You're Bacon Me Crazy

by Suzanne Nelson

  I forced my mouth closed, then crossed my arms, glowering. “Fine,” I muttered.

  “I want to go to the rally. Honestly I do.” He sighed. “But … I can’t.”

  “Because Karrie doesn’t want you to?” I challenged.

  His brow knit in confusion. “No. Karrie doesn’t have anything to do with it. And even if she didn’t want me to go, that wouldn’t stop me, especially after what she pulled yesterday.” He paused. “No, I can’t go because my mom doesn’t want me to.”

  Now it was my turn to look confused. “What? But … why?”

  He took a deep breath. “Because she’s dating Mr. Morgan, that’s why.”

  “What?” I was stunned. Mrs. Rivers was dating Mr. Morgan? “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t make the connection between him and the Flavorfest at first. And then once I figured it out, I guess I just didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

  I gawked at him. “How could it not be a big deal? You know how much the Flavorfest meant to the Tasty Truck, and Cleo … and me.”

  “I know, but my mom is the one dating him, not me. It’s not like I’m suddenly in Mr. Morgan’s camp or anything. I didn’t lie about it.”

  “No, but you didn’t tell me the truth, either.”

  “Look, I just didn’t see the point in stirring everything up….” His voice died away and he stared at the floor, pulling his shoulders inward. “My mom really likes Mr. Morgan, and she’s afraid that if I go to the rally, he’ll get mad at her.” He shrugged apologetically. “I know it sounds ridiculous. But Mom doesn’t want the two of us getting off on the wrong foot. I think after what happened with my dad, she’s worried about messing things up.”

  I was silent for a long time, my head spinning. It all seemed like too much to take in. “I can understand you not wanting to hurt your mom’s feelings,” I finally said. “I can even understand you not wanting to get on Mr. Morgan’s bad side while your mom’s dating him. But if the rally’s something you really believe in, then they should understand that, too. Why don’t you talk to your mom about it again? Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

  Asher was already shaking his head. “No. It’s just … easier this way.”

  “Easier for you, you mean,” I said, my anger flaring up again. “You don’t ever fight for anything. You can’t even stand up to Karrie when you know she’s lying about the Tasty Truck. You’re embarrassed when your so-called friends say awful things, but you never stop them. If you don’t fight for what you believe in, then how does anyone know who you really are?” I stared at him. “When you’re done working at the Tasty Truck, will we still even be friends? Or will you just pass me in the hallways, pretending like it never even happened?”

  “It won’t be like that,” he said.

  “I don’t know if I believe you,” I said, biting my lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I don’t know if I can trust anything you say.”

  I turned away swiftly and ran to Gabe’s car.

  “Let’s go,” I said, unable to hide the quiver in my voice as I climbed inside.

  “Hey,” Gabe said, looking worried. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not even close,” I managed to mumble. I pressed my forehead against the window. A raw, penetrating hurt gnawed into me, like when you trust yourself a little too much cooking with a hot skillet, and then you end up getting burned.

  On Friday afternoon, I strung the last of the banners across the Tasty Truck, then stepped back to survey my work. The entire truck was draped in colorful signs blasting the words SAVE FLAVORFEST and LONG LIVE THE BLT! For this last banner, I’d painted an enormous BLT on one end and given it a bacon smile, a smile that felt completely wrong.

  “That looks great,” Cleo said. But her smile looked all wrong, too, like it was hurting her to wear it. She squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Tessa. No matter what happens tomorrow, I’m so glad we decided not to cancel the rally.”

  “I am, too,” I said, but I wondered how much truth was behind those words.

  Since Wednesday, our sales at the Tasty Truck had been dismal. Partly because things were so slow at the truck and partly because she knew that I’d had a huge fight with him, Cleo called Asher and told him she wouldn’t need him at the truck on Thursday or Friday. Cleo told me that he’d stopped by the truck once on Thursday to buy a bunch of bacon-bits brownies, which had seemed strange, but luckily I’d been getting herbs from the garden and had missed him by a few minutes. I was relieved I didn’t have to go through the awkwardness of seeing him, but it still didn’t make what was happening to our truck any easier to take.

