You're Bacon Me Crazy Page 11

  I laughed. “Very cool.”

  “Good, because I always wanted to be friends with a celebrity,” Mei said, “and I think your fifteen minutes of fame just arrived. Look.” She pointed toward the street, where a Channel Seven news truck was pulling up to the curb.

  “Omigod,” I whispered as Bev Channing and an onslaught of camera crew climbed out of the truck.

  The camera crew set up in front of the Tasty Truck, and Bev walked over to me and Mei, already wearing her broadcasting smile. She introduced herself smoothly, then said, “Can you point me to the person in charge of this rally?”

  I stammered an incoherent “U-um …” But then Gabe piped up from inside the truck.

  “You’re looking at her,” he called, gesturing to me. “Her name is Tessa Kostas, and this was all her idea.”

  “Brilliant,” said Bev. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “U-uh,” I stammered, then looked at Cleo, Gabe, and Mei, who were all nodding more enthusiastically than a slew of bobblehead dolls. “Sure.”

  The next thing I knew, I was being interviewed for the five o’clock evening news. Not the local news, either. The honest-to-goodness national news. The Tasty Truck’s fight for Flavorfest was going to be broadcast across America. If that wasn’t enough to get back Flavorfest, I didn’t know what was.

  By the time the news truck left, we were out of BLTs and the crowd was starting to slowly thin. But everyone was leaving with smiles on their faces and words of encouragement on their lips.

  “You just wait,” Mrs. Osaka said confidently as she gave me a parting hug. “We sent a message to Mr. Morgan that he can’t possibly ignore.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  Mei and Ben stuck around to help Cleo, Gabe, and me clean up and close down the truck.

  “It’s almost five o’clock,” Cleo said when we finished. “I vote we head home, order pizza, and watch the Channel Seven evening news. Who’s with me?”

  I grinned at the unanimous “Yes!” While Gabe and Cleo parked the truck, I walked home with Mei and Ben. But when we stepped through our front door, I froze. My mouth fell open at the sight of Mom and Dad sitting on the sofa, waiting for me.

  Mom’s eyes met mine, her face expressionless.

  “So,” she said evenly. “How was the rally?”

  I tiptoed inside, afraid that Mom would unleash a tirade about the evils of lying to parents and getting carried away with foolish dream-chasing. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she calmly and pleasantly offered everyone drinks and — shocker — homemade bacon-peanut-butter cookies.

  “Bacon lovers’ bliss!” Ben said around mouthfuls. “Tessa, did you make these?”

  “No,” I sputtered, confused. Where had they come from? It couldn’t be …

  I glanced at Mom in shock.

  “Actually, I made them,” Mom said, giving me a triumphant grin. “With a little help from your dad.”

  “She’s actually not a bad cook,” Dad said, “especially when you hold her cell phone hostage.” Dad looked at me soberly. “But you were very busy today, too, weren’t you?”

  I sank down on the couch. “How’d you find out?”

  “Oh, a reliable source did some reconnaissance this afternoon.” He nodded toward Mom, who was passing Mei a cookie. “She got in from New York and decided she wanted to go say hi to you at the truck. The rest is history.”

  Just then, Gabe and Cleo walked in the door, and they both stopped cold. “So, I’m guessing we’ve been outed?” Cleo asked me.

  “But I think we’re forgiven,” I said hopefully, and Dad nodded in confirmation.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Gabe cried, grabbing the TV remote. “It’s five o’clock!”

  Within seconds, Bev Channing’s glamorous face had appeared on the screen.

  “Today, we’re taking a look at how an often-overlooked community of food truckers found their voice through one brave girl named Tessa Kostas.”

  Whoops and hollers exploded through the family room while I shushed everyone in embarrassment.

  “Tessa,” Bev continued, “tell us why you’re fighting so hard to save Flavorfest.”

  I saw my face on-screen, a very odd sensation. I was surprised to see that my overalls didn’t look half bad.

