Stef Soto, Taco Queen

by Jennifer Torres

  Then, all of a sudden, I hear him. “Good evening. My name is Samuel Soto.”

  Somehow, his voice through the microphone sounds thinner and smaller than it does in our kitchen. “I thank you for your time tonight.”

  He stops. Clears his throat.

  “Five years ago, I bought my food truck. It isn’t much, but it is my dream, my family’s American dream.”

  I have to get to the podium. I step on toes; I jostle handbags; I almost fall into someone’s lap as I scramble to the front of the room.

  Papi continues. “My wife and I, we came to this country prepared to work hard because we believed the promise: that if we worked hard, we could build a new life, support a family.”

  By now, I’m close enough to see him. He shuffles his note cards, looks up at the city council, then back down at his hands. “And it’s true.” He nods. “We have sweat, and we have saved. With hard work, we have built a life we can be proud of. But if you pass these new rules, all that work will go to waste. If we have to move our trucks every hour, we’ll spend more money on gas than we earn selling burritos. And when it comes to public restrooms, well, doesn’t it make more sense for me to park where I can find customers rather than where I can find a toilet?”

  A couple of the council members chuckle. Papi looks up and smiles. He seems steadier now, the version of himself that confidently commands Tía Perla’s kitchen.

  “My friends and I pay taxes,” he goes on. “Some of us have even hired employees. What happens to those jobs if we go out of business?”

  His voice drops again. “Now, as for me and my family, our little truck will never make us rich. But I am happy just to raise my daughter and give her an education. Give her better chances than I had so maybe she won’t have to work so very hard.”

  He shrugs and tucks the note cards in his shirt pocket. “That’s all. We don’t want special treatment. Just a fair chance.”

  Finally, I’m standing right behind him. He hears me and turns around. “Qué pasó?” he whispers. I wave at him to keep going.

  He turns back to the city council and hurriedly finishes. “Once again, thank you for your time.”

  The mayor lifts her gavel. “Hearing no further comment, I call for a vote. All those in favor—”

  “Wait!”

  Is that really my voice? Still echoing in my ears, it sounds like someone else’s. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I can’t let this vote happen. Not yet.

  The mayor still has her gavel raised. “Yes?”

  I look over my shoulder, where rows and rows of people are quietly and curiously staring at me. I gulp.

  “Young lady, is there something I can do for you? We really do need to move on.”

  I swallow. “Yes, please. If it’s not too late, there’s something I’d like to say.”

  I hear sighs behind me. One of the men at the table looks at his watch. Mayor Barnhart sets down her gavel. “I suppose there’s enough time for one more comment,” she says. “Go ahead. But please go quickly.”

  I turn to Papi, who looks down at me, both eyebrows raised like two dark question marks. I nod to him, and he whispers, “Órale,” then bends the microphone low enough for me to speak into it. Finally, he steps away from the podium.

  “Please state your name for the record,” Mayor Barnhart says.

  “My name is Stef Soto. Estefania Soto.” Now what?

  I look up at the city council—watching me.

  Back at the audience—watching me.

  Over at Papi—watching me, too.

  “If you have something to add,” the mayor says impatiently, “please get on with it.”

  I remember what Ms. Barlow told me. Just start somewhere. So I take a deep breath and start.

  “Tía Perla isn’t really my aunt. That’s just what we call our taco truck,” I begin. There is laughter behind me. My face feels hot—red fireworks exploding across my cheeks. But then I remember Mr. Salazar pressing me to explain what matters to me, and I keep going.

  “I’m not sure I even like her, but I know she matters. To me. She’s our truck. We all worked really hard for her; we still work hard for her. And she works hard for us. My papi always obeys the rules. Sometimes I think he likes rules a little too much.”

  That gets another laugh.

  “It’s like he said, he doesn’t want special treatment, just to be treated fairly. So I hope you’ll reconsider. Because even though Tía Perla isn’t really my aunt, she is sort of like family.”

  Half the room applauds.

