by Tif Marcelo
“Do it.”
“Uh . . . okay. That I’m a badass sister to Ally.”
“Yes, you are. And guess what? No one is perfect. No one knows what they’re doing, I promise you that. Give yourself a break.”
A wave of emotion rises to my chest as a renewed sense of strength comes over me. It allows me to take a breath, one I haven’t been able to take all morning. Drew’s message is exactly what I needed to hear right now. How does he do that?
A lady in a white suit walks to the perimeter of the center island where the carpet meets the linoleum. “Ms. Marino?”
Crap. “Gotta go. Text you . . . and thanks, Drew.”
“Anytime, baby.”
I decide not to correct Drew this one time and stuff my phone into my pocket. “That’s me.” I nod at the banker and pick up my big binder, which I left on the couch. But as I reach for it, the binder falls onto the floor.
Great.
A man beats me to the ground. He’s older, though his face is familiar. Onyx black eyes, wrinkles around his lips, thick hair combed over to one side. He hands me my binder. “Here you go, miss.”
“Thanks,” I say, mortified. Yay for professionalism. Sweat blooms on my back. Now, on top of everything else, I worry it will show through the cotton fabric of my dress shirt.
Turning to the banker, I offer my hand. “Hello.”
“Welcome to Bank of the Bay. I’m Jill.” I clutch her hand almost too eagerly, and with my smile I’m already begging her to say yes. “Follow me, please.”
Fifteen thousand dollars. It’s what I see in the shadows of the floor as I follow her back to her cubicle. Summer tuition for the institute. Three months of residence fees and food. Flight to and from Austin. All the art supplies my sister could ever need or want.
I perch on the cushioned chair. Jill takes her seat behind a broad desk, empty and shiny except for her computer and a manila folder in front of her, which she opens. “First, I wanted to say I’m a personal fan of your food. We ladies get together for lunch at times, and we love your panini.”
I smile, but my insides shake. I can only focus on the papers she’s thumbing through, and I attempt to read the words from my angle. But the light from her window has produced a glare and I can’t distinguish a T from an F. “Thanks.”
“I love your marinara sauce. It’s unlike anything I’ve tasted.”
“It’s a secret recipe, all from scratch.” I’m overcome with wanting to know the bank’s answer to the loan application I submitted online, but my customer service has to shine. “The tomatoes are local, from Napa. They’re fire roasted before they’re cooked down to sauce.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of work.” She gives me a knowing look. “I follow you on Twitter, and I’ve got friends who stalk your truck. I think I read an article about you a couple of months ago, how you’re one of the youngest food truck entrepreneurs in the city. I’m curious why you’re here today, Ms. Marino, because I see it’s not a business loan you’ve applied for.”
She’s cut to the bottom line and it knocks me off guard. I sift through the compliments she’s offered for my prepared speech. “It’s not for the business that I need the loan. I . . . I want to take out a personal loan, so I can put my sister through summer school.” I fish out the glossy folder from the Art Institute of Austin and flip to the admissions paperwork. “Only a select few are chosen right out of high school. I’m so proud of her.”
“Congratulations to your sister. That is quite an honor. Well, your application was processed through our system today. We’ve reviewed it, Ms. Marino. Can I call you Camille?” She takes off her glasses. Her eyes seem darker, foreboding. There’s a hint of regret in them.
“Yes, of course.”
“Camille.” Her body softens into her chair. “With your credit rating, I regret to say we cannot give you this loan.”
“But . . . I don’t understand.” My voice escalates out of my control. When Jill flashes me a look of concern, I lower it. Refix my face and my attitude. “You said yourself you’re a fan of my food. That your friends have to stalk the truck. I know my credit rating isn’t the best, but it’s because everything is tied up with my business.”
“You’ve also had some severely late payments to two personal credit cards.”
I wring my hands. Once again, I am back to this. I am back having to explain that the only way to make ends meet before the truck took off was to overextend myself. “That was one season, last year when the economy wasn’t good to us restaurateurs. It’s much better now. You can see that on your computer, right?”
“I do, Camille. But it’s not enough good history for Bank of the Bay to be able to help you, especially with such a big amount.”
I shake my head. This can’t be it. “What options do I have?”
“You can open an equity line of credit. I see you own your apartment outright.”
“Do you mean take money out against it? No way. My grandmother paid off our place in her will.” Our home can’t be risked.
“I understand. There are credit cards. There are also investors.”
“What do investors do exactly?”
“They offer you the loan amount you seek, but with either partial ownership of your company or in exchange for substantial collateral.”
An investor. Someone who would take part ownership, entire ownership, even.
No.
Jill closes the folder. “I’m sorry.”
With that one move, Jill’s done with me. I stand because I think that should be the next step, though awkwardness renders me unsteady. My hand reaches out to the chair back, grips the frame in refusal. The equity line of credit is an absolute no. With my credit rating, credit cards won’t give me fifteen grand in credit immediately. But, the investor. “Would you know of any of these investors . . . in case I’d like to know more?”
I wince at the words leaving my mouth. What the hell am I thinking? But I can’t look back at today and wonder what more I could have done.