  “Flavorfest showcases the talents of some amazing chefs in our community,” I watched myself say. “Food trucks don’t have long lives like restaurants, and they have to fight to survive. Flavorfest is the one time of year they get to shine in the spotlight. And since they create such delicious food for people every day and everywhere in this city, don’t they deserve it?”

  Had I really been so articulate? I almost couldn’t believe it myself, except I felt Dad patting my back with pride.

  Bev nodded. “And what would you say to people who have concerns about the quality and safety of the food from these trucks?”

  “I’d bet any one of them that we keep our truck cleaner than they keep their own kitchens, and we have the five-star health and safety ranking to prove it.” I smiled at the camera. “And if they don’t believe me, they can stop by our truck any time, any day, for a tour.” I pointed toward the Tasty Truck, and the camera zoomed in on it.

  Everyone burst into applause around me.

  “Go, Tessa!” Cleo and Mei cheered, and I felt my cheeks warm at the attention. I didn’t really care about being semi-famous; I just wanted to know if our rally had been effective. I leaned forward so that I could hear the rest of the broadcast. Bev went on to interview other people in the crowd, including a lot of the food-truck owners.

  “Of course we came to the rally today,” said Mrs. Bisrati. “The Flavorfest award we got two years ago for our falafel is the reason why we’re still in business today. We need Flavorfest, and this year is no different.”

  “Yes, restaurants help our community,” said Mr. Hirschorn, the owner of the cupcake truck, “but so do food trucks. Flavorfest is one of the ways we celebrate that every year. If Flavorfest goes, will food trucks be next?”

  Next, Mr. Morgan appeared on-screen in a jogging suit, looking disgruntled and disheveled, like he’d just been interrupted in the middle of a workout.

  “It’s obvious that a lot of effort went into the rally,” he said, “and I commend these food truckers’ persistence. But I’m sorry to say it hasn’t changed anything. The Taste of San Fran festival will still be held on February eighth, as scheduled. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” He put his hand in front of the lens, and the camera shot back to Bev.

  I didn’t hear the rest of the broadcast. My stomach had fallen to the floor. Someone clicked off the TV, and silence took over the room. I could feel everyone looking at me, waiting for me to say something. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at anyone.

  I stood up, keeping my eyes focused on the carpet. “I guess that’s it, then.” My voice was high-pitched, straining for a carefree tone. “Oh well. We tried.”

  The words were all wrong, too casual for the weight of the moment, but they were all I could say.

  “You know, all that chanting at the rally today kind of gave me a headache,” I continued. “I’m just going to hang in my room for a while.” I managed a shaky smile, waving to Mei and Ben. “I’ll see you guys at school on Monday.”

  I was safe behind the closed door of my room before the first tear fell, but once it did, I couldn’t stop the flood. I wasn’t usually much of a crier, but when I did cry, it was the gushing, hiccupping, last-for-an-hour kind of torrent. It wasn’t the kind of cry you wanted people to witness, so when I heard the first knock on my door, I didn’t answer.

  “Tessa, it’s me.” Mei’s voice came through muffled from the other side of the door. “Ben just went home. Do you want to talk?” A full minute passed before she gave up. “Okay. Well, call me when you feel up to it. I’m sending you telepathic hugs. Bye.”

  Even through my tears, that made me smile.

  I was planning to ignore the seco
nd knock, too, but then I heard, “Honey? It’s Mom. Please let me in.”

  I lifted my head off the pillow. Normally, I wouldn’t have let her in, either. But … today she’d baked bacon-peanut-butter cookies … from scratch. Clearly this wasn’t an ordinary day for ordinary behavior. So I opened the door for her.

  She took one look at my streaming eyes, and pulled me into her arms. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been there, tucked beneath her chin like a preschooler. But it felt warm and homey and … perfect.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispered into my curls. “For everything.”

  Yeesh. Now I was crying even more.

  “I tried so hard,” I blubbered. “For once I wanted to fix a problem instead of making one. I know I can be forgetful and irresponsible. And I’m sorry, because I know you want me to be this person you think I should be. But I’m not like you and Dad. I don’t like numbers and logical thinking. I mean, nobody wakes up in the morning craving a good, solid math problem. But then there’s bacon.” I sniffled forlornly. “Who doesn’t crave bacon?”

