“I love Archibald’s,” Hattie said.
I glared at her. She really did love Archibald’s. Last year for her birthday, she wanted to go there and look around—like that was her party. But love it or not, whose side was she on?
“Oh yes. It’s a lovely place and I found wonderful treasures. I even got a uniform for you, Hattie, if you want to join me.” She nodded to a plastic sack that was on the front seat.
I seethed! I seethed!
Hattie started bouncing in her seat! “Can I see it?”
“Let’s wait until we get to the battlefield, oops! I mean the strawberry festival.”
“Grandma,” I said again.
She said, “Did you hear something, Hattie? I’m trying to be extra vigilant and watch out for any attacks from the enemy.”
Hattie looked at me. “Uhh, I mean, Meg just said something.”
“Who?”
“Meg. Your grandkid?”
“Oh yes. That’s whom the war is with, did you know? My own progeny, blood of my blood, daughter of my son. Can you imagine?”
I was destroyed. Defeated. Sunk. She checked out my war book? She got a chef outfit for both her and Hattie but not me? She was ignoring me? That was the worst of all. I was her enemy enemy?
The new binder I had made now seemed silly. Grandma was never going to forgive me.
I put my forehead on the glass and watched the fields go by.
* * *
—
Meg 2, Grandma 4
40
Deep-Dish Trouble
When we got to the park, the festival was in full force. The carnival was set up with a Ferris wheel, a roller coaster, a Tilt-A-Whirl, a ride that shoots you straight up in the air. Bounce houses, a foam pit, blow-up sumo wrestling. There were carnival games and horse rides and a dunking booth. And then all kinds of stands were set up with people selling things. Lin and her brother were selling friendship bracelets and jewelry. I usually help with their booth and it’s one of my favorite things because Lin and I would use the money to buy cotton candy and play Skee-Ball.
This year I had bigger things on my plate. The war with Grandma and those Leaf bikes, which were up on the main stage again, glistening in the sun.
“Where do we go?” Grandma asked.
“Over there.” By the big pavilion parking lot there was an area sectioned off with five food trucks lined up: My Fairy Treat Mother, Arlene Pizza’s Parlor, Stan’s Burgers, Doughnut Dugout, and Super Sliders.
I sat up. Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize.
“Grandma, listen, we want My Fairy Treat Mother,” I said as we pulled in. “I know you think I’m a bad person and you learned about war strategies and you’re mad and all that, but this is serious. We must get My Fairy Treat Mother. We must. If we don’t get My Fairy Treat Mother, we go for Stan’s Burgers. If we don’t get that, we do Doughnut Dugout or Super Sliders. We do not, I repeat, WE DO NOT want Arlene Pizza’s Parlor.”
“That’s true, Grandma,” Hattie said. “Arlene Pizza’s Parlor is the worst restaurant ever.”
I stared at the back of Grandma’s head and pleaded. I pleaded. Arlene Pizza’s Parlor was practically out of business it was so unpopular.
Grandma put the truck in park.
“First of all, Meg. I don’t think you’re a bad person. Just a misguided one. Second of all, what’s wrong with Arlene Pizza’s Parlor?”
I shouldn’t have said anything. I SHOULD NOT HAVE SAID ANYTHING. The worst thing you can do in war is show your weakness. But then again, what was I supposed to do? I had to warn her.
“Grandma, please. It used to be run by Arlene Pizza, this awesome lady who is an amazing chef and her last name really is Pizza so it is kind of perfect. She is the best but now she retired and moved to California and her son Jesse runs it and he makes the worst pizza ever.”
“The worst?”
“The worst. He’s trying to be high-end. Like he has a pizza with seaweed on it.”
“Dried seaweed? Or pickled?” Grandma asked.
“I don’t know what kind, Grandma. Does it matter?”
She shrugged. “I like seaweed. It sounds like he has a vision.”
No.
NO!
“Grandma. It’s not good. He puts fried eggs on pizzas. He has one with lentils. There’s one with, with—” What else. What else. I looked at Hattie. “Tell her some of the other bad ones.”
“Dad said there’s one with bone marrow,” Hattie said.
“Bone marrow, Grandma! On a pizza! That’s disgusting. How did he get the marrow, Grandma? How? How?” I was really beating it in.
“Dad said it wasn’t too bad,” Hattie said. “Lots of people actually like that one.” I shot her a look.
“Grandma. I’m serious. This is important. We cannot pick Arlene Pizza’s Parlor.”
She sat thinking.
Please, please, please.
Then she said, “I wonder what a lentil pizza would taste like? I used to make lentils for the kids all the time.”
My heart stopped. Curse the lentil example.
“Grandma,” I said. “Listen.”
She turned and looked at me. “No, you listen. You threw out the old, you think old is bad, so I’ll do what you want. In with the new, my girl.”
And with that she opened the monster truck door, jumped down, and walked straight for Jesse of Arlene Pizza’s Parlor, chef clothes and all.
“Whoa,” Hattie said.
“I’m in deep trouble,” I said.
“Deep-dish trouble!” Hattie cackled.
