You're Bacon Me Crazy Page 8

  I didn’t hide my sadness in front of my parents. “I know you’re still deciding about letting me go back to work,” I told Mom, “but I think it would really cheer me up after everything….”

  I knew I was tapping into a weak spot. Neither one of them had ever been great at handling these kinds of dramas, and Dad was already starting to look lost. He gave Mom a help me look, and I sensed that she was the deciding factor here. Mom stared at the table for a long time, her mouth bordering dangerously on a frown.

  Finally, she sighed. “All right, but before you go back to work, we’re getting you a new pair of glasses. You’re not dicing anything until you can see well enough to keep the knife away from your fingers.”

  “Done,” I said, and then, possessed by a sudden, inexplicable impulse, I blurted, “Actually, Mom, I was thinking I might try contacts.”

  I blushed as Mom and Dad gawked at me. Mom had suggested contacts before, but I’d always been adamantly against trying them … until now.

  “Wow, what brought this on?” Dad asked. “A historic day. I’m calling the Chronicle.”

  “Funny, Dad.” I elbowed him, then shrugged. “And I don’t know what brought it on.”

  Of course, I argued with myself, it had nothing to do with how Asher had reacted when he’d seen me without my glasses. Nothing at all.

  Mom looked enormously pleased. “Great! We’ll go to the eye doctor first thing tomorrow morning. Then you can help Cleo tomorrow afternoon at the truck.” Her face grew more serious. “But no more midnight runs to school. I mean it, Tessa. You have to show me that you can work at the Tasty Truck and keep up with school, or we’ll change our minds.”

  “I will,” I said, beaming. “Thanks, Mom.” Then I jumped up from the table and rushed to my room to call Mei. I was already halfway through dialing her number when I remembered what had happened last night. There was only one other person I could think of that I wanted to talk to, and with a hammering heart, I dialed his number.

  I expected Asher to be thrilled about the idea for the rally. But when I told him about our plan, I was surprised by the silence I heard stretching out on the other end of the line.

  “It’s a great idea,” he finally said, weakly. “I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “It might,” I said. “Cleo told me this morning that the Tasty Truck’s in real trouble, and I can’t just sit back and wait for it to go under. We have to stop that from happening.”

  “And you really think Flavorfest will be enough?”

  “It has to be,” I said firmly. “If Flavorfest happens and the Bacon Me Crazy BLT wins, then the Tasty Truck will stay in business.”

  “So … what are you going to do?” he asked, and I wondered why he sounded so reluctant.

  “I’m going to make a bunch a flyers and hand them out around our neighborhood,” I explained. “I was hoping you could help me. Maybe we can start after we’re done at the Tasty Truck tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Asher said. Then there was a pause. “Tessa, no matter what happens, just try to remember that we’re friends, okay?”

  Friends. My heart involuntarily drooped a bit. “Of course we’re friends,” I said nonchalantly. “Nothing will change that.”

  “Good,” he said, and the relief in his voice came through loud and clear.

  After we hung up, I lay on my bed, the excitement I’d felt earlier deflating.

  Of course that’s what Asher and I were: friends. But why did he have to say it like I might need a reminder of that? Had he sensed something between us last night, too, or was he afraid that I felt something that he didn’t?

  I sighed, wondering why no one had ever invented an easy-to-follow recipe for boys. But then I knew the answer. Because no one understood boys well enough to write one.

  On Monday, I missed my morning classes because I was at the eye doctor getting fitted for my very first pair of contacts. I was still getting used to the feel of them as I walked to my locker before lunch.

  I spotted Mei there, waiting. I fleetingly hoped she might be about to apologize for what happened at the concert, but instead she narrowed her eyes.

  “Where have you been for the last two days?” she demanded. “I tried texting you and calling you about a dozen times. I was worried something happened to you.”

  “That’s a shocker.” I stared at her. “You didn’t seem too worried about me when you left me at the concert on Saturday.”

  Mei’s eyes widened. “I didn’t leave you….”

