She hesitated and I thought she’d fallen back asleep. “Maybe.” She started to snore.
I don’t know if any of that is true. There’s a lot of fever-mumbling that I don’t think I should be hearing. Like: “I’m so tired. Was I this tired in Chicago? I could do it all by myself there. But here, it keeps going . . . I can’t get off . . . I understand Chicago. We were better off in Chicago . . . I thought wishes grew on trees out here. Sam’s letter . . . But it’s just like anyplace.”
I think of Mrs. Jablonsky and her bowl of butterscotch candy at the library. Some things were better in Chicago. Much better. But then I think of the water streaming through the bedroom ceiling that the super wouldn’t fix, and waiting for Mom outside the library in snowstorms, and grimy O’Hara’s House of Fine Eats, and Mom’s faraway eyes when she looked at that poster in the old travel agency or down at the expressway from our bedroom window.
Maybe San Francisco is just like anyplace. “We don’t really know yet,” I say to her sleeping face, surprising myself. “We haven’t really stepped inside.”
JULY 30
Cal
All day and half the night, the green van behind them screams and shakes with sound. “White noise,” Jeanne Ann says, when I ask if it keeps her up. She hasn’t slept at the house again. She says one time was enough. I don’t believe her.
I supply orange juice, cough syrup, cough drops, soup.
“Have you told her about your project?” I whisper when I drop off supplies. I pass them through the open window.
“What project?” She’s reading a book, The Secret Garden. Used. Hers to keep. From me. Unfortunately, she won’t look anyplace but the pages now. She’s leaving San Francisco, a page at a time.
“The food cart,” I say. Jeanne Ann has been polishing it a few hours every day. I’ve come down to help. Mac too.
“It’s just something to do till we leave.”
I don’t think that’s all it is, but I don’t push it.
Sandy’s camper van glides by in slow motion as I’m walking home. He still can’t find a parking spot. It’s been days. He only wants the spot behind Jeanne Ann. “I knew you’d take care of everything,” he hollers, idling at the stoplight.
“What?” Where’s he getting his information? Nothing is taken care of. Jeanne Ann and her mom can’t make it here. I can’t make it better. Added up, it’s only a smidge better than being towed.
But he continues on without further explanation, disappearing behind a curtain of fog.
AUGUST 2
Jeanne Ann
Mom is starting to show signs of improvement. She sits upright. She accepts a stale biscuit and hot soup. She notices the grease box outside. Bad Chuck is running circles around it, while all of the Bumblebee campers chase him.
“When did that show up?” Mom says, leaning out my window for a change of pace. “Who made this biscuit?”
I set down the laundry I’m folding. The biscuit she’s eating is four days old. I look out the window to the cart. There’s still a two-inch dent over the gas tank that Mac couldn’t bang out, and some ugly rocks stuck in the tires. I’ve been steel-wooling and polishing—always when Mom’s asleep. Mac and Cal have come by to help. Mrs. Paglio supplies lemonade—she brings it out in a crystal jug with matching glasses; she says it’s the only civilized way to serve lemonade. Mrs. Paglio is fancy, but lemonade is lemonade, and she’s sharing hers.
Scrubbing the box with the neighbors has been less difficult than listening to Mom’s chest rattle.
“What do they serve?” Mom takes another bite of biscuit, holds it up to her nose, splits it down the middle, and examines its innards.
“Who?”
“The guys stuffed inside that cart?”
“Nothing. It’s just empty, abandoned junk.” Mom has a side view of the cart; she must think there’s a sign on the front.
“It doesn’t look like junk,” she says.
“It doesn’t?” I look over at it and—
Oh.
Mom takes the last bite of biscuit, brushing crumbs from her enormous hands. “Can we get more of these?”
AUGUST 3
Cal
Jeanne Ann’s mom, Joyce, is outside, running her hands over the now-sorta-okay-looking food cart. I drop my paints and roll my desk chair backward. “She’s up! She’s up!” I shout to Mom as I bolt downstairs and out the front door. I whisper the same to Jeanne Ann once I’ve crossed the street. But excitement fades as I realize a healthy Joyce means a soon-to-depart Jeanne Ann.
