Stef Soto, Taco Queen

by Jennifer Torres

She reads the list of proposals I remember from Papi’s letter. One by one, the drivers discuss them, deciding whether it’s a rule they can live with or one they should protest. They trade arguments. They share stories. They decide they’ll go to the hearing as a group. They’ll bring their families and friends. They’ll make an impression.

  “Now, I know a lot of you are shy—you think your English isn’t good enough,” Vera says as the meeting wraps up. “But remember, if you want to be heard, you have to speak up.”

  We leave the warehouse, double-check that Tía Perla is locked up for the night, and walk back to our pickup. I wonder if Papi is going to speak at the big meeting—I can’t really imagine it. I want to ask him if he thinks we really might go out of business. But he’s gnawing on his fingernails, which gives me an even worse pins-and-needles feeling than when he asks me to translate. So I don’t say anything.

  When we get home, Papi asks what I’d like for dinner, but I tell him I’m too tired to eat and say good night. I kick off my shoes, flop on my bed, and stare at the ceiling, thinking a little about the meeting at the commissary. The situation seems much more serious than it did at first, and Papi’s stiff arms, tight lips, and ragged fingernails aren’t doing anything to convince me that everything’s all right.

  Then again, it’s hard to worry too much about food trucks when I remember the newspaper clipping in my backpack. I get up to tape it to the wall, and for just a second, I let myself wonder whether it would be so bad to lose Tía Perla. Mami still has a good job, and maybe a promotion coming. Plus, Papi has switched careers before, hasn’t he?

  chapter

  20

  In the art studio the next afternoon, Mr. Salazar doesn’t leave us in suspense for long.

  “I spoke to the principal about your fund-raising dance,” he begins. We’re perched at the edges of our stools. “And… she says it’s all right.”

  “Yes!” Jake slaps his hands against the art table, then winces. “Ow.” Amanda is sitting between Arthur and me and happily socks us both in the shoulders. Julia and Maddie had been squeezing each other’s hands, waiting for Mr. Salazar’s verdict. Now they are off their stools, still holding hands and hopping on the linoleum. “Eeeeeee!”

  “If,” Mr. Salazar continues, raising his voice over ours. “If you’re really ready to take this on. Organizing a dance is a lot of work. And raising money on top of that? It’s a tall order, is all I’m saying.”

  He suggests we elect a planning committee to help make sure we have all the little details covered. “Since this was Miss Sandoval’s idea, she can be captain. Do we have a cocaptain?”

  Mr. Salazar looks around as arms pop up around the room. “You’re all leaders. But remember, this should be someone who has some spare time.” Amanda puts her arm down. “Someone with creative ideas. Someone who knows how to throw a good party.” Julia smiles at Maddie. “But, more important, someone who knows how to tell people why they should care.”

  Christopher shoots his hand up, but before Mr. Salazar even gets to him, he calls out, “Stef. Pick Stef Soto. Maybe she can get Viviana Vega to come.”

  “Yeah, right,” Amanda, Arthur, and I say in unison. But voice after voice agrees with Christopher. “Yeah, pick Stef.”

  “What?” I ask, baffled and slightly terrified.

  “What?” Julia sneers.

  I can’t believe it. And judging by the look on her face, neither can Julia.

  Mr. Salazar hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and seems to think about this. “Well, Estefania? What do you say?”

  I don’t know. Working with Julia? Being in charge? And what if Mami and Papi won’t let me go to the dance? How would I explain that?

  Then again, art is my favorite class. And this is a really great chance to be known for something besides Tía Perla. I look at Arthur and Amanda, who are both nodding enthusiastically. Amanda elbows me in the ribs. “Ow!”

  “Okay,” I tell Amanda, rubbing my side. I look back at Mr. Salazar. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  “Fine.” Julia huffs. “You can be my vice captain.”

  “Cocaptain,” I correct her.

  Before Mr. Salazar dismisses us, he passes out permission slips, asking our parents to let us stay an hour after school twice a week to plan the dance. I fold mine in half and tuck it into my backpack. Before I show it to my parents, I better figure out how I’m going to persuade them to sign.