  “Right,” I said. “You were gone for half an hour getting sodas!” I threw my books in my locker and slammed it shut.

  “Why didn’t you just wait for us?” Mei cried. “When we got back to our seats you were gone.”

  “Because my glasses got knocked off during the show, and I couldn’t see a thing. I needed help, but you were oblivious to everything but Ben, as usual.”

  “What do you mean, ‘as usual’?”

  All my frustrations finally boiled over. “I mean that you’re always with Ben, or thinking about Ben, or talking about Ben!” I cried. “It’s completely awkward hanging out with you guys. I did almost all of the work on our Ansel Adams project because you were too busy helping Ben with his project. I tried to help you out by going to the concert with you but then you forgot I was there!” I let out an angry breath. “I’m just … sick of it!”

  Mei’s cheeks flashed red. “Fine. If you’re so sick of it then I don’t have to worry about going to the Great Pillow Fight with you this year.”

  “What?” I asked, my stomach plummeting.

  Mei nodded. “Ben just asked me to go to the Sweet Heart Ball with him and I said yes. I didn’t really want to go to the pillow fight anyway, but I didn’t know how to tell you without hurting your feelings. But the truth is … I hate getting feathers in my mouth and I hate getting whacked with pillows. It used to be fun when we were about ten. Now I think the whole thing is … is stupid!”

  I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. I’d always thought Mei had liked the pillow fight as much as I did. And now she was calling it stupid. The word cut deep, and made me think that maybe I didn’t know as much about her as I thought I did. Maybe I didn’t know her at all anymore.

  “Whatever,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the tremor in my voice. “I don’t want you to come with me anyway!” I started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, and don’t worry about the Ansel Adams project. I’ll finish the rest of it myself.”

  I barreled down the hallway, hoping to make it to the girls’ bathroom before anyone else saw the tears in my eyes. And then I realized something: Mei, the one person who’d always noticed everything about me, who’d been begging me to ditch my glasses forever, hadn’t even noticed my new contacts. And for some reason, that made me feel worse than all the awful things my former best friend and I had said to each other.

  It was a relief to return to the familiar sight of the Tasty Truck after school. But when I arrived, I saw Asher, Tristan, and Karrie and some of her girlfriends standing on the sidewalk. Tristan and Asher were finishing off the last bites of some BLTs while Karrie looked on in obvious distaste.

  “Whoa,” Tristan said when I walked over, “did you get contacts?”

  I nodded, pleased that at least someone had noticed the change.

  “It’s a good look!” Tristan said. “Right, Ash?”

  Karrie’s eyes zeroed in on Asher, as if she was dying to hear what he’d say.

  “Um … I guess,” he said hesitantly, barely glancing at me. I remembered how he’d complimented my eyes on Saturday night and I didn’t know what to think.

  “On the other hand,” Karrie quipped, a smile playing on her lips, “I heard glasses can really make a plain face pop. It was in a fashion magazine.” She shrugged. “I doubt you read it.”

  I cringed as Karrie’s pack snickered around her.

  Karrie tapped her foot impatiently. “Can we go now, please?” she asked Tristan. She didn’t wai
t for a response before starting to walk away with the other girls. “Asher, we’ll see you later, too, unless you’re planning on pulling a disappearing act again.”

  When they were gone, I turned to Asher. “What’s with Karrie? I mean, she’s never Miss Sunshine, but she’s breaking new records today.”

  Asher shrugged as he opened the back door of the truck. “She’s mad because I didn’t stay for the whole concert on Saturday.”

  “Why does she care?” I said. “She had all her other friends there.”

  “Tristan told her that you ended up coming over to my place, and I guess she thinks …” His voice died away, and then his mocha skin darkened to raspberry mocha.

  “Oh,” I said quietly as understanding dawned on me. So Karrie liked Asher. And now Karrie thought that, what, Asher liked me? But, then, did Asher like Karrie, too?