  Five more food trucks in our neighborhood had gotten surprise inspections from Mr. Gervis, and even though every single one, including the Tasty Truck, had gotten five stars, the best ranking, it didn’t matter. Sales were down for all of us. It was just like Cleo had predicted. People were afraid of our food. In fact, after sitting in the truck for three hours on Thursday without a single customer, Cleo decided to close the truck until the rally.

  I wondered if the rally would really make a difference, though. We had no idea if anyone besides the other food-truck owners would come. At school this morning, Principal Keeler had been nice enough to remind everyone about the rally over the intercom during announcements. But I didn’t have high hopes that anyone listened. Between Karrie’s little video, and Mr. Morgan — who was probably going to be Asher’s stepdad any day now — the damage had been done.

  “Well,” Cleo said as she checked over the stock of supplies in the truck one last time. “I guess that’s all we can do for tonight. We’ll make the BLTs tomorrow morning.”

  Our walk back to the house was silent. When we reached the front step, I could hear the phone ringing inside. Cleo hurried to open the door, and I scrambled to grab the phone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Tessa.” It was Tristan’s voice, and my heart lurched. Was he calling to pick up where we left off with our Valentine’s Day conversation? Oh, I hoped not. If I had to have a just-friends talk with him right now, my already-frazzled nerves would fry. But, instead, what he said was, “Turn on Channel Seven right now. Hurry!”

  I grabbed the remote and flipped to Channel Seven. I sank down on the couch in utter shock when Karrie’s face appeared, larger than life on the screen. She was happily munching on one of the Tasty Truck’s bacon-bits brownies.

  “Mmmm, so good,” she said, reaching for another one from the plate in front of her. “These are the best brownies I’ve ever had.”

  The screen switched to Bev Channing’s face, and I could see she was struggling not to laugh as she said, “Karrie Lopes is issuing an apology to the Tasty Truck this evening after she was caught on video enjoying some Tasty Truck desserts. The video was taken after she lodged her supposed complaint, and it went viral on YouTube this morning. Now let’s hear what she has to say.”

  The screen flickered to a miserable-looking Karrie, with her parents standing behind her in the background, just as miserable. “Yes, I lied earlier this week when I said I saw a cockroach in the Tasty Truck,” Karrie said in a monotone. “There never was a cockroach.” There was a pause, and her mother leaned forward and whispered something into Karrie’s ear. “Oh, yes,” Karrie added uncomfortably, “and I’m sorry for any harm my dishonesty caused the Tasty Truck … and its owners.”

  “Omigod!” I shrieked, leaping off the couch to hug Cleo, who’d been watching the news clip with her mouth hanging open. “That’s amazing!” I said into the phone.

  “I know,” Tristan said. “I just uploaded the whole thing to Facebook and I’m sharing it with everyone at school.”

  “Thank you,” I gushed. “How on earth did you manage to get that on video?”

  “I didn’t,” Tristan said. “It was Asher.”

  “What?” I gasped, my heart jumping.

  “I guess he took a bunch of your brownies over to her house and pretended he’d made them himself,” Tristan said. “Then he ca
lled the news station with it.” He laughed. “I’ve never seen Karrie break a sweat before. And on television, too. Priceless.”

  “No kidding.” I giggled, my spirits lifting for the first time all week.

  “Well, make lots of sandwiches for the rally tomorrow,” Tristan said. “I have a feeling there’s going to be quite a crowd after this.”

  “We will,” I said, beaming. “Are you coming?”

  “Absolutely,” Tristan said. “There’s no way I’d pass up free BLT samples.” Then he added, as an afterthought, “And, of course, I’m fighting to save Flavorfest, too.”

  He said good-bye and I hung up the phone laughing. Suddenly, the world had turned right side up again, and I had Asher to thank for it.

  The morning of the rally dawned chilly, drizzly, and foggy. But not even the gloomy weather could ruin my mood. This was it, the moment of truth, when we’d find out just how much the Tasty Truck and Flavorfest meant to the community. Maybe hundreds of people would come; maybe we’d make the evening news; maybe Mr. Morgan would crack under pressure. Maybe by the time the rally was over, Flavorfest would be back. It would be amazing … if it worked.