Jill’s gaze darts left and right. “As a representative of Bank of the Bay, I cannot direct you to a specific one. We are required to say that many can be found with a little research on the Internet. There are small and big investors, and the stipulations in agreements can be tricky. We like to warn our customers that it’s important to make sure you have your contracts legally reviewed before you sign.”
A breath escapes and I fold into myself. “Okay.”
Jill’s voice lowers to a whisper. “What I can’t say is there’s actually an investor in the bank today. His name is Ben Aquino.” She nods to the man sitting in the waiting room. The same one who helped me with my binder.
Gratefully, I say, “Thank you. Thank you for your time. This is a lot to think about.”
“I wish you luck, Camille. And congratulations to your sister.”
I watch my clogs as I step from linoleum to carpet, to the asphalt beyond the front door. Then I stop, because I don’t have any more answers than I did thirty minutes prior. I have a week to come up with the down payment of five thousand dollars and another week for the remaining ten.
I can’t walk out with nothing.
“Excuse me, sir?” I am outside of my own body when I approach the man, Ben Aquino. “I was told you are an investor.”
“Yes, I am.” He offers his hand, as if it was an automatic gesture.
I take it limply. “I’m Camille. I’m a mobile restaurateur. A food truck owner.”
“Ben Aquino of Investments National. Can I help you?”
Help? Do I look like I need help? Am I so desperate for money that I’m willing to risk a shot at my own dreams, at what I’ve worked relentlessly on for the last thirteen months? A sudden wave of anger bowls me over. Like the same feeling of protectiveness I feel for Ally, this rush of emotion stems from preserving my DNA, my blood and
sweat. The truck was born not only from my passion, but from Nonna’s as well.
No, no I do not need his kind of help.
Even if my sister deserves this chance, putting Lucianna’s fate in someone else’s hands was never my plan. Nor was it Nonna’s when she left me the money to fulfill my dream.
“No. Forget it. You can’t help me.”
His expression changes and he holds up both palms. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” He hands me a card. “If I can be of service, if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line.” He looks down and away, backing up a step.
“Mr. Aquino, I’m ready for you.” Another banker stands at our periphery, with an inquisitive look on his face.
After a pause, Ben says, “Have a good day, miss.”
Clutching the card in my hand, I watch Ben Aquino walk away with the possibility of his help undeniably planted in my mind.
26
DREW
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Bryn’s Mini Cooper when Lucianna slides into its space, right on time on Wednesday morning at 11 a.m.
Two days. I haven’t seen Camille in two days, and it feels like forever. Correction: I haven’t seen her face, but I’ve known where she’s been. Yesterday she was on the Great Highway from eleven to four and then from seven until eleven. Working her ass off, churning out food like her truck’s some kind of assembly line. I can only imagine the prep she’s doing in between and how exhausted she must be.
I buckle my seat belt as Bryn starts the car. Today is all about errands. She and I are like reeds in rushing water, enveloped in construction, plans, and inventory. It’s eleven days before the grand reopening, and every contractor has been called in for the restaurant’s final touches. Pendulum lights now hang from the ceiling. The floor is perfectly level, though covered in tarp. People in various company shirts—yellow, green, blue—mill about. The timeline has sped to double time, and the last two days—which I spent avoiding my pop—have felt more like two months.
“What’s the first stop?” Bryn buckles herself in and turns on her GPS, finger on the screen to type in our next destination.
“BAU, so we can have a face-to-face with Blake.”
“That’s your buddy, pogi,” she accuses. “I mean, what kind of a person misses work two days in a row? He can’t flake out once the restaurant is open. He’s got to show up to every shift.”
“I know, I know. But we’re not open yet. Please. Cut him some slack.”
“Psh. Whatever. When I have my own place, that’s not going to fly. Your parents are way too nice.”
I beg to differ, but I don’t say a word. I haven’t exactly been squeaky clean myself with either my dad or Camille. And arguing is not on my docket today. Maybe a little bit of coercing when we see Blake at practice. A little soul searching tonight after I stop in to see Camille at work. But my method of handling conflict today is to ignore it.
“Thank you for driving,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
Bryn backs her car out of the long driveway. I’m scrolling through Lucianna’s social media feed when Bryn slams on her brakes, practically rocking the car over its nose. Bryn throws her arm across my chest with surprising force.
“Damn. Are you okay?” I ask. And I realize my arm’s against her chest, too.
A shadow comes around from the rear of the vehicle. Knuckles knock on my window. It’s my pop.
I can’t hold his gaze when I roll the window down, knowing I should have faced him days ago.
“Oh my God, Tito. You scared me,” Bryn says.
“Sorry, iha. I wanted to talk to Andrew.” His eyes darken when his attention shifts to me. “Where are you off to?”
“To see Blake.”
“Amazing.” My pop shakes his head. “You can find the time to check in on a truant employee who we know is out goofing around, but you fail to keep me in the loop in your decisions. Worse, you can’t come and look me in the eyes to update me on what you’ve done to change the course of this grand reopening.”
