“Food carts?” Hank and Coral say at the same time.
Coho wanders into the kitchen, grabs some tea, and sits down with us.
I need to make this plan sound legit. I must appeal to their do-gooder, socially conscious ways. I begin my lie. “I’m doing a study to determine which food carts are using only fresh, local ingredients on their menus.”
Coho shoots me a doubtful look. His brow is wrinkled. Does he know I’m lying?
Then Coral sighs and takes both my hands in hers. “MacKenna, this is colossal.” She beams at me. “All of those projects Joey Marino has done must have moved you.”
Wait. What is she talking about? Joey Marino’s projects?
I gulp. “Um, sure.”
Coral can believe whatever she wants. She doesn’t need to know that the two-thousand-dollar prize is the only thing moving me.
Coral pats my cheek. “I adore this spirit in you! We can put your results on our community board, advocating for those sustainable food carts.”
I nod, yet I feel a gap inside me widen when Coral smiles. I don’t know if it’s because my story is a lie, or because what I want my world to be is so far away from what she wants.
“Maybe you could ask about travel distance too, Mac,” Hank suggests. “From farm to mouth in the fewest steps. That’s the key to fresh food.”
“Right. Decrease the massive carbon footprint.” I swallow some sarcasm.
“I like your mind-set.” Hank squeezes me around the shoulders. “All right. I’ll give you a one-day pass on the fence building, but that’s it. Coho and I’ll need your help tomorrow.”
Coho winks at me, which makes me swallow again, but this time with a little guilt. For today, though, I’m free.
“Is your friend Joey helping you?” Coral asks.
“What? No. Joey isn’t exactly a friend of mine. Willa and Brie are helping, though.”
Coral gets up from the table. “Here are some zucchini muffins for you all to take while you research today, and I’ll make some kale chips this afternoon too.”
After the incident at the Joan of Arc statue and discovering where Coral puts her kale, I want nothing to do with it entering my digestive system. I’m about to tell Coral no thanks, when my head has a magnificent spark. I’ve found the elusive computer command, the missing step that solves the problem.
Chips!
Chips are what I’m supposed to order to get the next clue!
It’s brilliant.
“Thanks, Coral!” I stand up and kiss her cheek, which makes her smile, and I dash back to my futon island, grabbing my folder with my notes and the clue.
Got a chip on your shoulder? Put a hat on instead.
It may feel a bit grey, but upstairs you’ll be fed.
I have a hunch about something. I find an old dictionary on the bookshelf in the living room and look up the word grey. In America we use the spelling g-r-a-y, but according to this dictionary g-r-e-y is the common spelling in the United Kingdom. England!
And England is where everyone wears fancy hats.
And in England, chips are what we call French fries, but they’re potatoes, not kale.
This clue is telling me that I’m supposed to order chips at an English food cart.
I skim the list I printed yesterday from the library, looking specifically for English-style food. It can only be the double-decker bus cart at the Rose City pod on Sandy Boulevard. The double-decker bus would explain the upstairs.
I locate my little flipper and tediously tap out a group text to Willa and Brie. 7777666555 . . . thirty-three clicks on the keypad, and then I hit Send: Solved the clue.
I knew I could do this!
Girls ARE Supercoders.
Chapter Ten
The Double-decker Bus
Willa, Brie, and I take the 75 bus to Sandy Boulevard and walk the remaining way to the Rose City carts, which sit in a parking lot next to a popular bike store. I quickly count ten carts framing a small, uncovered eating area in the middle of the lot. The largest trailer serves Russian food and has a big poster board showing pictures of their various dishes. There’s also a gluten-free food place, a Vietnamese cart, and one serving crab chowder.
A lot of people mill around, reading the menus. I wonder if any of them are our competition.
The red double-decker bus is tucked between a Chinese place and a cart that’s called Good Eats. In the front window of the bus is a poster with the Union Jack flag, and printed below that it reads: Today’s Special: Seafood Platter $12.00.