  Last night, after Cleo and I had watched, and re-watched, laughed, and laughed some more at the video of Karrie gobbling up our brownies, I made as many signs and posters as I could. I’d felt newly motivated, especially now that I knew Asher was on our side. I even had a faint sprig of hope that he might show up at the rally, in spite of his mom’s relationship with Mr. Morgan.

  Dad had gone to bed early, and I worked quietly in my room so he wouldn’t hear what I was up to. He and Mom still didn’t know about the rally, since Cleo, Gabe, and I had been careful to keep it under wraps. As far as they knew, Saturday was just a regular workday for us.

  Now I glanced out the living room window to see Gabe pulling up to the curb with the Tasty Truck. The second I saw it decked out with its colorful banners, a surge of adrenaline rushed through me. I called to Cleo, and we hurried outside into the cool fog with our signs.

  Soon, Gabe had pulled the truck up to the corner of Hyde and Lombard. The minutes ticked steadily by as we fired up the grill and churned out dozens of BLTs, making sure to add a healthy dollop of special sauce to each one before slicing them and wrapping them up into small, sample-sized portions.

  By 11:55 A.M., our truck was fully stocked with BLT samples, sodas, water bottles, and everything else we’d need to get us through the rally. There was only one problem.

  “No one’s coming,” I said, panicking as I looked up and down the length of the empty sidewalk.

  “It’s still early,” Cleo said. “We have time.”

  But when another few minutes went by, even she started to look a little hopeless. I was seconds away from tossing my sign into the trash can and giving up when I heard it. A distant hum at first. A sound that slowly crystallized into voices, lots of them, all cheering and chanting excitedly.

  I saw the huge crowd rounding the crest at the top of Lombard Street. Hope rose up in my chest. There were at least a hundred people, if not more, slowly weaving their way down the winding street, with Signor Antonio taking up the lead, grinning happily under his fedora.

  “Flavorfest forever, Taste of San Fran never!” they shouted, pumping signs in the air to the rhythm of their chant.

  “See?” Cleo said, beaming. “I knew they’d come.”

  I grinned, then grabbed my sign and raced up the hill to join the crowd. When Signor Antonio saw me, he tipped his hat.

  “It’s a fine day for a protest, Tessa,” he said jokingly, pointing at the overcast sky. “Don’t you think?”

  I laughed. “I was afraid no one would come.”

  Signor Antonio waved his hand. “We are a community.”

  I glanced over his shoulder at an ocean of familiar faces. Nearly all of the food truckers in our neighborhood had come. There were the Bisratis, the Hirschorns, the Osakas. And they were all smiling encouragingly at me.

  “Good work, Tessa,” Mrs. Osaka said. “You brought us all together.”

  Mr. Bisrati nodded. “It was high time for us to speak up, and now we can do it with one voice.”

  “Thanks,” I said, blushing.

  I looked past them into the crowd, and spotted a bunch of kids from school. I instinctually looked for Mei, and then Asher. Even though I should have known better, disappointment seeped into my heart when I didn’t see either of them. But then I caught sight of Tristan. He waved at me and held up a handmade sign that read: DON’T GO BACON MY HEART. SAVE FLAVORFEST FOR THE BLT’S SAKE!

  “What do you think?” he hollered over the din of the crowd.

  “I love it,” I hollered back. Then I mouthed the one word I was afraid to say out loud. “Asher?”

  Tristan shook his head almost imperceptibly, and I let go of the breath I’d been holding.

  I’d so badly wanted Asher to come, mostly because I wanted to thank him for the Karrie video. And to apologize for second-guessing him. But I’d have to do that later.

  Tristan pointed a finger at me now, and mouthed, “Can we talk later?”

  Gulp. He just wasn’t going to give up, was he? I sighed. Well, it wasn’t fair to keep avoiding it, so I nodded at him, guessing I should get our talk over with. I liked Tristan; I just didn’t like like him. But I hoped we’d still be friends once I told him that.