  Papi puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me back to his seat. As we walk past, drivers reach out to squeeze my hand, whispering “Good job, m’ija” and “Well done.” I smile and take Papi’s seat. He leans down and says, “Thank you,” then stands up next to me.

  The mayor taps her gavel. “Now that public comments are really finished, I think it’s finally time for a vote. In the interest of fairness, let’s take these proposals one by one. First, the proposal requiring food trucks to move locations every sixty minutes—all those in favor, please say aye.” No one says a thing. “Any opposed, say nay.” All five of them say nay.

  It didn’t pass. A small cheer rises among the drivers. One down. I look up at Papi hopefully. He smiles and takes my hand.

  They move on to the next proposal. Must food trucks be required to park within one hundred feet of a public restroom?

  No again.

  We all cheer—a little louder this time.

  “And finally,” says the mayor, “the proposal requiring mobile vending permits to be renewed annually, instead of every five years, and to be granted based, in part, on vehicle appearance. All those in favor?”

  One of the councilmen leans into the microphone. “Well,” he says, “the first two proposals did seem unfair and unnecessary. But I think we can all agree we don’t want a bunch of mobile eyesores roaming our city. I’m voting in favor of the measure.”

  “Aye,” says the councilman sitting next to him, nodding his head.

  The others follow—“Aye” and “Aye”—and then the mayor speaks again, “I see no reason why mobile food vendors shouldn’t keep their trucks clean and well maintained. It’s unanimous.” She strikes the table with her gavel.

  I look at the drivers in the audience, some whispering to one another, others shrugging their shoulders. Two out of three isn’t bad. They seem to be agreeing. I tug at Papi’s shirtsleeve, wanting to congratulate him. He looks down at me and smiles but keeps his arms folded across his chest.

  After Mayor Barnhart hammers down her gavel one last time to close the meeting, the audience really erupts, cheering and shaking hands. I jump out of my seat, too, swept up in the excitement. As Papi and I walk out together, we spot Mami waiting at the back of the room, clapping and smiling at us. She tousles my hair and, kissing my forehead, says, “M’ija, I am so proud. You did it.”

  The other drivers are planning to meet up at the commissary to celebrate. I tell Mami to go on ahead, that I want to ride with Papi.

  “You can ride with me, Estefania,” he says. “But I don’t think we’ll go to the commissary. Let’s just go home. It’s been a long night.” His voice is tired and quiet again, and I can’t understand it. Haven’t we just won? Aren’t we happy? Isn’t this exactly what we wanted? I study his face for clues but don’t find any.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go home, then.”

  chapter

  29

  We had been out so late the night before that Mami and Papi let me sleep in the next morning. Mami drops me off at school with a note excusing my tardiness, and after checking in at the office, I walk down the long, empty hallway to Ms. Barlow’s classroom, pausing at the door. There’s no way anyone would have seen me on public access last night, right?

  But if anyone saw the meeting, they don’t mention it—no one looks up from their reading as I slide quietly into my seat.

  “Stef, would you come up and see me for just a sec?” It’s Ms
. Barlow. She’ll want to know why I didn’t get to class on time.

  “I’m really sorry,” I start to say. “It’s just, we were out really late, and—”

  She puts a hand up to stop me. “I know why you were out late. I always watch the city council meetings on TV.”

  Oh no. She’s not going to make a big deal of this, is she?

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make a big deal of this. I just wanted to tell you that you should be proud. You’re quite persuasive when you speak from your gut.”

  That gives me an idea.

  I have to wait until lunchtime to tell Arthur and Amanda.

  When she hears it, Amanda wrinkles her nose. “That’s your big idea?”

  I know it’s not much. But for some reason, I think it might work.

  I decide to write a letter to Viviana Vega. I’ll show her how much art means to us. I’ll tell her how much we need her help. “You know, from the gut,” I say as I finish explaining.

  Viviana’s an artist, too. I think she’ll get it.