41
Betrayal
I followed Grandma out of the truck, which was no easy feat because I had to get past Hattie, who was trying to put on her new chef outfit, get over the seat, open the five-thousand-pound door, and then jump ten feet.
Nevertheless, I persisted.
I jumped out of the truck and ran across the parking lot to the food trucks, where Grandma was already in conversation with Jesse Pizza, who had his hair in two French braids that looked pretty dang cool, I have to say, and was also wearing a full chef outfit and large combat boots.
“Grandma,” I said, out of breath. “We need to go stand by the other participants.”
“Howdy,” Jesse said.
I gave him a nod before trying to get Grandma back on track. “We’re supposed to be over there,” I whispered.
Everyone was gathered around Dawn Allerton, who was of course looking at us with disdain in her eyes. I guess the group vocal performance about the children yesterday didn’t soften her. “Care to join us, Group Stokes?” she called.
Grandma shook Jesse’s hand and said, “I am so pleased to meet you, one creative to another.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Jesse said. Grandma had a habit of buddying up to everyone except the one person we needed to be friends with. Dawn Allerton.
We walked over. “Please, trust me, Grandma.”
“What if he’s actually really good, Meg? What if he’s the best and you just don’t know it yet? I would have made a great Miss Hannigan but they didn’t give me a chance.”
“Grandma, he’s not.”
She shook her head. “This might not be a battle you want to pick,” she said.
“I do want to pick this battle, Grandma. You can have all the other battles,” I said, which was not true. I was giving up zero battles, but I was desperate.
Hattie walked up wearing an oversized white jacket and checkered pants.
“Ah, look at that!” Grandma said. “It’s perfect.”
“I love it,” Hattie said. She wouldn’t look at me, which was just great.
Dawn Allerton started talking. “Okay, people, first of all, let’s review where each team stands and the money that has been raised s
o far.”
Ugh.
“We have Zoe and Mark in the lead with twelve hundred and fifty dollars.”
We all clapped. Zoe smiled and her dad bowed. I took some deep breaths and thought about dogs in the ocean again.
“Next we have Meg and Sally Stokes at a thousand dollars.”
Grandma waved. I just stood, hands behind my back crossing my fingers, hoping that the reminder of our tragic downfall yesterday all due to GRANDMA would soften her heart and for once, she might listen to me. Just say no to Jesse Pizza.
Someone, I think it was Dan, yelled, “Great outfit, Mrs. Stokes!”
“Yes,” Dawn Allerton said. “Team Stokes is getting quite the reputation for their choice of competition wear.”
“Thank you!” Grandma said. “And thank Lewis Archibald of Archibald Thrift!”
Everyone clapped. Sigh.
“Then we have Diego and Dan Martinez with seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“WOOT!” Diego yelled, and gave Dan a high five.
“Then Rich Bailey and Cooper Hedengren in fourth at five hundred dollars.”
Mr. Bailey raised Cooper’s hand and then spun him in a quick circle as if they were part of a dancing competition, and I do like those two, I have to say.
“And then last, but not least,” Dawn said, but they did have the least, “we have Ellie and Tamara Hansen with three hundred and fifty dollars. Let’s give everyone a round of applause.” We all clapped again. It was a little anticlimactic.
Dawn then told about all the food trucks and their long history in Jewel and how they were carefully selected because they were hometown favorites that got their start in the community.
“Except Arlene’s no favorite,” Diego whispered.
“Hasn’t been since Jesse took over,” I whispered back.
“They’re just trying to be nice by having him. Whoever gets that truck is going to lose hardcore. One time my dad brought home a squid pizza from there.”
“Squid?”
“Squid. I didn’t take a bite and I never will,” Diego said. “That place is the worst.”
He was right. Diego was right. He knew because he was from here. Everyone from Jewel knew, Arlene Pizza’s Parlor was not a food truck you wanted to get tangled with.
“I am going to pick your team name out of a hat and you then get to choose which food truck you’d like to work with for this competition,” Dawn said.
I waved to Trudy Martin, who winked at me, which was exactly the right thing to do. Better to not let everyone know that we were going to be partners.
“Okay, first we have…” Dawn put her hand in a black bag. Be us, be us, be us. “Sally and Meg Stokes.”
I yelped! Hooray! A miracle!
“We’d like to work with Arlene Pizza’s Parlor,” Grandma said as quickly as she could.
My jaw dropped.
I tried to grab the microphone, but it was too late. Dawn had pulled out another partnership.
Diego and Dan.
I watched in horror as Diego said, “We pick My Fairy Treat Mother.”
I looked at Grandma.
She patted my shoulder.
“War hurts.”
* * *
—
Meg 2, Grandma 5
42
Strawberry Fight
We walked over to the pizza truck and I had a rock in my chest. I was so mad at Grandma.
So so so mad.
“Jesse!” Grandma said. “This is exciting.”
“I love your energy,” Jesse said. “I never dreamed I’d get picked first.”
No one else dreamed you’d go first either, Jesse Pizza, I wanted to say.
“Of course, we were going to pick you. I feel like we’re kindred spirits,” Grandma said.
Jesse Pizza beamed. I did not beam. I did the opposite of beaming. Hattie took a step closer to me and I forgave her for her Archibald chef clothes. I needed her as an ally.
