You're Bacon Me Crazy Read online

  “Hey, Tessa,” Tristan said with a smile, as if it were the norm for us to talk all the time. I’d heard Ben say once that Tristan was pretty grounded, not stuck up like some of the other Beautiful People. But this was the first time I’d witnessed it, and it made me drop my guard enough to smile and say hi back. “I’ve heard about your famous BLT, so I thought I’d give it a try,” he added. “And” — he stuck his head in through the window — “offer some moral support to my bud here. Hang in there, Ash. Your first day’s almost over.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Asher mumbled, tossing a hand towel toward Tristan. But Tristan had managed to get a weak smile out of Asher, which was more than I’d seen so far. “Hey,” Asher said to me, “I’m going to take my break now. I’ll be back in a few….”

  “What?” I stared at him. “This is our busiest time of day! You can’t take a break!”

  He scowled. “Your aunt can take a few bucks from my paycheck for it. No biggie.” And before I could utter another word, he had brushed passed me and was outside, chatting with Karrie. The second Tristan joined them with his freshly made BLT, Karrie glanced at the sandwich and grimaced.

  “Omigod.” She put a hand over her mouth as if to keep what she was saying secret, but still spoke loudly enough so I could hear, “You’re not going to eat that, are you? That truck probably breaks every health code in the book.”

  I felt my blood boil. The girl did not know what she was talking about.

  Tristan only grinned at her, then took an enormous bite. “Mmmm … delicious.”

  Karrie’s laugh was like shattering glass. Way too harsh. “You can’t be serious,” she said, then she laid her hand on Asher’s arm, like she was staking out her territory. “What are you doing, Ash? You don’t belong here.”

  “I know,” Asher mumbled. “Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “Well, at least you don’t smell like bacon grease … yet,” she said, then laughed like that was the funniest joke in the world.

  “Hey, I love that smell,” Tristan said, elbowing Asher. Then he turned to Karrie. “Come on, let’s let Ash get back to work.” He waved good-naturedly at me. “See you later, Tessa! Thanks for the great eats!”

  I smiled tightly and waved back, but only for Tristan’s benefit. The second Asher reluctantly stepped back into the truck, I turned away to avoid seeing the smug look on his face.

  We worked in total silence for the next hour; or, I worked while Asher texted. The more he texted and refused to work, the more furious I got. When Cleo finally came back to the truck, my temper was burnt to a crisp.

  “So … how was the first day on the job?” Cleo asked Asher with a smile.

  Asher shrugged, and I could only mutter, “Can we just close up … please?”

  Cleo gave me a questioning look, but nodded, and within ten minutes, we were ready. Asher sat up front with her for the ride back to the parking garage, and I took the third foldout seat in the back of the truck. We pulled out onto Hyde Street, and as we turned a corner, chaos struck.

  I shrieked as one of the cabinets to my right flew open and a container of tomatoes flew out, landing upside down in my lap. The onions were airborne next, and then the masala beef. But the very last bump in the road was the one that did it — the one that dumped the entire container of Cleo’s special sauce all over my head.

  When Cleo opened the back of the truck, there I was in my seat, covered in congealed beef, thick rivulets of sauce oozing down my face.

  Asher burst out laughing, and when I’d finally wiped my eyes enough to see, there was Cleo, doubled over in her snorty laugh stance.

  “Asher,” I managed to hiss, trying to wipe the goo off my face. “You were supposed to buckle everything down.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, trying to catch his breath between laughs. “I forgot about that.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal that I was covered in slime. “Sorry.”

  That was it. The last straw.

  “That’s all you can say?” I cried, the rage I’d felt building up all afternoon exploding out of me. “You’re not sorry. You’re too conceited to be sorry!”

  “Tessa —” Cleo started, but I cut her off.

  “No, no, he barely worked at all today, and when he did, he ruined everything he touched.”

  “Well, you didn’t exactly show me the ropes, did you?” Asher shot back.