  “I guess it could work,” Amanda says. She looks doubtful. “But where are you going to send it? She didn’t write her address on that fifty-dollar bill, did she?”

  Good point. I bang my head against the lunch table.

  “Relax, drama queen,” Arthur says. “You can send it to her record label.”

  “Her record label?”

  “The company that puts out her music,” he says. “You write the letter; I’ll find the address.”

  Arthur comes through, and the next morning, he passes me a scrap of paper. His handwriting is scratchy and scribbly, but I can make out the address.

  “You did it!” I say, a little too loudly. Ms. Barlow looks at us suspiciously over the top of her yogurt cup.

  This is perfect. I could hug Arthur and almost do, but just as I’m about to throw my arms around his neck, he slips his headphones—and his hood—over his ears again. I go back to my desk to reread my letter in the few minutes before school starts.

  Dear Ms. Vega,

  My name is Stef Soto. You probably don’t remember me, but I sold you a burrito not too long ago. Wheat-free, dairy-free, egg-free, nut-free, meat-free. I hope you liked it.

  I’m writing to you because the art program at my school, Saint Scholastica, needs help. We’re almost completely out of art supplies. My art class is holding a dance to raise money to buy some, but we could raise a lot more if you were there.

  I’m not always very good at explaining how I feel or what I think. But art helps me find my voice. As a singer, I’m sure you’ll understand.

  I stop and think before adding one more line:

  If you come, I’ll make sure my papi has a dozen of those special burritos for you.

  Sincerely,

  Stef Soto

  That afternoon, on the way to meet up with Papi at the gas station, I drop the letter into a blue mailbox. “Please, please, please, please, please let this work,” I whisper as the letter falls. After that, the only thing left to do is wait.

  Every day, after Papi and I get home from the commissary, I check the mail for a letter from Viviana Vega. Every day, I find nothing but fast-food coupons and furniture ads.

  chapter

  30

  Tía Perla hasn’t picked me up from school since before the big city council meeting, so it’s a surprise—and not necessarily an unpleasant one—to hear the chirp chirp chirp of her horn after school.

  “See you guys.” I wave to Arthur and Amanda. I start walking over to Papi and then stop, right in the middle of the parking lot. Parents honk and swerve around me, but for a moment, I can’t move. Taped inside Tía Perla’s passenger-side window is a sign: FOR SALE.

  I don’t know what to say as I open the door, so I just throw down my backpack and buckle my seat belt, trying to figure out what Papi could possibly be thinking.

  “I mean, is this a joke?” I burst out after we’re a mile or so away. “After all those phone calls? The speeches? The city council? After we won? What was the point? Does Mami even know?”

  Papi pulls over, squeezes the steering wheel with both hands, and turns to me. He spoke to Mami last night, he tells me, after I went to bed. She understands.

  “You’ve seen all those brand-new food trucks at the commissary, m’ija,” he says.

  I think about the newer trucks I’ve seen in the lot: Tip Top Tapas, Bánh Mì Oh My, Chai Chai Again. Gleaming chrome and sparkling paint.

  “You know I love Tía Perla, but even I have to admit, she’s looking pretty run-down, no? It’s hard enough finding customers, and I don’t think we can compete much longer.” He shakes his head. “No. I’ll go back to painting, and maybe someday we’ll save enough for another truck—maybe a real restaurant this time.”

  It still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did we work so hard—why did we get up and speak in front of all those people if we were just going to quit?” For months, I’ve been wishing Tía Perla would just roll out of my life, but now that it’s happening, I want to slam on the brakes.

  “We did it,” Papi says simply, “because our compadres needed us.” He glances in the rearview mirror then and steers us back onto the road. “Now. How about we take the night off? Suzy’s?”

  Papi talks nonstop through dinner—about the dance, about his plans for the garden, about Mami’s promotion. About everything but the taco truck. I try to listen. I try to mirror his smiles. I try to enjoy the food at least, but it all tastes bland.

  Back at home, I sit on the couch with the stack of today’s mail and switch on the lamp, not really expecting to find anything.