“Twelve dollars!” I say.
Brie walks up close to the sign and reads the fine print. “It comes with cod and herring, chips and . . . mushy peas?”
We all curl our lips.
“Here’s the main menu.” Willa points to a sign next to the order window. We scan the list. There’s a one-piece, two-piece, and three-piece fish and chips. One of those must hold the next clue. The other items are things like tarts and pasties with no mention of chips.
“What do we get?” Willa asks.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. The clue will probably come with a more expensive item. I mean, these carts want to make money, right?”
Willa and Brie nod.
“So, let’s cover our bases and order one special, one three-piece fish and chips, and one two-piece.”
Willa squints at the menu again.
“I’ve already done the math. It’s thirty dollars, ten for each of us.” I tell her.
“Here,” Brie says. “Dad always gives me snack money for my swim workouts. I don’t always use it.” She pulls out two fives from the tiny purse hanging over her shoulder.
I reach into the bottom of my bag and pull out a five and two ones. “These are my only bills, but I have eight bucks in coins. Willa, I’ll pay fifteen dollars since I owe you from yesterday.”
Silently, I recalculate my life savings: $14.43.
Willa reaches into her shorts pocket and unfolds a five.
I whisper the order to the bus guy because a couple has moved in behind us. We have to keep our eyes open for our competitors. The bus guy hollers the order to someone we can’t see.
So much for being secretive.
“Wait.” I think through the clue one more time, then glance at the drink menu before turning to Willa. “Do you have two more dollars?”
She pulls out another wad of bills from her pocket and hands me two ones.
You’re the best, I mouth to her, and then I lean back in to the bus guy. “We’ll also have a large tea. Earl Grey, please.”
“There’s seating upstairs,” the man says as I hand him the money, carefully watching his face for a wink or a smile or some indication that another clue is coming, but he simply adds, “We’ll bring the food when it’s ready.”
We step up the spiral staircase to the top deck of the bus and sit down at one of the four tables. We’re the only ones here. This seems hopeful.
About ten minutes later, the man comes up the stairs with our tray of food. “Enjoy, girls!”
Brie takes the special. I grab the three-piece and Willa the two-piece. “Pull out the tissue paper from under the food. That’s where the clue will be,” I say.
We all do, but our papers have nothing but grease stains.
The napkins are blank too. We check each one.
I slam my fist on the table. “What did we do wrong?”
“Sorry, Mac,” Brie says.
“You think it was the one-piece?” Willa asks, carefully inspecting a chip before placing it in her mouth.
I don’t answer. I pick up the paper cup of Earl Grey and take a sip. The sleeve around the cup shifts in my palm.
Wait.
Maybe . . .
I take off the sleeve and open it.
And there it is. Handwritten. Two lines.
I hold it up for Willa and Brie to read.
Put a tag in early, then pull up a pad.
While the meat is prepared, a “whiskey’s” not bad.
“Mac
, you did it!” Willa shouts. “This calls for some dancing. Move out of the way, Brie.”
Brie giggles and scoots her chair back, so Willa can glide to the aisle of the bus. She starts her best disco moves, swaying her hips and pointing her fingers up and down. Brie joins her with a few swimming-stroke moves.
Clutching the clue in my hand, I stand up and dramatically holler, “God save the Queen!”
We high-five and dance and clap in the aisle of the double-decker bus, not caring how loud we are or that our food is getting cold. We have another clue!
I’m shuffling toward the stairs of the bus, waving my arms up at the ceiling, when someone appears at the top of the stairs.
I let out a soft scream.
Joey Marino takes a step back. His gray eyes bulge. A stained white apron hangs around his neck.
Why is he suddenly always around?
“Excuse me.” He brushes past me, leans over one of the tables, and begins wiping it down with a wet rag. All I can do is continue to stare at him.
“Joey?” Brie finally speaks. “Do you work here?”
He keeps wiping the table and then the chairs. “Just today.”
Is this another community service project of his?
