“I didn’t say that.” My face warmed under his gaze. Ugh. How could he make me this flustered even when I was mad at him? “I just want to know why it’s so embarrassing for you to be seen working in this truck.”
“I don’t think it’s embarrassing,” he said quietly and firmly. He sighed. “Look. My friends think of me a certain way, and it’s easier for me if that doesn’t change.”
“I don’t get it,” I sputtered. “Why would you hang out with people who want you to act like someone you’re not? They don’t sound like any kind of friends I’ve ever had.”
“That’s because you wouldn’t put up with my kind of friends,” Asher said matter-of-factly. “I saw that about you when I first met you. You have other things that are important to you besides your rank at school, like this truck. You love it. But some of us don’t have things like that.”
“You have your baseball, and your astronomy …” I started.
He waved his hand. “None of my friends even know about the astronomy thing,” he said quietly. “That’s what I mean. Everybody has their own comfort zone. You have yours, and I have mine.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” I persisted.
He looked at me doubtfully. “Really? So, say Tristan and I plunked ourselves down at the table today in the cafeteria for your taste-test — it would’ve been fine?”
“Sure,” I said, and inside I wondered: Had Asher wanted to join the taste test? “I mean, maybe some kids would’ve whispered….” I rethought. “Or maybe all of them would’ve. But who cares?”
He stared at the counter for a long minute. “Maybe it’s not as easy for me as it is for you,” he finally said. We were quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to like my social scene,” Asher added, stepping closer to level his eyes with mine. “But you can’t keep judging me all the time for it, or we’ll never be the kind of friends who talk about real stuff. And I was sort of hoping we could be.”
His amber eyes were intense. Heat flashed over my face, and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. The rest of the lecture that I had mapped out in my mind flitted away, and all I could say was a quiet “Okay.”
He needed a true friend, and he was giving me the chance to be one. If I believed everything I’d just spouted off about not caring about social rules, then I had to say yes. But more important, I wanted to say yes.
He smiled at me. “Okay.”
“Hey!” A voice made us both jump, and within seconds, we were each at separate ends of the truck, and Tristan’s head was leaning in the window, grinning mischievously at us. “What are you two looking so guilty about? Don’t tell me you’re out of bacon?”
“One BLT, coming right up,” I said, turning away to hide my burning cheeks. I busied myself stacking the sandwich. “I have a new dessert today, too,” I added. “Bacon-peanut-butter cookies.”
Tristan smacked his lips. “Must … feed … bacon … cravin’ … now.”
I laughed as I handed him two cookies. He took a big bite out of the first one. “Mmmm … tell Cleo I’m in love,” he said.
“I’m flattered, bud, but I’m spoken for,” Cleo said, climbing into the truck. “And besides,” she added, winking at me, “Tessa made them. She came up with the recipe yesterday.”
Tristan tipped an imaginary hat in my direction. “You just get cooler by the minute,” he said. “Any chance your parents would consider adopting me?”
I scoffed. “Not the way you eat. Our pantries would be bare in twenty-four hours.”
“It was worth a try.” He shrugged, then said something to Asher about meeting up later, and left.
“He’s becoming quite the regular,” Cleo said after he was gone. “But he only stops by when you’re here, Tessa.” She gave me a knowing grin. “I’m pretty sure I just witnessed some flirting going on?”
I could feel Asher’s eyes on my face, and embarrassment coursed through me.
“Not at all,” I said vehemently.
“Tristan’s not flirting,” Asher said, his voice suddenly sounding flat and slightly impatient. “He jokes like that with everyone.”
I was grateful he was giving me an out, but I felt a small sting at his words, too. Why was he dismissing the possibility so quickly? Was it that hard to believe Tristan would flirt with me?
“Look, can we just drop it already?” I cried. “There’s no flirting, there’s no crushing. There’s nothing, okay?”
Cleo held up her hands. “Sorry,” she said softly. “I was just kidding around.”
I sighed, “No, it’s okay. Let’s just … forget it.”