  Tristan gave me a thumbs-up, and then Signor Antonio tipped his hat to me, bowing slightly. “Per favore, signorina, lead the way.”

  I glanced back at the crowd nervously, then thought of the Tasty Truck and found my courage. Taking a deep breath, I raised my sign in the air and shouted, “Come on everybody. Louder this time! Flavorfest forever, Taste of San Fran never! Flavorfest forever, Taste of San Fran never!”

  Each time I said it, my spirits lifted higher and higher, and by the time we reached the Tasty Truck, I was convinced the entire universe could hear our message. We formed a broad oval in front of the truck and started marching with our signs. Slowly but surely, other people trickled in to join us. Apartment windows opened up and down the street, and curious folks popped their heads out to see what was going on, with some of them eventually joining in the chant. As the afternoon wore on, more and more people came, until most of the sidewalk on the block was taken up by the crowd. All of our regular customers stopped by to show support, and many brought friends and family with them. Even a few store owners on Hyde Street closed shop early to march alongside us.

  At one point, I even had a surreal moment when I thought I saw a woman who looked like Mom on the outskirts of the crowd. She was hanging back, watching the marching. But just when I took a step toward her, a family of five stepped between us, wanting to order more sandwiches. By the time I’d helped Gabe with their order, the Mom look-alike had disappeared.

  “I can’t believe the turnout,” Cleo said gleefully as she gave me another batch of BLT samples to hand out to the growing crowd. “I tell you, Tessa, this is what freedom of speech is all about. We’re making history.”

  I laughed, knowing that Gabe and Cleo had done their fair share of protesting and picketing before. “It’s amazing,” I said, surveying the crowd proudly. “I don’t think it could get much better than this.”

  But then Cleo grinned and said, “It just did. Check it out.” She nodded to the crowd, and I turned to see Mei and Ben taking up a place in line with Leo and Ann. My heart skipped a beat. Mei had come.

  Mei caught my eye. I noticed Ben give her a slight nudge, and she reluctantly made her way over to me.

  “Hey,” she said, avoiding my gaze. “This is quite a crowd.”

  “Yeah,” I said nervously. “So … why are you here? I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “I didn’t think I would, either,” she said quietly. “But Ben made me. He said if I kept moping around missing you, he was going to give all my pink clothes to Goodwill when I wasn’t looking. I didn’t really think he’d do it but, you know, just to be on the safe si
de …” She gave me a sheepish smile.

  I giggled in spite of myself. After a second, Mei did, too. And suddenly the ice we’d been treading on gave in to our relieved laughter.

  “I’m so sorry!” Mei cried, grabbing me in hug. “You were completely right to be mad at me for what happened at the concert. I shouldn’t have left you alone in the theater, even if it was for my first kiss. I guess I went a little Ben crazy.”

  Just hearing her apology made me feel a thousand times better. Then I registered what else she’d said. “First kiss, huh?” I elbowed her. “It must’ve been pretty good to make you forget about me.”

  Mei blushed, then shook her head with a smile. “Seriously, I am sorry, Tessa. It’s been sort of hard, figuring out how to balance a boyfriend and the rest of my life. But I think I’m learning.”

  I remembered how Mom and I had fought about the notion of balance, and my chest tightened. “Balance is hard,” I told Mei. “And I’m sorry I was so tough on you about it. I guess I was a little …” I didn’t want to cop to the word jealous, but I could see that Mei understood.

  She grabbed my hand, nodding. “I never wanted to make you feel left out, or hurt. And I’m sorry that I was mean about the Great Pillow Fight, too. I shouldn’t have called it stupid.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sorry I got mad about you wanting to go to the dance. I should’ve tried to be more understanding. You just caught me off guard with everything. I mean, I never knew you hated the pillow fight so much.”

  “I don’t hate it. It’s just not my favorite thing to do.” She paused, as if she was thinking carefully about how to say what came next. “You know, we have different interests, Tessa, but that’s okay. We don’t have to like all the same things, or even do all the same things, to stay best friends, right?”

  I nodded, feeling hopeful. “So … we’re still best friends?”

  “Of course,” Mei said, squeezing my hand back. “If you’re cool with that?”