Then I notice a piece of cardboard sticking out of the pocket of his apron. It’s a cup sleeve, just like the one I’m holding.
My jaw drops open as he wads his rag in his palm and turns to walk down the stairs.
Brie shrugs her shoulders.
Willa says, “That was weird. That boy is weird.”
I shake my head. “No, he’s not weird. I know weird, and he’s not that. He’s just . . .”
“Phantom boy?” Brie says.
“That’s for sure,” Willa agrees. “I didn’t hear him coming up those steps. Did you?”
“We were kind of loud, and dancing around,” I remind them. “But, you guys . . .” I motion for them to sit back down. “I think Joey is doing the hunt. He grabbed the clue from Lorenzo’s yesterday when I left it on the table, and today I saw a cup sleeve in his apron pocket.”
“So, you think he’s our competition?” Willa asks.
“Why don’t we just go ask him?” Brie suggests.
I take a bite of a chip. It’s still slightly warm. “No. I don’t want to ask. I think we just need to keep going. There’s three of us, and only one of him. We have a better chance. We already have two clues.”
“But so does he,” Willa adds.
“Let’s just keep working at it,” I say.
The truth is, the magically appearing and disappearing Joey Marino makes me worried and nervous, and I don’t understand why. He makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
But I have to sweep all that worry away because I want to win this food cart hunt.
I want to go to this computer camp. I’m tired of being Hippie Chick and Bongo Girl. I want a new identity, like Supercoder.
Winning this money is my only hope.
Chapter Eleven
The Division Street Cart Pod
When I get home, I see a pile of beat-up lumber in the backyard. Hank, Coral, and Coho are sitting on the grass. Hank is softly drumming while Coho strums his guitar. Coral is sitting lotus style, eyes closed. Livie, Divie, or maybe Bolivie pecks around the dirt in the garden.
I retreat to my futon island, so I can study the second clue and plot my strategy. I wonder if Joey Marino has more than two clues. No. I can’t worry about that now. I must stay focused.
I pull a sheet of scratch paper from my hunt folder to sketch out my timeline. I have two clues. Tomorrow’s Saturday, June 19, which means we have exactly eight more days to find the remaining eight clues before the June 26 deadline. That’s one clue each day. The first clue took me only a day to solve. I simply have to keep up that pace.
I decide to change my tactic on this clue and try a new algorithm. I’ll visit nearby cart pods and check out their menus, looking for connections to the key words. I tap out a text to Willa and Brie: Meet me at the Division carts tomorrow at 11.
This seems like a good place to start.
Brie responds right away: Tomorrow’s out. At a swim meet. Wish me luck!
I should have known that. She always has weekend meets. I respond with Good luck, knowing it isn’t needed. Brie can outswim a school of tuna.
Willa finally answers an hour later: Can’t. Doing stuff with my dad.
That’s odd. Willa doesn’t hang out with her dad much. I text back: What stuff?
Willa: Movie.
Me: When does it end?
Willa: Don’t know.
Me: Have any time for the hunt tomorrow?
Willa: I’m out tomorrow. Sorry, Mac.
I pause a moment and reread Willa’s texts. Something doesn’t seem right with her. She’s been acting strange for a while now.
I snap my flipper shut and tuck it into my jeans pocket. I study the cup sleeve with clue number two and jot down the key words: tag, early, pad, meat, whiskey. I have to think of the links to these words. I have to de-code. It’s only a puzzle to solve.
I can do this.
In the morning, I’m tediously picking the collard greens out of Coral’s scrambled eggs with a fork, when Hank and Coho come into the kitchen from the backyard. “Mac, there’s a bucket of fasteners by the garden that we pulled out of Mr. Z’s fencing lumber. We need you to sort through it and set aside the screws and nails that aren’t stripped or bent.”
I slump in my chair. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just go buy new screws?”
“Now why would we do that?” Hank scoops eggs out of the skillet for himself and then Coho. “Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.”