As we got ready to close up shop early so that Cleo could get to her city council meeting, I tried to pin down why I was getting so riled up. But when Asher accidentally brushed against me and I felt a wave of breathlessness, I knew the answer. I didn’t want Cleo teasing me about Tristan in front of Asher, because I didn’t want Asher thinking Tristan liked me, or that I liked Tristan. It was completely irrational, but so was the dizzying giddiness I was starting to feel around Asher more and more.
At five o’clock, my heart instinctively sped up, because I knew at that moment, Cleo was going before the city council with her petitions to save Flavorfest.
I was in the kitchen making yigandes plaki. It was one of Cleo’s favorite Greek casseroles, and I was making it to surprise her when she came home. But so far, I’d checked the clock so many times I’d only managed to dice one single tomato. At the rate I was going, dinner would be ready sometime next year.
I didn’t even notice when Mom came out of her office until she touched my shoulder, making me jump.
“Everything okay?” she asked. “You didn’t even hear me calling your name.”
I nodded. “I’m fine. Just wondering how the meeting’s going for Cleo.”
Mom smiled. “I’m sure Cleo’s giving them an earful about the importance of supporting food-truck businesses and community bonding.”
“Yeah, and I bet the only bonding Mr. Morgan does is with his champagne and caviar,” I quipped.
Mom’s lips tightened. “Don’t be so quick to judge, Tessa. He’s trying to do what’s best for his restaurants. They’re probably as important to him as the Tasty Truck and Flavorfest are to Cleo.”
“Well, why can’t he put his five-star entrées on display right alongside our sandwiches?”
“Because sandwiches aren’t the same as fine dining, Tessa,” Mom said.
I bristled. Why wasn’t talking to Mom ever simple?
Mom sighed, then stretched. “You know, I’ve been staring at my computer screen all day. I could use a break.” She glanced down at the tomatoes. “Do you need some help cooking?”
I froze. Never once had Mom offered to help me in the kitchen. When Cleo taught me how to cook and Mom and Dad deemed me “oven-safe,” they were both more than happy to turn the kitchen over to me. In fact, Mom was always saying that if it weren’t for me and Cleo, we’d be subsisting on takeout. But now here she was, wanting to help. Bizarre.
“Um, sure,” I said, handing her a bowl of minced garlic and onions. “You can sauté these for me.”
“Okay!” Mom said enthusiastically. She dumped everything into a skillet and turned on the burner.
“Don’t forget the EVOO,” I said.
“The what?” Mom asked blankly.
“Extra-virgin olive oil.” I handed her the bottle.
“Got it,” Mom said, pouring some in. “What next?”
“When the onions get transparent and a little caramel-colored, they’re ready,” I said, smiling at her. I had to admit, it was nice to have Mom in the kitchen working with me, and it made me feel like I wanted to share more with her. I put the tomato sauce on to simmer, then said, “Can you keep an eye on this for a sec? I want to grab something out of my room. I made these peanut-butter cookies yesterday. You have to try one….”
She nodded, so I went to my room to get the last few cookies from the cooler. I was only gone a minute or two, but wh
en I came back into the kitchen, Mom was MIA, and the onions had charred to black in the skillet.
I turned off the burner, frowning. Then I peeked into Mom’s office and saw her on her cell phone, talking about stocks in her business voice.
When she came back into the kitchen, she eyed the pile of burnt onions in the sink. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I had to take that phone call, and I just stepped away for a second….”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I said, hearing the disappointment in my voice.
Mom checked her watch. “I’ve got to make one more phone call.” She already had one foot in her office when she called back. “Oh, wasn’t there something you wanted to show me?”
I sighed. What was the point? She’d eat one of the cookies and make some polite remark about them being tasty, but she wouldn’t really get it. I wasn’t sure she ever would. “Never mind,” I called back, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “It’s no big deal.”
Mom and I were just sitting down to the casserole when Dad walked in the front door.