“Yeah, I guess so. I guess she’s really up,” Jeanne Ann whispers back, pulling at her lower lip.
We watch Joyce run her hand over the griddle, then walk around to the hatch door in back. She stares at the cutout, half her height, and snorts, but she folds herself in and stands hunched over the griddle.
I pull out my sketchbook and stand at the order window for the best view inside. I find a blank page—there aren’t many left; the sketchbook is falling apart—and begin laying down lines.
Jeanne Ann pushes through the hatch, squeezing into the area under her Mom’s left armpit.
“What’s he doing?” Joyce says.
“Sketching us.”
“Why?”
They’re both resting their elbows on the griddle and looking up at the clouds and the swooping seagulls and the clear blue that they’ve been waiting for.
“Don’t worry. He’ll make us look good.”
AUGUST 4
Jeanne Ann
Mom is gone when I wake up. She didn’t mention going to work—she says she was automatically fired for missing three days in a row—but maybe she’s arguing her way back in to earn a few days’ wages before we leave. We’re going to need money for gas and food and a down payment on an apartment.
Her purse is still in the van, though.
“Mom?”
I find her outside, messing with the cart again. A cyclist whizzes by. It’s a weekend morning—the farmers’ market has begun in the lot behind Greenery—and the playing fields are starting to fill with runners and bikers and tourists.
“It works,” she announces, spitting on the griddle. It sizzles.
I guess that chef lady, Mac, really did it, really crossed the right wires.
Mom runs her hands over the knobs, opens and closes and opens and closes the oven doors, checks the warming drawers—that’s what Mac called them—then does a thing with her hands that can only be a mime of cooking.
She jams her hands into her pockets and pulls out crumpled bills. She thrusts them at Cal, who—surprise—has just arrived, eager to be of service. He hands over a basket of warm biscuits his mom made. Apparently, she has been at the oven, waiting all morning for us to get up too.
Mom seizes Cal’s sketchbook and thrusts it at me. The pages are falling out. She grabs his wrist, forces the money into his hand. “Be useful. Buy me some paper plates, a carton of eggs, a good aged cheddar, salt, pepper, chives, and a crusty loaf of bread—no, these biscuits will do—and butter, lots of butter.”
Cal starts to speak, but she interrupts.
“I’m gonna make us breakfast,” Mom says.
Cal
When I get back to the vans, Joyce—Jeanne Ann’s mom—is sharpening her knives like she’s about to go into battle. She’s talking to Jeanne Ann—probably about what interstate they want to take back to Chicago to avoid duplicating the route they took to get here. Jeanne Ann is nodding. I approach slowly.
“Finally,” Joyce grumbles, grabbing the food bag out of my hands. “Change?”
I dig fifty-four cents out of my back pocket.
“I gave you twenty bucks and you come back with this?”
“It’s all from the farmers’ market. Extra fresh.” Eggs and cheese and butter, practically right from chickens and cows. “It’ll taste better.”
; “I know that.” She storms off to prepare, mumbling. I can’t tell if she’s really mad or if, like her daughter, storming off is a kind of thank-you. I fall into the grass next to Jeanne Ann, who’s got The Secret Garden open.
“Crapinade,” she mumbles. She’s lying on her back with the book over her face. My sketchbook is lying next to her, pages askew.
“I got salt and pepper from Greenery. I saved big on those.” I feel like I need to defend myself.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I think breakfast is gonna be good. Don’t you?” She doesn’t answer. She’s very still. “Jeanne Ann?”
She rolls toward me. “I wished for this,” she whispers, daring to smile, then shoves her face deeper into her book.
Jeanne Ann
I guess this isn’t a terrible finale. We’re ending with a proper breakfast, which is how our stay should’ve begun. And, maybe we’ll be able to sell the food cart for more than four dollars now that it’s cleaned up. It does look decent. Maybe it’ll pay for our trip home. The Beautification Committee should’ve taken the time to clean it up. They didn’t know what they had.