“You’re right. I think we are kindred spirits,” Jesse said. “Let me guess, you gravitate toward artichokes.”
“I love them.” She looked at me, smiling. Grandma had taught us how to cook artichokes and dip them in mayonnaise and ketchup when we were kids.
“I knew it,” Jesse said. “I’m a food reader on top of being a pizza artist. I can tell a person’s favorite fare just by looking at them.”
A food reader? A pizza artist? This guy was the worst.
He pointed at Hattie. “Potato chips.”
Hattie gaped. “Yes! I love potato chips.”
That was easy. All ten-year-olds love potato chips.
“Salt and vinegar?”
Hattie grabbed my arm. “How did you know?” she said.
That was a lucky guess.
He looked at me. “Hmmm,” he said. “You’re a little harder.”
Yes. Yes, I was. I folded my arms.
He closed his eyes and raised his arms and held them up there for like a thousand years.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Grandma whispered.
“Shouldn’t we be starting on our food?” I said back.
“Shhh,” Grandma said. “Don’t break his focus.”
We stood there. Finally, he opened his eyes, “Jalapeño poppers.”
“Nope.” I looked at Grandma and Hattie with a smirk. “Hate them. Can’t stand them.” And that was the truth. They used to be my favorite. USED TO BE. But then one time me and Lin ate like a hundred of those things at her cousin’s wedding and we both were sick for days. Now I can’t look at them without feeling queasy.
“Hmmm,” he said. “There’s something blocking your food waves.”
“Yes,” I said. “My food waves are blocked.”
That was because my food waves were at the My Fairy Treat Mother food truck. That was where they were, and Jesse Pizza and my grandma were going to take me down unless I came up with something.
“Would you like to enter my laboratory?” Jesse said, gesturing to the truck, which used to be painted with giant pepperoni pizzas on the side but now was painted boring white with a black stripe.
“Absolutely,” Grandma said.
“Yes,” Hattie said.
“Fine,” I said.
* * *
—
It was tight in there.
He had a huge pizza oven that took half the truck, a small sink, a counter for dough, and then a wall of ingredients with little labels. Hanging from the ceiling were all kinds of plants.
“These are my babies,” he said, lovingly touching the pots. “They’re from my garden back home.” He started naming them like they really were his children. “Basil,” he said, touching a leaf. “He’s so sensitive. I mean, he loves so much but he also can get his feelings hurt in an instant.”
No. Just no.
“Oregano, oh my goodness. She’s such a hard worker,” he said.
“I feel that about oregano too,” Grandma said. UGH.
“And here we have sage, rosemary, dandelion. The three of them together can be a force of nature, though they have been known to get out of hand if I let them.”
What did that even mean? I looked at Grandma and of course she was eating this up.
“Nasturtiums.” He pointed to some flowers.
Nasturiwhat?
“Pansies and bachelor buttons. These flower buddies are my powerhouses. I try to put them on as many pizzas as I can.”
That was it.
“Uh, can we come up with a plan? We don’t have much time,” I interrupted.
They all looked at me, surprised. Like somehow the weird flowers in this place had hypnotized them and they were happy to spend all our allotted time meeting the plants.
“You put flowers on pizza?” Hattie asked
.
“Absolutely. I put beauty on pizza,” Jesse said. “My mom thinks I’m being too out there. She always made, you know, regular old pizza. And that’s her style. That’s her thing. But I’m different. People don’t want pepperoni anymore. They don’t want barbecue chicken or Hawaiian,” he said. “They want innovation. They want flavor explosions. They want, well, love.”
Grandma put her hand to her chest. “Wow,” she said. She was entranced by Jesse Pizza. I was not.
“How have things been going, financially speaking?” I asked, because I knew that people in Jewel wanted pepperoni. They wanted barbecue chicken. They would pay good money for a Hawaiian pizza. We were humble traditional folks or whatever. Not fancy-pants weirdos.
Jesse looked sideways at me. “Financially speaking?”
“Yeah. You know, money,” I said.
“No one cares about money,” Grandma said, who had once upon a time told me taffy would be bad for sales.
“Yes, they do,” I said. “Money is how we win.”
“Meg,” Grandma said, but Jesse Pizza put up his hand.
“It’s okay, Sally. She’s right. I’ve been struggling.” He touched his nasturti-whatever flowers. “Mom had a great business and a huge following and since I took over, you know, it’s not the same.” He looked at Grandma. “I keep thinking do I give the people what they’re used to, or do I give them what their soul is calling for?”
“You give them what their soul is calling for, that’s what you do,” Grandma said. “You are a brave pioneer.”
Jesse was wrong. Grandma was wrong. However, there was no time or need for this fight.
“Luckily,” I said, interrupting, “we don’t have to worry about all that right now—we just have to focus on today, and today we are not making pizza. We are making taffy.”
Grandma looked at me. “You’re still on taffy?”
I was on taffy. I was on taffy until death.
“Yes,” I said.
“But won’t Trudy Martin make taffy?” Hattie asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Diego and Dan will make something else. I feel like taffy is the right choice for us.”
The War with Grandma Page 15