  “I tried, but you were on such a high horse you didn’t listen!” I made a weak attempt to brush some sauce off my dripping overalls. “You think working in the truck is so beneath you. You said yourself it was cruel and unusual punishment!”

  “So?” he said, his voice deepening in anger. “I never wanted to work here in the first place!” He threw up his hands. “You know what? I don’t care what my mom says. I can’t do this. I’ll find another way to pay her back.” He tossed his apron into the back of the truck and turned away. “I quit.”

  He marched out of the parking garage, leaving Cleo and me staring after him.

  “I can’t stand him.” I seethed. “He’s the most stuck-up, spoiled person I’ve ever met….”

  Cleo took one of her calming breaths. “He might need some time to adjust. It was only his first day.”

  “And thankfully his last,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Cleo said. “I doubt his mom’s going to let him off the hook, and we really do need some more help with the truck.” She smiled winningly at me, and I instantly shook my head, reading her mind.

  “Oh no,” I said. “No way.”

  “Just try talking to him at school tomorrow,” Cleo pleaded. “Obviously you got off on the wrong foot, but if he comes back, you’re going to have to find a way to work together. And if anybody can change his attitude about cooking, it’s you. Please?”

  Ugh. When she said please in her sweet, big-sisterly way, how could I possibly say no? “All right,” I said grudgingly. “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you, Tessa. You’re the best.” She smiled gratefully, then shook her head at the explosion of sauce inside the truck. “What a mess, huh?”

  I nodded with a sigh. What a mess, indeed.

  Three shampoos later, my hair was finally sauce-free, but I wasn’t off the hook. Not even close. I walked into our kitchen, and there were Mom and Dad, fresh off the plane in their suits, two-peas-in-a-pinstripe.

  “Sweetheart!” Mom hugged me. “We missed you!”

  “You, too,” I said. “How was Rome?”

  Dad looked up from the pile of mail he was weeding through. “Conferences and boring business dinners.” He went over to the stove and dipped a finger in the tomato sauce Cleo was making.

  “Hands off, bro!” Cleo said, threatening to swat his hand with her wooden spoon, and he pulled away, laughing.

  Dad flipped on the news in the den while Mom and I set the table. A minute later, Dad called us over to the TV.

  “Did you know about this, Cleo?” he asked, pointing to the screen.

  “We just found out about it today,” Cleo said.

  Bev Channing, the newscaster for Channel Seven, was talking about “The Flavorfest Controversy.” Pictures of various food trucks from all over the city flashed across the screen. When I saw the Tasty Truck looking all shiny and bright, I squealed.

  “It’s a regular celebrity,” Dad said.

  We kept watching as Bev recapped what Signor Antonio had already told us. But then a man appeared on the screen wearing a svelte suit, smiling suavely.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Cleo whispered.

  “I’m not trying to take anything away from the city,” Mr. Morgan said smoothly. “San Francisco boasts some of the best restaurants in the country, and the Taste of San Fran festival will put our finest foods on display. Tourists come to our city for our restaurants and culture, not for our food trucks. Sure, food trucks give people quick and easy food choices, but those choices, I’m sad to say, aren’t always healthy … or clean.”

  “What?” I shrieked.

  “
That’s just despicable,” Cleo said. “Doesn’t he know we have to pass safety inspections and meet codes just like any restaurant does?”

  “The fact is, food trucks aren’t on par with our city’s fine dining,” Mr. Morgan was saying. “They’re our fast-food options, but they don’t belong at the Taste of San Fran.”

  Dad snapped off the TV. “Well, if I know Cleo,” he said as we all sat down at the table, “she’s putting together a battle plan. Am I right?”

  Cleo nodded. “I talked to Gabe, and we’re going to start a petition in the neighborhood to keep Flavorfest. If we make some noise, maybe the city council will ask Mr. Morgan to reschedule the Taste of San Fran.”

  “What about just moving Flavorfest to another location?” Dad asked.

  “Gabe’s looking into that with Signor Antonio, but there’s a lot of red tape involved.” Cleo took a bite of her pasta, then added, “I’m not giving up yet.”