  I grit my teeth all the way to the gas station and present the permission slip to Papi as soon as I get there. His lips move softly as he reads the letter, and I start to panic. They can’t say no again. Before he can say anything, I start explaining about the empty art closet and how much I love art. I tell him that Mr. Salazar is counting on us—counting on me—to plan the dance and make it a success.

  Papi puts a hand on my shoulder. “M’ija, calma.” He chuckles. “Of course Señor Salazar is counting on you. I don’t know if I like the idea of you going to a dance…”

  I feel my cheeks flush. But Papi checks himself and pulls a pen from his front pocket. “You’ll be at the school?” he confirms.

  “In the studio for planning meetings. The dance will be in the gym.”

  “And there will be chaperones?”

  “Some of the teachers.” We’re supposed to recruit parent volunteers, too, but I don’t mention it.

  Papi finally signs. I take the permission slip back from him and zip it up in my backpack before he can change his mind.

  chapter

  21

  Two days later, we herd into the art studio after school for our first dance-planning session. Amanda can’t miss soccer practice, but she sends me to the meeting with a brown paper grocery bag filled with some of her mom’s old craft magazines. “There are some really good ideas for decorations in there,” she tells me, promising to work on streamers and garlands at home. “We can make them ourselves. I put sticky notes on the pages.”

  Once we’re settled in the studio, Mr. Salazar reminds us that to raise the money we need, we’re going to have to plan carefully and work quickly. He puts Julia, as captain of the committee, in charge of dividing the rest of us into teams, each responsible for some part of the preparations. It turns out to be the perfect job for her. Her first assignment is for me, her cocaptain, and it sounds like I’m in charge of taking notes and basically following her orders. She ignores me when I start to complain.

  “Next, someone needs to be in charge of decorations,” she continues.

  I plop Amanda’s bag of magazines down on the table. “Amanda’s in charge of decorations,” I say. “She already has some ideas.”

  Julia challenges me. “Amanda’s not even here.”

  “She can work from home,” I insist.

  Julia tosses her hair impatiently. “Fine. Whatever. Amanda is in charge of decorations. Write that down.”

  We bicker our way down a long list of jobs until every post is filled but one.

  “Publicity. The most important,” Julia says, chin raised. “Obviously, if no one shows up, it doesn’t matter how good the refreshments are, or what the decorations look like.”

  “And if no one shows up, we don’t raise any money for art supplies,” I add.

  “I know. I was just about to say that.” She pauses, waiting for everyone’s attention. “That’s why I’m in charge of publicity.” She turns to me and smiles, sparkling-sweet. “You can still make some posters if you want.” Then she murmurs, too quietly for Mr. Salazar to hear, “Just don’t spill any taco sauce on them.”

  Maddie puts her hand over her mouth to quiet her giggles. My face burns, and I want to scream. Here I am, finally escaping Tía Perla’s salsa-soaked reputation, and Julia has to keep reminding people of it.

  Arthur comes to my rescue—or at least he tries. “Hmm, let’s see, we need someone who can get a bunch of kids to come to a dance. Well, we have someone who got an actual celebrity to come to her taco truck. And who was that? Here’s a hint, Julia, not you
.”

  It was nice of Arthur to try to help, but even I have to admit, that’s more than a stretch. Maybe I’d never say so out loud, but I didn’t even recognize Viviana Vega when she was standing right in front of me. “That’s okay, Arthur,” I tell him. “Julia can be in charge of publicity. I’ll make the posters. That’s all I really wanted to do anyway.”

  Our planning hour is almost up, and Mr. Salazar, who had retreated to his desk, finally intervenes. “All right.” He claps his hands. “Sounds like you’ve laid some good groundwork. Next time, you better dig into some actual work.”

  And we do.

  Amanda gets excused from soccer practice the next week so she can join us in the studio. She brings along an armful of leftover gift wrap and instructions for folding the paper into big origami stars. “We’ll string a bunch together and hang them from the ceiling,” she explains before she and the rest of the decorations team take over one of the art tables to start cutting and creasing.