I can’t count the number of times Hank and Coral have said this.
Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.
They used to sing me a little song about it.
“You know that our national economy depends on people buying new products, right?” I learned about this in social studies. “If we buy things, they have to make more of those things. That provides jobs. Jobs give people money, so they can continue to buy things. That’s how the economic circle works.”
Hank stares at me.
Coho chuckles. “You have a smart kid, Hank. She’s forging her path.”
He’s right about that. I’m forging a path to computer coding camp. It’s another circle, really. Teach girls to code. We create great things. People buy what we create. We continue to create. It’s an infinite loop of progress.
But Hank doesn’t see the real path that’s in front of me. He still sees the one he and Coral created for me when I was born. The one they think I’ll walk down. Hank and Coral will never change. They live in their own infinite loop of weirdness. And now Coho lives it with them.
I find the bucket of hardware outside and put on a pair of Coral’s gardening gloves. One at a time I pick out the rusty, bent, and stripped screws and nails and toss them into a cardboard box. It’s a laborious hour of sorting, but I finish.
Back inside the living room, I grab my shoulder bag, put my hunt folder and some coins from my dwindling savings inside, and slip away, walking toward Division Street. I chant the clue in my head over and over again:
Put a tag in early, then pull up a pad.
While the meat is prepared, a “whiskey’s” not bad.
Put a tag in early. What does that mean? It seems key.
The Division Street cart pod is buzzing with the early lunch crowd. The carts are bunched side by side in a mazelike formation. I enter through a small flower-lined walkway and glance around. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m looking for a cart that has meat on its menu. The first trailer is Mediterranean Vegetarian, which rules it out immediately. There’s a sausage and fondue place that doesn’t seem right. Two Thai carts are possibilities, but I keep zigzagging through the trailers.
I stop near Greg’s Grilled Cheese and sniff. It smells delicious. Two guys look over the menu, their heads together, their eyes on their phones. I move closer
so I’m standing right behind the pair. I pretend to look over their shoulders at the grilled cheese menu while I eavesdrop.
The shaggy-haired guy says, “I don’t think it’s Swiss. Jack is the key.”
The other guy has a dark scar on his cheek. He’s shaking his head. “But which?”
I lean in a bit to hear them better.
Scarface guy points to the menu board. “Number Four is Monterey Jack and Number Five is pepper jack.”
My eyelids pop open wide. These two are in the hunt! My spine straightens, and I glance around. Greg’s Grilled Cheese must have one of the clues I need.
I may have gasped a little because Shaggy and Scarface turn around and say, “Hey, why don’t you go ahead of us. We haven’t decided yet.”
“Oh, I’m just looking, trying to figure out which cart to try,” I lie.
“Know what you mean,” Shaggy answers. “That German place has killer brats.”
“Thanks.” I know full well that I won’t be ordering a brat or anything else. I won’t spend my loose change on any food unless I know it will lead me to another clue.
Shaggy and Scarface step off to the side of the cart and continue their discussion.
I know I can’t move any closer to them. They’d be suspicious for sure, so I continue to stroll through the cart pod, but very slowly, and never moving too far from Greg’s Grilled Cheese. I need to see what Shaggy and Scarface order. It could be important. It could lead to another clue.
I decide to skim the menu boards for the word whiskey. Most food carts can’t serve alcohol, so maybe whiskey is a flavoring or maybe just a word in the food dish’s title. As I start to read the menu at the Noodle Nub, a dog begins barking frantically. It’s coming from just outside the pod on the sidewalk. Peering through a gap between two carts, I see that the dog belongs to a man sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against a telephone pole. He’s homeless, I’m pretty certain. He holds tightly to the leash of the barking mutt. I feel a strange tug pulling me toward this man and his dog. The mutt looks so scroungy. He could use some grub. There’s probably plenty of food scraps in the garbage here. I step to a bin nearby and peer over the rim, but then quickly stop.
What am I doing?
Worse Than Weird Page 5
