I’m grinning like some teenager whose crush has decided to talk to her.

  “Well, if the rest of the day pours like that? It might not be so bad.”

  “Jaz,” I say before I open the door, only for my knees to buckle. Drew is in a gray camouflage uniform. Broad-shouldered, angled jaw, his head in his cap, face freshly shaved. No glasses. And he smells good. So good I want to put my nose right up to his neck.

  His lip quirks up. “Hey, beautiful.”

  His words work on me like two glasses of wine. I’m not sure what has taken me aback more, that Drew in his uniform has brought my image of him full circle or that I’m faced with the reality of his life. Drew has been on leave. When he’s not on leave, he is this version, every day. A professional soldier.

  My insides don’t know whether to hesitate or swoon. But one cannot deny this man, a fine specimen, an answer. So I take the compliment. “Hey yourself, soldier. What’s the occasion?”

  “Stopping in at Fort Pershing. Quick check in to grab deployment stuff. You like?”

  “I do.” My words come out breathless, a surprise to my conscious self.

  Meanwhile, Jasmine makes gagging noises behind me.

  He laughs. “You up for dinner tonight?”

  “You know what? I really would love that. But is late okay? I’ve got errands, blah-blah-blah.” I roll my eyes. Rehashing my reality is truly a buzzkill.

  “I’ll take any time you give me. Nine?”

  I nod. My mind begins multitasking, as if I’m cooking two dishes at once. Flip this chicken in the cast iron. Boil the water in the stock pot. Make sure I have enough suitcases for Ally. Shave my legs. My body hums at the thought of having some alone time with Drew. I’ve missed him. I’ve got so much to tell him.

  This thought blossoms and takes root in my heart, and at once I’m gut-checked with emotion. Drew has been here for me. From day one of our reunion, he’s never faltered. Every day I deny this is one less we can be together.

  My voice shakes. “I’d love to end my day with you. I’ll come to you this time?”

  “Sounds great to me.”

  I shut my eyes when he kisses me on the cheek. His face is smooth, smells of aftershave, and I brush my fingers over his cheek and chin. Yes, this is him, this soldier. My soldier. When he walks away, he seems taller, broader, the last ten years a greater enigma. He has history, a life, his own tribulations I know nothing about. And me, he doesn’t know all of me either.

  I’ve got to change that.

  “How can you keep your hands off him?” Jasmine teases. “I’m so jelly.”

  “Says someone who is never alone on a given night.”

  “Yeah, but what I do is fun.”

  “So your secret guy is just fun?”

  “I’m still trying to figure him out. What can I say, he’s not as easy to read as your man. Drew’s the real deal.”

  She unties her apron and pulls off her Lucianna cap. Her black hair cascades in waves almost to the middle of her back.

  Drew is far into the pedestrian crowd, but Jaz and I still watch as if he’ll reappear. “With Drew, sometimes I feel like I’m fourteen again. Literally. Like I can’t catch my breath when I see him across the room.”

  “And he’s come to you. I can’t figure out why you think it’s a bad thing.”

  “I didn’t say it was bad. It’s the timing.” I grab the rag from her. “You saw him, Jaz. The U.S Army? I don’t know an
ything about that kind of life.”

  “Sort of like how this is the first time he’s ever seen the inside of Lucianna?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Maybe? Maybe not. But time’s running out.”

  After one final hug, I watch Jaz drive off down the Great Highway before I start the truck. Time is most definitely running out.

  “Tell me what to do,” I say aloud to the steering wheel, and maybe to ghosts I wish would show themselves, just this once. Nonna. Mom. Dad. All these adults who could advise me, especially now.

  I dig the paper with Ben Aquino’s phone number from the bottom of my satchel, spread it flat against the steering wheel. His head shot is confident, chipper like a real estate agent’s. He even has an eight hundred number, making me wonder how much money he has to invest in microbusinesses like mine.

  How many of these businesses have surrendered their collateral?

  Beads of sweat build on my nose. I have everything to lose, but I need to trust this will all end up okay.

  Let go, Camille. I check my phone. Drew has sent a message: Make sure you come with an empty stomach tonight. And be prepared for dessert.

  I read it at least three times, and his words, even on a tiny screen, send a thrill through me, a delicious shiver, and I’m bowled over with the need to kiss him.

  Then, a thought: Should Drew know what I’m about to do? He’s awesome at business strategy. Isn’t this something I should share with him?

  I exit out of my message app. No. This isn’t his problem. This is mine and mine alone to figure out. Drew won’t be here in a month, when I’m left to live with my decisions.

  So I dial the only person who can realistically help me.

  It only takes two rings before someone answers on the other end of the eight hundred number. “Aquino.”

  “Ben? This is Camille Marino. Of Lucianna . . . the food truck? We met at the bank the other day. I’m sorry. I didn’t know if I should have emailed first.”

  Shuffling ensues in the background, and it goes from a quiet roar to silence on the other end. “No, not at all. Am doing some last-minute work here, but I’m available. How can I help you?”