  Meanwhile, the refreshments team drafts a letter to the grocery store, asking the manager if he’ll consider donating soda and ice cream for us to sell at the dance. Mami has promised to deliver the letter as soon as it’s ready.

  Julia and I float among the groups. When we decide everything is under control, she joins Maddie, who is making a list of nearby schools to invite. I grab a scratch pad and sit down next to Arthur, who is working on his playlist. I know I need to get started on those posters, but I’m not feeling very inspired. Arthur had found an article in one of his magazines filled with images of vintage concert posters and lent it to me this morning. I retrieve the magazine from my backpack and start flipping through the pages, hoping one of them will spark an idea.

  When nothing comes to mind, I decide to take Ms. Barlow’s advice and just start. Arthur pulls his headphones down and looks over my shoulder. “It’s good,” he says. Polite, but not enthusiastic. And he’s right.

  “Yeah. But it’s not exactly what we need.”

  He slides the headphones back on. “Nope.”

  Mr. Salazar walks over as I’m tapping my pencil on the paper.

  “Stuck?”

  “A little.”

  “Remember,” he says, “you’re leading this committee because you care about art. So tell me, why does art matter?” He puts a hand over his heart. “To you—why does it matter?”

  I close my eyes to think about it for a second. “To me? I guess because… well, when I can’t think of what to say or how to explain the way I feel… I can… usually… draw it?” Mr. Salazar nods and walks away, and the seed of a new idea begins to grow.

  When it’s time to go home, I put away my sketches and collect my backpack. Before I leave, I overhear Maddie and Julia talking as they clean up their work area.

  “But I just don’t get why Arthur is wasting time on a playlist when Stef is going to get Viviana Vega to come. She, like, knows her now or something.”

  “She doesn’t know her,” Julia fumes. “She sold her a Bur.Eat.Oh.” The syllables sound like rubber bands snapping, one after the other.

  Quickly, I close the door behind me. Maddie can’t be serious, can she? I thought all of that Viviana Vega talk had blown over. My hand is closed around the doorknob. I’m about to turn it, to go back in and correct her. But I change my mind and let go. Maddie would know I’d been eavesdropping, I reason. And anyway, if people are going to whisper behind my back, having them say I’m friends with a pop star isn’t exactly the worst rumor in the world. Plus, if I look at it one way—really squint at it—I could say I know Viviana Vega. Sort of. I know her better than anyone else in our school, that’s for sure, and definitely better than Julia.

  chapter

  22

  But by the end of the week, what started as a crazy rumor has spread like sniffles during cold season. It hasn’t gotten any less crazy, but everyone seems to believe it’s true, and I’m worried I can’t ignore it much longer. Eighth graders who’ve never even looked at me in the hallways are waiting for me at my locker to ask if Viviana Vega is really coming to our gym. Sixth graders are tapping me shyly on the shoulder and begging for autographs. I don’t know what to say, so mostly, I don’t say anything. I just shrug. “Oh, you know,” I answer. “We’ll see.” Not exactly a yes, but not exactly a no.

  “So you’ll never guess,” Amanda begins, slamming her lunch tray on the table on Friday afternoon, “what Trish asked me at soccer practice yesterday.”

  “Geez, easy,” Arthur complains.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Anyway, she asked me to ask you if she could take a picture with Viviana Vega at the big art dance. Crazy, right?”

  “Yeah. Crazy.” I peel the tinfoil wrapping from one of Papi’s homemade chicken-and-corn burritos—somehow they taste even better a day old—and try to sound nonchalant. “What did you tell her?”

  Before Amanda can answer, two eighth graders plop down on the bench across from me at the table. “Can you get Viviana to dedicate a song to me?” one of them interrupts. “Any song. Just ask her, okay?”

  I give my usual shrug and point to my mouth like it’s so full of burrito I can’t possibly say a word. “Humm… mmh.”

  Amanda and Arthur stop chewing. They stare at me with their mouths hanging open while I kick them under the table, hoping they get the message: Please, don’t say anything. Finally, the eighth graders seem satisfied and walk away.

  Amanda and Arthur are still staring at me when I swallow.

  “What?” I ask, taking a sip from my water bottle.