“Guess who I found sitting on our front steps drowning her sorrows in a bacon-bits brownie?” he asked, and Cleo walked in behind him.
“How’d the meeting go?” Mom asked.
From the crestfallen look on Cleo’s face, I knew the answer before she said a word.
“No Flavorfest this year,” she said. “Mr. Morgan offered to pay triple the price for the space where Flavorfest is normally held. So, he’ll hold the Taste of San Fran, without the food trucks. We’ve been ousted.”
“But — but what about the petitions?” I stammered. “You had hundreds of signatures….”
Cleo smiled at me sadly, sinking down into a chair. “It’s not enough. Mr. Morgan has a lot of pull in this town, and the council listens to his wallet. The council members said they sympathized with the plight of the food trucks, but there’s nothing they can do. None of the parks in the city are zoned properly for a fair like Flavorfest, and the other places that might’ve worked are booked already.” She sighed. “I’m just worried that if we don’t have Flavorfest this year, we’ll never have it again.”
“It’s so disappointing,” Dad said.
Cleo nodded. “It would’ve been a huge boost for our business. If the Bacon Me Crazy BLT had won the Flavorfest Best Award, Gabe and I could’ve counted on keeping the truck running through next year guaranteed.”
My stomach plunged. “What do you mean? Are you going to close the truck?”
“I hope not,” Cleo said. “But food trucks don’t usually survive forever.” She sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but … we’ve been struggling. Everyone loves our sandwiches, but we’re just not as successful as the other trucks. I was hoping that winning the Flavorfest award would guarantee a longer life for the Tasty Truck, but without the award, I don’t know what will happen.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, then I stood up to fix Cleo and Dad dinner plates. “I made yigandes plaki, your favorite,” I said weakly to Cleo.
But Cleo got to her feet, looking a little pale. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass. My stomach’s in knots.” She gave us a small smile. “One too many bacon-bits brownies on the walk home.” She turned toward the stairs. “See you all in the A.M.”
I felt as depressed as Cleo looked. “I’m not hungry anymore, either,” I told my parents. “Is it okay if I go start my homework?”
Mom nodded, but once I got to my room, I didn’t even open my backpack. Instead, I dialed Mei’s number, because right now, more than anything, I needed to talk to her.
“Guess what?” she shrieked into the phone before I even had a chance to say hi. “Ben just invited me to go with him to the Teen Music Fest at the Rickshaw Stop this Saturday night!”
“That’s great,” I said halfheartedly. “I’m sure it’ll be awesome.”
“It will be,” she said “But my parents won’t let me go unless you come, too. They’re worried about me being alone with Ben in a dark theater.” She giggled, then whispered, “Too many places for kissing, I guess.”
“Wait a sec,” I said. “Have you kissed Ben?”
“Not yet,” she whispered. “But I think I want to….”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s huge.” I’d never been kissed. Or even come close to it.
“So … will you come? Please?”
I wasn’t in a concert kind of mood. But I didn’t want to let Mei down, either. Especially now that things seemed to be getting back to normal between us.
“I’ll check with my parents,” I said, then had to hold the phone away from my ear while she screamed into it.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” she yelled. “Oh, it’s going to be so much fun. Omigod, I have to figure out what I’m going to wear, and then I have to figure out what you’re going to wear.”
“That’s not happening,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “But I will consult you if the need arises.”
Mei clucked her tongue. “Party pooper.” I could hear shuffling on the other end of the line, and I guessed she was flipping through clothes in her closet. “Ugh, I’m going to have to do this later. If I don’t start studying for our math test, my mom said she’s going to put a lock on my closet and throw away the key.”
I gripped the phone as my stomach lurched to my throat. “Math test?” I repeated weakly.
“Oh, Tessa, you forgot?” Mei sighed.
It was all coming back to me now. Ms. Webster’s announcement last Friday about the first algebra test of the semester, the bobby pin I’d worn on Sunday to remind me to study, and the moment I’d forgotten about the bobby pin and the test when I was dreaming up the recipe for my bacon-peanut-butter cookies.