  “Me either,” I said, feeling newly determined. “We have all these new recipes that we’re planning, and Cleo’s BLT is going to win the Flavorfest Best Award this year. There’s not a chance I’m going to let some high-powered suit ruin everything.”

  I swallowed thickly when Mom visibly stiffened at the word suit. I guess I didn’t really blame her, either, considering she was sitting at our table wearing one.

  “Well, even if Flavorfest does happen,” Mom said, “I don’t want you to get carried away, Tessa. I know if you had your way, you’d be in the kitchen every hour of the day, brewing up something or other.”

  “They’re called recipes, Mom,” I said, my voice hardening. I didn’t add that recipes were something my mom never used, because she never cooked. She always said finance was her thing, not fricassee.

  “No sarcasm, please, Tessa.” She sighed. “How’s your first week back at school been so far? I hope you haven’t been spending too many hours at the Tasty Truck. You know the rule. School comes first.”

  Mom just had to throw that comment in there … every time. When Cleo first opened the truck, Dad and I were gung ho about it, but Mom tried to talk Cleo out of it, encouraging her to get a “real job” instead (whatever that meant). Mom had never been enthused about my helping Cleo with the truck. But Dad said it was teaching me valuable “work ethic,” so Mom let me do it. But not without reminding me regularly that other things, like homework, were more important.

  “Tessa’s been doing great with everything,” Cleo said, winking at me. I smiled, grateful, as always, that she was there to put in a good word for me.

  “All right,” Mom said, and she turned back to me. “I just want you to keep a healthy balance between school, your friends, and cooking. Okay?”

  A balance. I could not believe Mom was using that word with me. I wanted to tell her that she could balance better, too, and maybe spend less time traveling and more time at home. But then I looked at Cleo, and she shook her head slightly, meaning, Don’t go there.

  So, I took a deep breath. “Okay, Mom,” I finally managed, and the rest of dinner went peacefully.

  Back in my bedroom later, I lay awake for a long time, watching from my window as thick fog curled and tumbled over the Golden Gate Bridge. Just as I was finally getting drowsy, my door creaked open, and I saw Mom tiptoeing toward my bed. She slid under the covers with me and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her cold toes against mine. We laid there for a few minutes like that, which is something we haven’t done since I was very young.

  “You grow up a little more every time I go away,” she whispered. “I wish I were here to see it happening.” She kissed my forehead. “Love you.”

  “You, too,” I whispered back as she slipped out of the room. Of course I loved my mom, but sometimes I felt like Cleo understood something about me that Mom just couldn’t.

  There was only one bobby pin tucked into my curls on Wednesday morning. It was there to make sure I didn’t forget the unpleasant task ahead.

  I got to school ten minutes early. Waiting at Asher’s locker felt a little like trespassing on forbidden territory. My jittery nerves had me pacing and not knowing where to look.

  No one at our school hangs out at the lockers of the Beautiful People unless you’re one of them. But when Tristan caught sight of me as he came down the hallway with Asher, he didn’t seem the least bit shocked. Asher, on the other hand, slowed down his pace, setting his jaw stubbornly like he was preparing for battle.

  There was an awkward silence before Tristan broke the ice.

  “Hey, Tessa,” he said amicably. “So, things got off to a rough start yesterday, huh?”

  I met Asher’s gaze. There was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me whining over what had happened. So I tossed my hair nonchalantly and said, “Actually, I found the tossed-veggie facial hydrating. And that special conditioning treatment did wonders for my hair.”

  Tristan laughed. “Kudos to you for being a good sport. Believe me, I know what a pain Asher can be.” At this, Asher socked him in the arm. “But he’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

  “I’m standing right here, you know,” Asher snapped.

  “Well, I don’t see you doing any groveling, and you have to so you can go back to work,” Tristan said. “Otherwise, you’ll be grounded for the rest of your life and die of boredom.” With that, he saluted Asher and headed down the hallway.