  “What? You’re taking dedications now?” Arthur asks sarcastically.

  “Well… I… you know… anyway, this is so your fault,” I sputter. “If you hadn’t opened your mouth in art class, nobody would be expecting me to bring Viviana Vega to school.”

  “My fault?” Arthur looks as though I’d just slapped him. His cheeks even turn a little pink. “I was trying to stick up for you, and I never said you were going to bring Viviana Vega.”

  Amanda, quietly for once, says, “They believe that because you let them.”

  Part of me knows they’re right; part of me is trying to gulp down a big lump of embarrassment. But another part of me is stung to hear my best friends call me out, right in the middle of the cafeteria.

  “I don’t believe this,” I say, shaking my head. “You two just can’t stand that I’m the one finally getting some attention, can you?”

  Neither of them answers. Arthur pulls on his headphones. He leans his head on one arm while lazily pushing carrot sticks around his plate. Amanda stares at her tray for a couple of minutes before stuffing the apple in her pocket and getting up to leave. We don’t talk for the rest of the afternoon, and it feels so much worse than driving home in Tía Perla ever did.

  chapter

  23

  After Mami and I help with the shopping at the farmers’ market and the prep work at the commissary on Saturday morning, Papi drives home and pulls over at the curb in front of our house to drop us off. Mami hops out and holds the door open for me, but instead of following her, I ask if I can spend the day with Papi and Tía Perla. My parents look a little surprised, but they agree. Mami blows kisses from the porch as we drive away.

  “Can we start at the park?” I ask. Amanda will be there, and I have to talk to her, face-to-face, before the awkward silence between us drifts into another school week.

  “Por qué no?” Papi agrees.

  We get to the park as parents are staking out spots on the sidelines with beach chairs and big umbrellas. Some of the teams have already started warming up. After a while, I see Amanda jump out of her mom’s car, a gym bag slung over her shoulder. She runs over to where her team is practicing and flops down on the grass to put on her cleats. Even if she wanted to, she won’t have time to talk to me until after her game is over, so I decide to help Papi with Tía Perla.

  He slides into a smooth, easy rhythm when he cooks, almost like he’s dancing to one of his banda songs. Only there isn�
��t any music playing—just Papi’s happy hum as he does something he loves and has worked hard for. As the fields scramble to life with the morning’s earliest games, Tía Perla’s kitchen starts sizzling with the morning’s first orders. I call each one back to Papi. With a quick nod of his head, he drops a lump of butter onto the grill and waits for it to melt into a shimmering, yellow puddle. He adds chicken or beef, then bell peppers and cilantro. As the meat cooks, steam rises, braiding the smells of peppers, onions, and nose-tickling spices, before they escape through Tía Perla’s blue-tinted vents. It is the first burrito of the day that sells all the others, Papi always tells me, beckoning new customers with its warm, tempting aroma.

  When the meat is nearly cooked, Papi peels one or two tortillas from a stack inside Tía Perla’s refrigerator and presses them to the grill with his gloved hand—only a few seconds on each side, just long enough to make the tortillas soft. Then he piles the meat inside and adds a ladleful of salsa. After crumbling salty cotija cheese over the top, he folds the burrito tightly in one fluid motion, then puts the whole thing back on the grill, lightly toasting the tortilla to give it a little crunch. Finally, he wraps the burrito in paper before handing it off to me to drop into a bag and hand to the customer whose mouth, by this time, is usually watering.

  Lunchtime is when Papi’s dance is trickiest but also most graceful as he pivots from grill to fridge to sink to cupboard, never missing a beat and never mixing up an order.

  Lately, though, the nagging buzz of his cell phone breaks his rhythm. When other drivers call to talk taco truck strategy, Papi pins his phone between his ear and his shoulder while he stirs the meat over the grill. I hear snippets of his conversations as I listen for the long whistle that means Amanda’s game is over.

  To me, all the phone calls sound the same. They start with Papi shaking his head as he says again and again that it isn’t fair, that they have to fight. Before long, the maybes begin: “Maybe if we… maybe if they… maybe if I…” until Papi finally says sadly, “Whatever happens, happens.”