  The question was right there on my tongue, but the discomfort in Asher’s face held me back. It didn’t seem like something he wanted to talk about, and even though part of me wanted to ask him how he felt about Karrie, a bigger part of me was scared that his answer wouldn’t be what I wanted to hear.

  “I know, it’s ridiculous,” Asher said now, laughing nervously. “She’s jumping to all these conclusions and she doesn’t understand how it is with us.”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” I said, making my voice nonchalant even as my insides shriveled. What alternate reality did I think I was living in, anyway? Outside of the Tasty Truck, Asher and I existed in completely different social spheres. We could never be anything more than friends, no matter what my heart thought it wanted.

  As we entered the truck, I put my disappointment on the back burner. I needed to focus on working with Asher instead of getting worked up over Asher.

  In the last week while I was gone, Asher had become a pro. I didn’t have to remind him to check the supplies of fresh veggies in the cold line, and the minute we ran low on anything he was on top of it, dicing up tomatoes or making a run to Cleo’s rooftop for more herbs. I had to say, I was impressed.

  After we closed up, Asher came over to help make the rally flyers. We worked side by side on the big computer in Mom’s office, and I was almost able to forget about my awful fight with Mei, and whether or not Asher liked Karrie.

  Finally, we had a hefty batch of flyers printed, and they looked great.

  I slid them into my backpack and carefully zipped it, making sure they were out of Mom’s sight. When I stood up to stretch, my stomach growled embarrassingly.

  Asher laughed, and suddenly some of the tension between us eased a bit. “Hungry?” he asked with a smile.

  “Starved,” I said. “I can make us something….” I started, heading toward the kitchen.

  “No!” Asher blurted. Then he gave a bow and added, “Allow me.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re going to make me something?”

  “A Cassiopita,” he said.

  “A Cassiopita?” I asked.

  Asher grinned slyly. “I made one in the truck last week, and then we tried it out on a few customers. They loved it.”

  I laughed at his pleased-as-punch look. “All right, sandwich pro, tell me what the ingredients are.”

  He rattled off the list and I handed him everything from the fridge and pantry. When it was all laid out on the counter, he waved his hand at me.

  “Step aside, amateur, and let the expert show you how it’s done.” He swiftly piled jalapeño peppers, bacon strips, maple syrup, and diced chicken on a pita, then deftly wrapped it and handed it to me. He smiled satisfactorily. “And that’s a Cassiopita.”

  “You learned a lot while I was gone,” I said appreciatively.

  He grinned. “That’s because I could work without somebody breathing down my neck all the time,” he teased.

  “I was trying to help you,” I said, sniffing indignantly.

  “All right, all right. Now stop arguing with me and eat.”

  I lifted the sandwich to my lips and took a big bite.

  “So … what do you think?” he asked.

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Maybe a little room for improvement here and there, but …”

  He grabbed me in a playful headlock. “Are you kidding me? It took me three days to figure out that recipe….”

  I shrieked and ducked out from under his arm, tossing a handful of jalapeños at him.

  “Oh, you’re in trouble now,” he said, launching some bacon missiles my way. Soon we were waging a full-on food fight, laughing hysterically at each bull’s-eye. Finally, Asher caught me around the waist, holding the syrup threateningly over my head. “Admit you like my cooking,” he said.

  “Okay, okay, mercy.” I gasped between giggles. “It’s good! And I think we should put the Cassiopita on the menu for Flavorfest.”

  Just then, we heard the front door open. “Tessa?” Mom called, coming into the kitchen. “Are you —”

  She froze mid-step, surveying the disastrous kitchen, littered with globs of syrup and spilled jalapeños. “What happened?” she breathed.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I said quickly, my face burning as Asher and I sprung apart. “We were just making sandwiches.”

  “Yeah,” Asher said. “And getting ready for the ra —”

  “Ready for the rush!” I jumped in. “Cleo wanted us to do some prep work for tomorrow’s after-school rush, that’s all.”

  Asher shot me a questioning glance, but Mom sighed.