Cal’s brought over a picnic blanket and is lying next to me, stretched long, his hands under his head, which makes him appear massively overconfident about something. If he continues whistling, I may have to take some drastic action, like throwing his sketchbook into the air and letting him chase down the pages.
“Somebody open the package of plates!” Mom shouts, finally, when she’s ready. Cal jumps up first.
Cal
A skateboarder in a faded 49ers T-shirt glides to a stop in front of the cart, while I’m juggling plates. “Excuse me.” The skater pokes at my shoulder, first slowly, then like a woodpecker. “Excuse me!”
I’ve got a plate in each hand and one balanced in the crook of my arm. We’re all getting the same thing: two scrambled eggs mixed with cheddar and chive, and a biscuit on the side. A picnic in the grass is the plan. Me, Jeanne Ann, Mrs. Paglio, Mom—she’s coming in a second—and Joyce, who’s still cleaning the griddle, in case any of us wants seconds. Her face is its own sharp tool, warding off critics.
“Excuse me! How much for one of those?” The skater is a little too close to the plate in my left hand. He’s thrusting a wad of cash in my direction. Everyone is handing me cash today. The guy reminds me of a Greenery breakfast customer—hangry, impatient, wanting to get fed, now.
Jeanne Ann leaves Mrs. Paglio on the picnic blanket to come see what’s going on. I look at Joyce. Joyce looks at the skater’s knee guards with disgust.
“Twelve fifty!” a voice screeches behind us. “Don’t take a penny less!”
Mom arrives out of breath, still in her pajamas and a Greenery smock, with hair that looks like an electricity experiment. She’s carrying another tray of biscuits. It looks like they’ve come straight from the oven. Her feet are bare. I don’t think the skater cares; he opens his wallet again and pulls out another wad of ones, laying them in Mom’s palm. “Keep the change,” he says. Joyce looks at the money like it’s dirty kitty litter, then stands upright and “hmphs.”
I surrender one of the plates to the skater, then watch as he gets smaller and farther away.
“What just happened?” Jeanne Ann asks.
“Business!” Mom says excitedly.
“Twelve fifty?” Joyce splutters. She cracks two more eggs into a bowl, automatically. “Twelve fifty? We didn’t even give him utensils.”
“Was that my plate?” Jeanne Ann protests, but not loud enough for the woman with the baby in the stroller who’s just pulled up and is tugging my sleeve.
“Hi. Oh, wow, a new food cart. You guys. Those eggs look amazing. And biscuits.” She’s talking like she already knows us. She steps forward and backs me against the cart with her high-speed talk. “What do you call this place? Are those homemade biscuits? We love biscuits.” I adjust my balance, careful not to drop the plates. She leans over her baby and taps his nose. “I’m going to take a picture. This is so cute. No signage. Very cool.” She’s eyeing the two plates still in my possession. I look to Joyce and Jeanne Ann for direction. They lift their chins at the exact same time, a signal to proceed.
Money is exchanged, the baby gets half the biscuit and promptly mashes it against his face.
“What are we doing?” Jeanne Ann asks.
“Let me tell you what I think,” Mom says, placing her hands on Jeanne Ann’s shoulders.
Joyce interrupts her. “Cal.” She shoves twenty-five dollars into my hand. “Resupply. Run,” she orders.
Jeanne Ann
Mom cooks her eggs like Julia Child. Twenty to thirty high-speed whisk-turns in the bowl, a tablespoon of butter for every serving, no more than three eggs cooked at one time, and the whole thing’s done in thirty seconds or less, on a plate, sprinkled with salt and a “wap” of pepper (Julia’s word)—then out to the customer. That’s exactly how Julia does it too.
“What?” Mom snaps, watching me watch her.
“Nothing,” I say. “You really know what you’re doing.”
“It’s just eggs, kid.”
“Mom.” She looks up, adjusting her jaw back and forth, like she’s caught out. The muscles in her arm flex, then release. “Don’t say that. You know what you’re doing.”