  Bill. Bill. Magazine. Credit card application. I sigh and put the stack on the coffee table, where Mami and Papi can sift through it later. Then I notice an envelope on the floor.

  It’s addressed to me. I must have dropped it.

  I jump to my feet. My heart thumps in my ears, and my palms begin to sweat as I hold the envelope in both hands, suddenly unsure if I should open it. This is it: the moment that decides whether I’m Stef Soto, Taco Queen, or Stef Soto, seventh-grade hero.

  I tear the envelope open. The first thing I pull out is a black-and-white photo of Viviana Vega. In the corner of the picture is a note scrawled in silver ink: “Thanks for listening, Stef!” Underneath is a swoosh of letters I can’t really read—I guess it’s her signature.

  I don’t know what to make of it. There’s nothing about my letter, nothing about the dance. I check the envelope again.

  This looks more promising. I pull out a piece of paper, folded in half. Quickly, I unfold it, and my eyes race over the typed page.

  Dear Miss Soto,

  Thanks for taking the time to write to Viviana Vega! She loves to hear from fans like you! Stay in touch with Viviana by joining the Viviana Vega fan club. For a one-time membership fee, you’ll receive regular updates from Viviana, whether she’s on the road or in the studio! You’ll always be the first to know!

  So many exclamation points and so little help.

  I’ve been holding my breath, and after reading the note, it rushes out of me like air from a popped balloon. She isn’t coming. And worse than that, she hadn’t even read my letter, probably hadn’t even seen it. I sink back into the couch and hold my still-pounding head in my hands. Now what?

  chapter

  31

  The next morning, Ms. Barlow writes our journal exercise on the whiteboard: YOU WAKE UP AND REALIZE YOU’RE INVISIBLE. WHAT DO YOU DO?

  That’s easy: Celebrate.

  “Just tell everyone the truth,” Amanda says when I show her and Arthur the letter. Arthur asks for the autographed photo to keep as part of his pop music memorabilia collection. Fine with me.

  “Amanda’s right.” Arthur nods. “I mean, it’s not really that big of a deal. I’m sure no one actually thought she was coming. They’re just glad we’re having a dance.”

  After school in the art studio, Mr. Salazar asks for final reports from all the team captains.
The refreshments team has twelve dozen ice cream cups stored in the cafeteria freezer, plus six cases of bottled water and another six of soda.

  “Bravo,” Mr. Salazar says. He claps a few times slowly, and the whole class joins him in the applause.

  The publicity team has hung my posters in all the bathrooms and hallways. Some of the teachers even taped them up in their classrooms. And tomorrow, during morning announcements, Maddie will remind all the middle schoolers to come to the dance. Another round of applause.

  Amanda stands up next, reporting that her team will begin decorating the cafeteria after lunch tomorrow.

  Mr. Salazar thanks her. “Congratulations. It’s sounding as if this project is going to be a resounding success.”

  It also sounds like Mr. Salazar might skip right over me. Until Christopher interrupts him. “Wait, what about Viviana Vega?”

  Suddenly, the whole class is looking at me—Mr. Salazar confused, but the rest of them eager.

  “Everything’s going great,” I mumble into my lap.

  Amanda kicks me under the table. Arthur opens his eyes wide, as though he’s trying to make me tell the truth by mind control.

  Fine. Just get it over with. “She’s not coming.”

  Silence.

  Not knowing what else to do, Arthur and Amanda start clapping—but they aren’t loud enough to overpower the disappointed groans that roll through the studio. It’s Julia, of all people, who quiets everyone down. “Guys, seriously. Noooobody thought Stef was really going to get Viviana Vega to come to the dance.”

  I don’t know if I’m offended or relieved.

  “So,” she continues. “I talked to my parents, and they’re going to pay for a DJ! Like, a real one. It’s going to be amazing.” She sparkles, as usual.

  Then, even without Mr. Salazar’s help, there’s an explosion of applause.