  Mom laughed, brushing my hair back from my face. “That’s a good point.”

  “I know you hate that I love working at the Tasty Truck,” I continued, letting all my frustrations spill out. “But I thought if I could get Flavorfest back on track and the Bacon Me Crazy BLT won the Flavorfest Best Award, then I could keep the Tasty Truck from having to shut down, and you’d finally think I was doing something that mattered.”

  Mom shook her head, looking crestfallen. “Tessa, I don’t hate that you work at the truck. I love that you have a passion for cooking. It’s not something I’ve ever enjoyed, but you’re not me, and I don’t want or expect you to be me. Finding a passion like that in life is rare and lucky.” She kissed the top of my head. “I’m so proud of what you did today. Seeing you speaking so clearly and with so much conviction on TV just now … I was blown away. I saw a spark in you that I’d never seen before, maybe because I was working too much. I don’t know. But I could scarcely believe that such a strong-minded, fervent young woman could be my daughter.”

  I stared at her, shocked that this was actually Mom talking.

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t come across as supportive of your job at the Tasty Truck,” she went on. “I probably came down too hard on you at times. But the fact of the matter is …” She gave a short laugh. “I was jealous.”

  I gaped at her. “What?”

  She nodded. “It’s true. I was jealous that Cleo got to spend so much time with you while I was working. The two of you have so much in common, and you and I are …”

  “Different?” I offered.

  She laughed. “To say the least. The point is, when you and Cleo got so close, I got … lonely.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, listen to me. That probably doesn’t make any sense….”

  “No,” I said. “No, it does.” It made perfect sense. If there was one thing I’d gotten a good handle on lately, it was that lonely feeling that comes when someone you care about forgets about you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t be,” Mom said. “I wouldn’t even have told you now, except I thought I should, because things are about to change.”

  My eyes welled again. “You mean I won’t be able to work at the Tasty Truck anymore?”

  Mom smiled. “No. I mean that I’m not going to be working so much anymore. Your dad and I have been talking about it. I’m going to cut back on my work hours a little bit. I told my boss that this trip to New York would have to be my last business trip for a while, and she okayed that. This way, I’ll be around more often to help you with your homework.”

  “Or maybe with cooking?” I said hopefully.

  She laughed, hugging me. “If you can be patient with me.”

  “I will be. Thanks, Mom.” I hadn’t realized how much I’d longed for more of Mom’s free time, until she offered it to me. But once she did, a welcoming warmth swept through me.

  “So …” She peered down into my face. “I’m sure you’re still upset about Flavorfest, but are you feeling any better at all? I know I’m sort of a rookie with these mother/daughter talks, but I’m trying.”

  I smiled, then kissed her cheek. “I do feel better. Much better.”

  “Oh, good.” Mom looked grateful and relieved. Then she straightened and stood up. “I think I’ll go make another batch of those cookies. Want to help?”

  I didn’t, not when I was sure it would only remind me of all the amazing recipes we weren’t going to be able to take to Flavorfest. But I also didn’t want to disappoint Mom when things were improving between us. So I pushed Flavorfest to the back of my mind.

  “Sure, Mom,” I said. “But I’ll have to keep a close eye on you. You know you can’t use the oven without proper supervision.”

  Mom laughed. “Of course.”

  “We’ll start with the basics,” I said, leading the way into the kitchen. I reached into the drawer closest to the stove. “These … are called measuring spoons.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “I can tell you’re going to enjoy this.”

  I grinned. “You have no idea.”

  Sunday morning, I decided to introduce Mom to Cleo’s roof garden. We were crouched over the fragrant herb beds, enjoying the feel of the sun on our backs, when the roof-access door opened.

  I glanced up in time to see Asher step onto the roof. A baseball cap shaded his handsome face and his arms were crossed over his green T-shirt.

  Just the sight of him sent my nerves reeling. My trowel slipped out of my hand, clattering to the gravel.

  “I’ll get it,” Asher said, already reaching down.