  “Well, just clean up, okay?” she said as she passed through the kitchen, heading for her office. Then she paused to give me one of her no-nonsense looks. “And make sure you stay on top of your schoolwork, like we talked about.”

  I nodded. Once Mom had disappeared into her office, Asher and I quietly cleaned everything up. Then I walked him to the front door to wait for his mom to pick him up.

  “So,” he said, “your mom doesn’t know about the rally?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m going to tell her.”

  “Why not?”

  I stared at the floor. “Because she won’t get it. She’d probably tell me it was a bad idea to stir things up, and that I shouldn’t be focusing on a ridiculous rally when school comes first.”

  “How do you know she’d say that?”

  “Because those are the kinds of things she always says.” I shrugged. “To her, cooking is a big waste of my time.”

  Asher looked at me for a minute. “Maybe you just need to give her a chance. She might surprise you.”

  I laughed. “My mom isn’t programmed for surprises.”

  Asher’s mom pulled up outside the window then, and he shouldered his backpack. “It was fun today … working together.” He smiled at me. “We make a pretty good team when you’re not being a know-it-all.”

  “And when you’re not being a snob.” I laughed. “I’ll bring the flyers to school tomorrow, bright and early.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said, bouncing down the stairs. Then on the bottom step, he turned around. “And I do like your new contacts. A lot.”

  I waited, smiling in the doorway, until his car was gone. Somehow, the day that had started off so badly was finishing better than I’d ever expected.

  The next morning, when I saw Tristan was waiting for me alone at my locker, my stomach twisted nervously.

  “Hey,” I said. “Where’s Asher?”

  “He called,” Tristan said. “They’re stuck in traffic, but he’ll be here soon.” He nodded toward my bulging backpack. “You’re going to hang up some flyers?”

  “Yep. As long as there’s some space in between all the flyers for the Sweet Heart Ball.” I thought of Mei and my throat tightened.

  Tristan raised his eyebrows at my snarky tone. “You’re not so into the ball?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not planning on going.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised. “So … nobody’s asked you yet?”

  “Um, no,” I faltered. My heart starting hammering in panic, and suddenly
I couldn’t meet his eyes. Was Tristan about to ask me to the dance? I was so unprepared to deal with that right now, on top of everything else.

  Most girls would jump for joy if Tristan asked them to the Valentine’s Day dance. But I suddenly knew with absolute and total certainty that I could never go to the dance with him. Tristan was great, but there was only one person I wanted to go with.

  But after our talk yesterday afternoon, I knew Asher would never ask me.

  “If the right guy asked you, though,” Tristan was saying, dropping his voice, “would you go?”

  “U-um,” I stuttered. This was über-awkward. Was Tristan hinting that he was the right guy? “Tristan, there just … isn’t a right guy right now.”

  “Oh,” Tristan said, “because I wanted to ask you if …”

  I closed my eyes, praying he wouldn’t finish. And miraculously he didn’t, and when I tentatively opened one eye, I saw why. Asher was coming down the hallway toward us.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. All I could do now was hope that Tristan had somehow gotten the message and would never, ever try to ask again.

  “Did you bring them?” Asher asked as I struggled to pull myself together enough to actually meet his gaze.

  I nodded, trying to forget what had just happened with Tristan. I pulled a stack of flyers out of my backpack. They all read:

  Food truckers, bacon lovers, and neighbors unite! The fate of our great city’s food trucks rests in your hands. Meet at the Tasty Truck on Saturday, February 1st, at noon, to show your support for Flavorfest. Bring your family, friends, and fighting spirit. We’re giving away samples of our Flavorfest Best–nominated BLT to anyone who stops by. We are the voice of the community, and we can save Flavorfest!

  “Free BLTs,” Tristan said, patting his stomach. “Count me in.” Then he waved to us and ambled off down the hall, acting as if our whole weird exchange had never happened.

  “Come on,” Asher said. “Let’s go get permission from Principal Keeler to hang up the flyers.”

  Luckily, our principal turned out to be an easy convert.