“Pop, I was going to talk to you.”
He puts a hand up. “There’s nothing you can say at this point that’s going to make this better. I only want to know why you did it. Why?”
I shy away from his direct question. I don’t want to expose Camille, not yet. Not until my father has calmed down and she’s found another location to sell from. I don’t want her in the mix unless I’m around to be a buffer. Until then, I would rather take the fire. “Because it was the right thing to do. I didn’t like how this strategy was working out. We’re small businesses. We should have each other’s backs. How are these other businesses doing it, having trucks in front of them?”
“They’re fighting those trucks tooth and nail. Hammer and chisel.” Pop rests his arms on the door. Meeting my father’s desperate gaze forces my own away.
“Pop . . .”
His voice softens. “When we open in ten days, we won’t be noticed, not with all of the commotion that damned truck makes. We have everything riding on this opening, on the success of this restaurant. Our family’s livelihood. Maybe not yours, because you’re living your own life. But your mother’s and everyone else who works here, like Bryn and Victoria and your friends Matt and Blake. Even your Tito Ben. He relies on this money, too. He’s my brother-in-law, but if pushed, he will take his share of this business.” My father’s pause is a painful two beats. “I meant what I said—I won’t have you work against me. I would rather you not help at all. I would rather you step back.”
Said to my face, the notion I’m a traitor socks me in the gut, and it renders me speechless. The words are an ultimatum, though said in my father’s quiet way. No need for Chef Ritchie to raise his voice this time, because his message alone has blanketed me with bullets. I’ll lose him if I keep fighting him—it’s as simple as that.
“I would never, Pop.”
But have I already?
As if my words cut the tension, the moment loosens around us. He nods, and after a heavy sigh says, “Okay, iho. Let’s . . . let’s not linger on this anymore. There’s too much going on. I appreciate all of your help, including setting Victoria up with the social media. And I thank you, too, Bryn, for lining up online restaurant reviewers. This is a team effort and I couldn’t have done this all without you both.”
From my left, Bryn nods, face cast downward.
“Everything’s coming along,” is all I can respond. I keep my eyes on my pop’s face, half listening to his instructions for the next few days, weighing the words he’s not saying—about loyalty and family and being on the same team—and wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this one. Who should I speak to first? Camille or my father? When and where? Finally, after a series of nods, my father pats the car door windowsill and walks away, swallowed by the chaos of the restaurant.
“That . . . that was pretty horrible.” Bryn puts the car in reverse.
“Yeah, shitty all right. Can we go?”
She exits our parking lot. We take a right onto the Great Highway, the car’s speed increasing to fifty miles an hour. With the windows rolled down, it’s refreshing but noisy as hell. We drive in silence until we get to the first red light.
“What’s going on?” Bryn finally asks, voice soft.
I shut my eyes and lean my head on the headrest. “I pulled the appeal.”
“No. Fucking. Way. You straight-up went rogue?”
I nod without opening my eyes.
“Why the hell would you do something like that?”
I bury my face in my hands. “It’s Camille.” At her contorted, confused expression, I say, “The girl I’ve been seeing?”
“The girl from your freshman year.”
“Yep. Camille is Lucianna.”
“What? Lucianna?” Her voice plummets. “The food truck?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a hot minute. Because it sounds like you’re telling me the girl you’re dating owns the food truck in front of your restaurant. As in, public enemy number one.”
I nod, eyes shut. The situation sounds worse coming out of my cousin’s mouth than it ever did in my head.
“Oh. Shit. Drew. When did you find out?”
I tell Bryn everything. The Bay to Breakers Festival. The tourist traps. The no-specifics rule. Lucianna parked in front of Camille’s apartment building. Bryn rolls up the windows as I explain how I was able to pull the appeal, and the phone conversation with my pop that pretty much wrecked me.
What I don’t say is how much Camille means to me. And yet, I don’t have to.
“Do you love her?” Bryn asks as we drive into the BAU athletic stadium parking lot and pull into the first available space.
The idea alone is ludicrous. “It’s only been twelve days.”
“Ten years and twelve days.”
“Not really. More like a couple of months of our freshman year and twelve days.”
“Ugh, you’re being annoying, cousin.” She pulls up the emergency break. “Who cares how short or long it’s been? What matters is what’s inside. How you feel for her and what you’re willing to do to make it work.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Who knew you would be so sappy, Bryn? You’re getting soft in your old age.”
She growls. “It’s my MBA. It’s making me all sensitive because we have to outline our goals. But don’t you dare tell anyone. I’m trying to keep my image.” Her eyes narrow. “Quit changing the subject, you.”
“I’m not, softy. What’s the Tagalog word for soft? Malambot?”
Bryn flips me off, then heaves a breath. “Maybe it’s because you guys have a little bit of history. Or maybe . . . maybe she’s normal and patient enough to see past your high and tight haircut. But if this is anything as serious as I think it is, you’ll have to convince your dad having the truck there is for his benefit. If you love her, you’ll also have to tell him who she is.”
Blowing out a breath, I slouch into the seat. “What a fucking mess.”