  “And … I’ll go downstairs and get us some hot chocolate,” Mom said, taking a cue from my flustered face. “Be back in a bit.”

  She disappeared through the door. The instant she was gone, I blurted, “Asher, I’m so sorry about everything I said to you. I know what you did for us with Karrie and the brownies, and I …” I swallowed and tried to talk over the noise of my hammering heart. “I want to thank you … so much.”

  “You’re welcome,” Asher said, ducking his head with a small smile. “I should’ve been honest with you about Mr. Morgan. But I was afraid you’d freak out if you knew, and then …”

  “I did freak out.” I gave a short laugh. “But I completely overreacted. Everything was falling apart all at once, and I was just so stressed, and …” I bit my lip. “And I really wanted you to be at the rally. I thought … I guess I thought we were becoming good friends.”

  “We were,” Asher said. “We still are, I hope.” A question came into his eyes. “If you want to be.”

  My heart raced. “I do.”

  “I wanted to be at the rally,” Asher said. “I thought about you — I mean, the rally — all day long.” His cheeks took on a reddish tinge and my stomach flipped. “But I still knew I couldn’t go.” He looked at me intently. “I know you think I don’t stand up enough for what I believe in, and maybe you’re right. I’m trying to be better about that, telling people what I really think, no matter what. That’s part of why I called Karrie on her lie. But this was different. This was something I had to do for Mom. So, if you’re going to stay mad at me, then —”

  “No,” I interrupted. “I understand why you couldn’t come. It’s okay.” I sighed. “Besides, the rally didn’t change anything anyway. Flavorfest is canceled.”

  “But maybe it doesn’t have to be,” Asher said mysteriously. “That’s the other reason I’m here.”

  “What do you mean?” I felt a stirring of hopefulness.

  “I found out something about Mr. Morgan yesterday,” Asher said, an impish glint lighting up his eyes. “Something that might give you one last chance to win him over. It’s a long shot, though, and it’s not really something I’d be able to help with.”

  I’d take a long shot. At this point, I’d take anything. I nodded at Asher with a smile. “So … tell me!”

  By the time Mom returned
with three steaming cups of hot cocoa, Asher and I had a plan in place. The chances of it working were slim, but we didn’t have anything to lose. There was only one problem with our plan: getting it past my mom.

  As she handed me a cup brimming with marshmallows, I took a deep breath and jumped right in.

  “Mom,” I said. “Asher thinks he knows a way that we still might be able to save Flavorfest.”

  “Really?” Mom said enthusiastically. “That would be so wonderful.”

  Asher nodded. “But, Mrs. Kostas, it’s a little complicated.”

  Mom looked at me, and I forced myself to say the words.

  “I’d have to miss a few hours of school tomorrow,” I said in a rush.

  There. I’d said it. But I knew it was a lost cause. Never in a million years would Mom agree to pull me out of school for something like this. In her eyes, it would probably be just as bad as ditching. But then she surprised me. Instead of an instantaneous no, as I’d feared, she said, “So, what’s the plan?”

  Mom didn’t say a word as Asher explained everything, but she didn’t grimace or frown or laugh, either. Finally, when Asher had finished, we waited for her answer.

  I held my breath while Mom studied her hot cocoa mug intensely. When she finally looked up, it was with a mischievous grin I’d never seen on her face before.

  “Well, Tessa,” she said, “it looks like you and I are both going to come home sick tomorrow.”

  I grinned at her and Asher, barely believing my good luck. “Oh yes,” I said, putting a hand to my forehead. “I think I feel a case of the hookies coming on. It should hit me, say, around eleven?”

  Mom nodded. “I’ll be outside the school. Eleven sharp.”

  At exactly a quarter to eleven on Monday, I caught a full-blown case of the hookies, complete with nausea, headache, and lethargy. The school nurse said I didn’t have a fever, but since this was my first visit to the nurse’s office ever, she decided I must really be sick.

  Ten minutes later, I was headed down the hallway to grab my books, very pleased with the way my “illness” had played out. I opened my locker, and when I did, a note fluttered to my feet. I picked it up and read: