You're Bacon Me Crazy Page 4

  “We’ll figure it out,” Mei said cheerfully, and with Ben smiling encouragingly, she wrote her name next to Committee Head. Then the bell rang, and Ben offered to walk Mei to her class. They mumbled absentminded good-byes in my direction and then walked down the hallway.

  I slumped against the wall. Now I understood why I’ve always felt sort of sorry for leftovers. At first, you find the food irresistible, but then you get tired of it. So the leftovers sit in the fridge watching you eat other things, waiting to get tossed out. And now I might be in serious danger of becoming a leftover, too.

  On Thursday after school, I walked to the Tasty Truck in record time, partly because Mei wasn’t with me, so there weren’t any shopping pit stops. And partly because I was itching to get busy cooking to take my mind off Mei and Ben. The two of them had gone to get froyos after school, and as they were climbing onto the cable car together, I witnessed the first hand-holding moment.

  As a best friend, I knew I was supposed to be happy for Mei, and I was trying to be. But lonely sometimes steps on happy’s feet.

  When I opened the back door of the truck, though, all my hopes of spending the afternoon blissfully cooking in peace disappeared. Because there inside the truck, helping Gabe grill some chicken, was Asher.

  “Tessa!” Gabe cried, lifting his tongs in greeting. “Look who decided to rejoin the team.” He motioned enthusiastically at Asher, who was looking at me with a guarded, sullen expression. “Isn’t that great?”

  “Great,” I echoed numbly.

  “We’re done grilling, so you can take over the training, T.” Gabe handed me the tongs and slid the apron over his head. “Cleo went to the roof garden for more cilantro, but she’ll be back later.” He grabbed a stack of papers from the front of the truck. “I’m going to see if I can get some more signatures on these Flavorfest petitions.”

  “How many do you have so far?” I asked.

  “Two,” Gabe said. “Cleo’s and mine.”

  “Make it three.” I grabbed his pen and added my name to the petition. “Good luck,” I added. As soon as Gabe was out the door, an uneasiness settled over the truck, and my heart sped up. Being near Asher, I felt a current of annoyance and adrenaline coursing through me, like I was both wanting and dreading another fight with him.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back,” I said stiffly.

  “I wasn’t sure I was, either.” He stared at the floor for a long time.

  “What happened to all your other options?” I asked, knowing it was a zinger but not able to stop myself. “Did your mom freeze your savings account or something?”

  He glared at me, and I could tell I’d probably hit pretty close to the mark.

  “I already have enough to pay for the vase,” he grumbled. “I just didn’t earn it, so she won’t let me use it.”

  “That’s because she enjoys torturing you instead. Most parents do.” I was surprised by the words as I said them. It almost felt like I was … confiding in Asher. How weird was that?

  “That’s so true,” he said with a sigh. “The thing is, I shouldn’t be here.”

  My teeth clenched. We were going down that road again? “Why?” I asked accusingly. “Because you’re too good for it?”

  “No! I know that’s how it’s coming across. But — but that’s not it.” He shook his head and was quiet for a long time, as if wrestling with what to say next. Finally, he spoke. “It’s because … because I can’t cook! At all! I set my microwave on fire making popcorn!”

  I didn’t mean to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself. And after a moment, Asher joined in. When he smiled — not a Beautiful Person smile, poised for effect, but a real, genuine smile — he looked different, less guarded and even a little … sweet.

  “I can top that,” I said. “I once burned bread so badly the fire department had to come.” I smiled back at him. “It just takes practice. I can show you the basics, but you have to try.”

  Asher thought about it for a minute, then reluctantly nodded. “I’ll try.”

  I slid my apron over my head. “Okay, so we can start with sandwiches.”

  “Good,” he said. “I love sandwiches.”

  “Making them, not eating them.” I laughed. “Think of the Tasty Truck as a … baseball stadium,” I said, trying to give him a way to relate to it. “Making sandwiches is sort of like swinging a baseball bat. The difference between a good ’wich and a bad ’wich is like the difference between a home run and a strikeout. A good ’wich is a crowd-pleaser — freshly made and never soggy. Serve a bad ’wich, and people leave the ballpark.” I laid out all the ingredients for the Bacon Me Crazy BLT at the prep counter. “We’ll start with the easiest and work our way up. Okay?”

  He nodded. “Batter up.”

  An hour later, we had a dozen strikeouts and no home runs. It wasn’t that Asher wasn’t trying. He was, and for once, he wasn’t being his obnoxious self. But he put too much sauce on Nick’s BLT, and when Nick bit into it, the sauce oozed out all over his basketball uniform. Asher put beef instead of turkey on someone’s Gobble Me Up, and doubled the feta when a customer asked for no cheese on her Chic Greek. And she was vegan, so that didn’t go over so well. By the time I gave her a refund, Asher and I were both exhausted and out of patience.

  “This is crazy,” he grumbled. “Making a sandwich shouldn’t be this hard. I mean, it’s just a sandwich.”

  “Just a sandwich?” My voice rose a few notches. “These are not slapdash PB&Js. They’re not prepackaged, preservative-filled insta-wraps. Do you have any idea what really goes into making one of these?”

  “Obviously not.” He glared at me. “Because if I did, people wouldn’t be asking for their money back!” He kicked at one of the cabinets, then stormed out of the truck. I hesitated, then followed him.

  Even though it was only four o’clock, the winter sun was already low in the sky, and the buildings were shaded with dusk. A salty breeze whisked up sharp from the bay, cooling my temper some, but not completely.

  “This is a mistake!” he said, pacing the sidewalk. “I’m never going to get the hang of it.”

  “Well, you won’t if you keep quitting!” I cried. “I’ve never seen anyone give up so easily! Haven’t you ever had to work for anything in your life?”

  His frown deepened with embarrassment. “Up until now, no,” he muttered.

  Of course not. I took a deep breath to try to calm down, then made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  “Wait here,” I said to Asher, then quickly texted Cleo. When I heard back from her, I went back inside the truck and locked it up tight.

  “What are you doing?” he asked sullenly.

  “Closing early,” I said. “Cleo said it was okay. She’ll come back to finish up the rest.” I faced him squarely. “So … you think our truck sells ‘just’ sandwiches. Nothing special, right?” I turned in the direction of home, then waved for him to follow. “Come with me. There’s something I want you to see.”

  When I opened the door to the roof of our townhouse, the rosy sky had deepened to indigo. The lights from the townhouses were blinking on, one by one, and the Golden Gate Bridge was throwing a twinkling reflection onto the bay. Off to the right, the skyscrapers of the financial district blazed in a golden glow, with the Transamerica Pyramid seeming to pierce the dark sky with its needlelike tip.

  I flipped a switch in the stairwell beside the door, and the hundreds of bulbs strung across the edges of our rooftop flickered on, bathing it in soft white light.

  “This is where our sandwiches start,” I said to Asher.

  He looked around, and I tried to take it all in through his eyes: the raised beds of soil full of fresh rosemary, oregano, and cilantro; the climbing tomato plants; the small crops of cucumbers, peppers, arugula, and potatoes that sprouted up from the soil we’d spread underneath miniature plastic greenhouse covers so they’d be protected from the chilly San Fran winter nights.

  “All of our ingredients come from this garden
,” I said, making sure to speak softly, which is what I always did when I was up on the roof, not wanting to disturb all the growing going on. I loved it up here almost as much as I loved cooking in the kitchen. “Everything we use is homegrown and organic, except for our meat, of course. But even that’s hormone- and antibiotic-free.”

  “Wow,” Asher said, the grudging look on his face softening. He bent down to brush his hand across one of the tomato plants. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “I know,” I said, my frustration easing just a bit. “I get defensive about it because not too many people understand. We’re not your average fast-food joint.”

  “I guess I’ve been sounding pretty jerky about the whole thing, huh?” he admitted quietly.

  “Um … slightly,” I said with a laugh.

  He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Well, you get so bossy when you’re trying to show me things in the truck.”

  I stiffened. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so pushy if you didn’t act so stuck-up all the time.”

  We glared at each other, then both started laughing.

  “What if we both try to cut each other some slack?” I finally said. “Then maybe we won’t actually kill each other?”

  “That’s a big maybe,” he said, “but I’m willing if you are.”

  I nodded, then picked up my hand shovel and spread some fresh compost and dirt around the bottom of one of the tomato plants. “So, are you going to help me, or are you afraid your hands will get too dirty?” I said in a tentative teasing tone to see how he’d react.

  He snorted, then dropped to his knees smiling. “If that’s your idea of cutting me some slack, we’re in trouble.”

  “Sorry.” I laughed and handed him a shovel. “Couldn’t resist.”

  We worked side by side for a few minutes, and then Asher sat back on his heels. “You know, I don’t even know what half these plants are. That’s part of my problem. How can I cook when I don’t have any idea what I’m cooking with?”

  “Well, here.” I pushed a stray curl off my forehead, bent down, and pinched a sprig from an oregano plant, then held it up under his nose. “Tell me what it smells like.”

  He took a deep breath. “Like … baked ziti takeout from Dimitri’s.”

  I laughed. “That’s right. It’s oregano, but you don’t need to know what its name is; you just need to know what works together. Blending is what makes recipes great.”

  I pulled a few more herbs, and he nailed the dishes they were used in every time. “You can do it,” I said finally, “you just need to be patient.”

  “Wait a sec.” He smirked and shot me a look. “I’m the one who needs to be patient?”

  He held my gaze until I giggled. “Okay, we both need more patience.”

  He nodded. “I can live with that.” He sat down on the brick patio and leaned back on his elbows, and I sat down next to him. “It’s so peaceful up here,” he said. “I bet without the city lights you could see Cassiopeia.”

  “You know about Cassiopeia?” I repeated in disbelief. When I was little, Dad read me the myths more often than fairy tales. It was important for me to know the foundations of my Greekness, he said, the roots of my ancestors. I knew my myths, but I didn’t think too many other kids at Bayview did.

  But Asher nodded. “Sure. It’s a constellation, named after a queen in Greek mythology. She was so vain she boasted that she was more beautiful than the sea god’s own daughters. So as punishment, Poseidon banished her to the stars.” He looked up. “At this time of night, Cassiopeia would be right about … there.” He pointed into the sky, but the rooftop lights made it impossible to see anything.

  As he talked, a bright excitement came into his face, nothing like the detached vibe he’d been giving off. My expression must have been one of surprise, because he laughed. “What? So … I know a little bit about stars.”

  “A little?” I said doubtfully.

  “Okay … a lot,” he said. “I’m a secret member of the San Fran Kids’ Astronomy Club.”

  “Why secret?” I asked.

  “I just never got around to telling anybody else, I guess.”

  I studied his face and saw a hint of discomfort in it. “Never got around to it, or didn’t want to tell anybody else?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Stargazing isn’t exactly the coolest extracurricular activity, you know?”

  “If it’s what you like to do, who cares about what’s cool?”

  He dropped his eyes, and that was the second I knew how much he cared, or at least how much he cared about his friends caring. It explained a lot about the way he acted in general.

  “Can I tell you something?” he asked after we’d sat in silence for a minute. “I broke my mom’s vase on purpose.”

  I stared at him. “Why?”

  He dug his shoe into a crevice in the patio. “It was the last thing my dad gave her before he left. They got divorced about a year ago. I didn’t think she’d miss it. I just … didn’t want it in our house anymore.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” I said awkwardly, surprised by his sudden honesty. For a second, he’d dropped his defenses, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of what he might be like behind the Great Wall of Snobbishness.

  “So maybe we should work on a sandwich named after a star,” I said, changing the subject. “Cassiopeia could be a great name for a new sandwich, and it could be your first original recipe.”

  Asher thought about it. “What about … the Cassiopita?”

  “Brilliant!” I cried. “I love it already.”

  “Really?” a sharp voice snipped behind me.

  There was Karrie, framed in the doorway of the stairwell with her lips pursed and one hand pressed against her hip. She gave Asher a piercing look, and Asher’s Great Wall instantly rose again. “Did you forget that you were supposed to meet Tristan and me at the marina?” Karrie demanded. “We were waiting forever, so finally I went to that truck and the woman sent me here.”

  “Sorry,” Asher said, standing up. “I lost track of time.” He glanced at me. “I should get going.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you later.”

  He waved and they turned toward the stairs, but then Karrie looked back, a patronizing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “Um, you know you have dirt on your face, right?” she said.

  “Sure,” I said, not missing a beat. “You’ve heard of mud masks. You should give it a try sometime.”

  Asher coughed a laugh into his sleeve while Karrie’s eyes flashed fire. She disappeared down the stairs without another word, but Asher hesitated for a second longer. There seemed to be an unspoken apology in his eyes.

  “Thanks for tonight,” he said. “It was fun.”

  I laughed at the note of surprise in his voice. “Hey, I can be fun, you know.”

  “When you’re not in Tasty-Truck-command-mode,” he said. “See you later.”

  His genuine smile as he left sent an unexpected flutter of excitement through me. What had just happened? It was like there were two versions of Asher now: the rich-boy brat with a chip on his shoulder; and the deeper, more authentic guy. I wasn’t sure which version was real, but now that we’d finally broken the ice, maybe I’d be able to find out.

  The phone was ringing when I got downstairs, and when I picked it up, Mei was on the other end of the line.

  “Hey,” she said. “Do you have plans on Saturday?”

  “Cleo and I are taking the Tasty Truck to the Bayview baseball game on Saturday afternoon, but I don’t have anything before that. Why?”

  “I thought we could go to the de Young Museum to get started on our Ansel Adams project. They have a special exhibit of his photography going on right now. It could have some good info.”

  “Definitely.” I nodded. “I’ll double-check with Mom and Dad, but let’s plan on it.” It would be so nice to have some one-on-one time with Mei.

  “Great,” she said. “Hey, I want the Asher update, too. I know Ben and I sort of
hogged the talk-time at lunch.”

  “Oh!” I smiled into the phone, thrilled that for the moment, Mei sounded like her everyday, pre-Ben self. “Well, Tuesday was a complete disaster, but then today —”

  There was a click, and then Mei said, “Oh, Tessa, it’s Ben on the other line. Do you mind if I grab it? I’ll call you right back afterward, okay?”

  My heart sank. “Sure,” I said. “No problem.” But she’d already hung up.

  Over the next hour, I finished all my homework, had dinner with Mom and Dad, packed my lunch for the next day, and looked at a dozen Ansel Adams photos online. But Mei didn’t call.

  I thought about calling her back, but I didn’t, because I wanted her to remember. I wanted her to want to call back.

  When she didn’t, I decided I needed to focus on something else, and that something else was cooking.

  I knocked on the door of Mom and Dad’s shared home office. Mom was there, her eyes focused on her double computer screens, the ones that can show her the US and Asian stock markets at the same time.

  “Mom, is it okay if I go upstairs to Cleo’s for a while?” I asked. “I did all my homework, and I thought I’d work on a couple recipes.”

  Mom looked at me from over her screens. “I was actually just about to log off for tonight. Do you want to go get some ice cream at the marina?”

  “Not really,” I said, thinking that if we ran into Asher and his friends, I’d have to put up with more searing looks from Karrie. But then disappointment flickered across Mom’s face, and I felt a stab of guilt. “Sorry, Mom, I’ve just had a bummer night so far. All I want to do is get my hands on some veggies and a cutting board.”

  “Oh,” Mom said, nodding. “Stress relief. I get it.” I knew she was trying to draw a connection, but she looked like she was drawing a complete blank. “Well, do you want to talk about what’s bugging you?”

  “Not so much.” I shook my head.

  Mom looked at me for a long minute. Then her eyes flicked back to her computer screens, and I could tell she was diving back into her numbers. “Okay, then, have fun with Cleo,” she said. “Just be back down by bedtime.”