“Fine.” She wipes her knife clean with a towel that looks suspiciously like one of my clean shirts.
“Say it.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Cal
We will turn twenty-five dollars’ worth of raw egg into three hundred dollars’ worth of scrambled. I feel the weight of good luck in my hands as I carry the cartons back. These are golden eggs.
Of course, Mom and Jeanne Ann will need to bake more biscuits to go with them. I think Jeanne Ann likes baking. And I’ll need to buy more cheese, butter, herbs, oh, and paper plates—when there’s more money to buy with. Mom could offer to pay for those things, but I don’t think Joyce would accept. I know she wouldn’t.
I wonder if this is the start of something, and if they might stay a little longer, to find out?
I pick up my pace just as the wind picks up its own. I was ordered to run, but running is hard with fragile eggs. A stack of papers flies past, swooping through the air on a burst of wind. It looks like sketch paper. My sketch paper . . . Hey. I watch two sheets fly higher and higher, like in a dance. They’re accompanied by a sound, a low moan that gets louder the higher the papers go. I spin around. I set the bags down.
It takes my legs several seconds to get the message from my brain to run, to acknowledge what I’m hearing. SIRENS. I look back just once as I go. My sketchbook has taken flight, and I’ve abandoned forty-eight delicate eggs on a sidewalk teeming with large, crushing feet. Also: flying paper resembles flapping wings.
Jeanne Ann
We are serving our fifth and sixth customers—two skinny women who claim to know the location of every great biscuit in town—when I look up and see paper whipping in the wind, smacking walkers in the face, sticking to their pants legs. Cal’s sketchbook papers—picked up on a gust. I lurch out the hatch door and grab for a sheet. Miss it. I reach for another. Miss.
Mom doesn’t notice a thing. I see Cal streak by—his heels rising and falling fast—and the first crazy thought I have is: He’s found another penniless girl to save.
Then a crash of sound and color. Red. Wailing red. Where did it come from? Did we not hear the sirens over the biscuit-loving customers? Is the exchange of goods for money that deafening?!
This time I am only steps away. But the area is busy with farmers’ market comers and goers, weekend runners and bikers, wobbly babies holding tightly to barking dogs.
“Pardon me. Excuse me.”
I hurdle over and around.
Move, move, move. Oh, please. Not again.
“Not now!” We are about to leave!
>
Over a wide pit in the grass. Around a picnic table. Onto the sidewalk.
The hook on the back of the tow truck is already rising, already attached to the Carrot.
I can hear the beep-beep-beep of the tow truck’s mechanical arm, the clang of the chains—then the brake lights flicker.
“Stop! Don’t tow it!” I barely hear myself over the sirens.
I stand where the tow driver can see me, arms out, palms out.
Am I having some effect? The driver is honking. Honking like crazy.
I place a hand on the hood of the tow truck and a hand in the air. Then I slide forward along the hood. When my hand reaches the headlights, I look down, and there’s Cal.
He’s lying in the street, arms and legs spread wide, like a snow angel.
“Cal!”
“Hi!” he yells back, waving.
The truck inches forward.
“Hey!” I bang on the hood. The truck driver points down and leans into his horn again. He sees Cal.
I take a breath and step into the road. I smell asphalt, tar, and engine exhaust. I crawl until I’m beside Cal, then lie down. I feel the vibrations of the engine in my skull and the heat streaming off the truck. Cal grabs my hand and squeezes.
“About time,” he yells, smiling.
“You’re unbelievable,” I yell back.
“You’re welcome!”
“Let’s pretend I’m saving you,” I shriek.
“You are!” he replies.
Cal
Mrs. Paglio races home to get her phone. She never takes her eyes off us.
She calls a friend, who calls another friend, and before too long a local news truck arrives with cameras and microphones and those giant roving spotlights that kinda look like dinosaurs.
We learn this order of events later.
Sandy finds a parking spot—about the time the cameras arrive—in the middle of the street, right next to us. He adds his honks—high and whiny—to the honk symphony. We are blocking traffic. Then he gets out and stands at our feet.
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