“I have to go,” I said, and before Mei could utter another word, I was hanging up and hurrying out of my room.
“Mom,” I said when I found her cleaning up the dinner dishes. “Can you take me to school? I left something important in my locker.”
Her face fell, and I knew what was coming. “Tessa. Again?” There they were. The two words she said every time I forgot something at school, which I did at least once a week. She sighed and grabbed her car keys off the counter. “Okay, let’s go.”
The ride to and from school was blessedly silent. And, thankfully, the nighttime janitor was still there and heard my desperate knocking. But when we pulled into our driveway with my math book on my lap, Mom turned off the car and swiveled to face me in her seat. I braced myself for the responsibility lecture.
“This was one time too many, Tessa,” she said quietly. “You agreed that you’d try harder to keep track of your assignments and test dates.”
“I know, Mom,” I said. “And I’ve been trying….”
“It doesn’t seem that way,” Mom said. “It’s the second week of the new semester and we’re back to where we were before the break.” She leaned against her headrest, closing her eyes like what she was about to say next pained her. “Maybe it’s best that Flavorfest got canceled.”
“What?” I said, not wanting to believe I’d heard her right.
“It might be good for you to spend less time at the truck,” she said slowly. “I know you enjoy your time with Cleo, but I’m afraid that your schoolwork is getting compromised.”
“It is not!” I said. “I got all A’s and B’s last semester. And I’m going to ace this test tomorrow, too!”
Mom opened her mouth in horror. “Your math test is tomorrow?”
I shriveled into the seat. I had failed to mention that earlier. “Yes, but —”
“You’re going to be up all night studying!” Mom threw up her hands. “That’s it, Tessa, no working at the truck for the rest of this week. I want you focusing on your schoolwork. And after this week, we’ll see….”
“You can’t do that, Mom!” I cried. “Cleo needs extra help right now, and —”
“Cleo has Gabe and your friend Asher to help. She’ll be fine.”
“You’re just doing this bec
ause you hate the Tasty Truck. You thought it was stupid for Cleo and Gabe to open it in the first place.” Tears were burning the corners of my eyes now. “You hate that I love working there! You wish I loved numbers instead of cooking, just like you.”
Mom looked stricken. “No, I don’t. I —”
“What do you care if I spend all my time at the Tasty Truck?” I screamed, getting out of the car. “You never stop working long enough to notice where I am anyway.”
Mom opened her mouth to say something else, but I slammed the car door and ran inside before I could hear her.
Cleo once told me that crying a few tears into your cooking brings joy to the people who eat the meal. Well, I cried gobs of tears into the last two bacon-peanut-butter cookies as I ate them, but I didn’t feel one smidge of joy. Then again, maybe it doesn’t work on the person who cooks the meal. I’d have to ask her when I got to the Tasty Truck tomorrow after school.
Then I remembered there would be no Tasty Truck after school tomorrow, and that made me cry harder. Finally, when I’d run out of tears, I wearily opened my math book to start studying. Even though I don’t like math, I’m actually pretty good at it. Mom must’ve passed me at least a partial math gene somehow. By the time I drifted to sleep with my face plastered to an a+b=c equation, I felt pretty good about the test, but horrible about everything else.
I might’ve dreamed it, but sometime in the middle of the night, I felt a cool hand press gently against my cheek, wiping away my tears.
At lunch the next day, Mei all but pounced on me. “How’d the math test go?” she demanded.
“I think I only missed two,” I said, stifling a yawn.
Mei burst into a happy dance in the cafeteria. “Yes!” she said. “That means you’re still coming to the concert with us on Saturday night.”
“It doesn’t mean a thing until I do some big-time groveling,” I said. “I haven’t even told Mom and Dad about the concert yet, and considering Mom and I aren’t speaking, that’s going to be a little tricky.”
“Come on, Tessa,” Mei pleaded. “Talk to your mom. For me. Please.”
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