  I swallowed down the lump of nerves stuck in my throat as I faced Asher alone. “So … Cleo asked me to talk to you about coming back,” I said haltingly. “And it sounds like you don’t have any other options anyway….”

  “I always have options,” Asher quipped. “I don’t need this job.”

  Right, I thought, because you probably have a hefty trust fund that would pay for ten thousand vases. But what I said was, “Well, anyway, we’re shorthanded and Cleo needs someone….”

  “Yeah, someone who actually likes being crammed in a steel box for hours at a time.”

  “It’s not a box, and you’d get used to it,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice on an even keel as my anger flared again. Was it possible for him to say anything that was not completely offensive? “You might actually start to like it after a while. I do.”

  “Not a chance.” He shook his head.

  With that comment, my cheeks got hot as a griddle and my patience ran dry. “What is your problem, anyway?” I cried in exasperation, throwing up my hands. “I’m trying to be nice, which, after yesterday, is no easy feat. Cleo thought I should give you the benefit of the doubt, though, so here I am. But this is just a colossal waste of time. Oh, and by the way, I’m pretty sure that even a penthouse can feel like a box when you’re stuck in it forever. But let me know how being grounded for the rest of your life works out for you!” And with that, I whirled away from him and stomped down the hallway before he had a chance to say anything else.

  When I sat down in the cafeteria for lunch, I was still fuming, and I couldn’t wait to vent to Mei. I hadn’t had a chance to fill her in on everything yet. Art history was our only class together this semester, and we’d spent the entire period debating over which artist to study for our big report. Mei wanted Coco Chanel because “fashion is art.” I wanted Andy Warhol because, to him, food was art. To break the gridlock, Mr. Toulouse finally suggested an artist named Ansel Adams.

  Now that we’d gotten that great debate out of the way, I was ready for a proper catch-up. But when Mei sat down across from me, she had Ben with her.

  It wasn’t like Ben had never sat with us before, but usually some of our other friends, like Leo and Ann, came along with him.

  “Hey, Tessa,” Mei and Ben said at the same time, then laughed at their in-sync-ness. I tried not to roll my eyes.

  “So how’s it going with Asher?” Mei asked as she and Ben sat down side by side. “You haven’t told me yet.”

  “I know,” I said, relieved and happy that in her state of Benfatuation she could still think properly. “You are not going to believe wh
at happened….”

  Mei nodded, then held up a finger. “Yeah. I can’t wait to hear. Just let Ben finish the story he was telling me in the cafeteria line. It was so funny.”

  Then, just like that, I lost her. She was tilting her head adoringly toward Ben, giggling away as he talked. By the time his story ended, so did lunch. I was walking quietly behind them on the way to our lockers when I caught Ben’s fingers brush Mei’s. This was not the least bit reassuring. They were probably only one day away from holding hands.

  When we passed by the announcements bulletin board, Ben stopped.

  “Hey.” He pointed to a pink heart-shaped flyer. “You should sign up for that, Mei! It looks like fun.”

  I peeked over their shoulders to see that the heart flyer was a sign-up sheet for the Sweet Heart Ball decorating committee. Last year, since neither one of us had boys to go with, Mei and I hadn’t gone to the Valentine’s Day dance at all. Mei had been fine with that. From the dreamy smile on her face, though, I wasn’t so sure about this year. Ben hadn’t officially asked Mei to the dance. But since a guy never calls a dance “fun” unless he’s planning on asking someone to go with him, it was probably only a matter of time.

  I read the flyer again, and my stomach clenched. “The ball is on Valentine’s Day this year,” I said meekly. “That’s the same day as the Great Pillow Fight.”

  “Oh,” Mei said quietly, then added with fresh hope, “well, maybe we can do the pillow fight beforehand. The dance doesn’t start until eight, and the pillow fight is at six.”

  “But when will we have time to get ready for the dance?” I asked. I knew getting ready quickly wouldn’t be a problem for me, especially since I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go to the dance at all. But Mei was another story. She took two hours just to get dressed to go to the mall. Getting dressed for a dance could take decades.