Brooklyn Girls (29 page)

And the girls are helping me. Julia meets me to clean up Toto every night, Madeleine helps me prepare every morning, Coco is constantly inventing amazing new low-fat baked goods, and Angie is secretly using her boss’s connections to offer special deals to every food magazine and Web site in New York, resulting in a deluge of the who’s who of the Manhattan food world, a mention in
The New York Times
last Sunday, and Page Six on Wednesday. Cha-ching!

And now it’s the last Friday before the big payment is due to Cosmo, and I’ve got the ten thousand dollars.

All of it.

Every last penny.

I’ve been worried about Rookhaven getting robbed and having to earn ten thousand from scratch, so I sleep with it under my pillow and carry it everywhere with me. Right now it’s safely under the carpet on the passenger side of Toto. You can’t even tell it’s under there.

Everything else is great, too—well, mostly. Coco seems to have bounced back from her morning-after-pill/Eric trauma. Julia went on a date with that guy she met in the karaoke bar, Mason, and is happier than she’s been since we graduated. Angie is still with Mani, and has also spent a surprising number of nights at Rookhaven, just hanging out with us. Even Madeleine seems happy. You know, for Madeleine.

Now as I drive Toto toward Manhattan, just as I hit the midpoint of the Brooklyn Bridge, the sun reflects off the Midtown skyscrapers one by one, making the whole city sparkle. It’s my Manhattan now, my Brooklyn, my New York. For the first time ever, I feel like I belong … like maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get the life I want.

I suddenly remember a line from
The Best of Everything.

It was all like a dream in which you could have anything you wanted, if you were very, very careful.

That’s exactly how I feel.

For the first time in more than seven weeks—maybe ever—I feel invincible. Like nothing can stop me.

Two weeks ago I spoke to my parents and assured them I was working hard “in the hospitality industry” and making good money. They clearly didn’t believe me, but they’re landing in New York City on Tuesday, so I can show them how hard I’m working, that I am finally doing something good with my life. I hope they’ll be proud.

I park outside Lina’s workplace again, since she texted last night saying her colleagues were begging her to convince me to return. I prep the pancakes; I always have a few ready in advance, so they’re quick but hot off the griddle.

“Pancakes! Breakfast pancakes, low-fat, gluten-free pancakes!”

The breakfast line soon stretches down the block, and at the front of the line is Lina, holding hands with her little boy, Gabe.

“Gabe!” I say, leaning out the window so he can see me. “You’ve got a job already? That’s good, little man. You’ve gotta earn your keep.”

Gabe launches into hysterical giggles. “I don’t have a job. I’m
four
!”

“Our nanny is sick, so I’ve got Gabe till lunch,” says Lina. “We’ve really missed you around here. You’re by far the most popular food truck.”

“Pancakes!” Gabe is squealing with excitement.

“Well, then your office must have exceptionally good taste and trim waistlines,” I say. I give them an extra pancake in each order, and throw in three extra agave syrups and fat-free Greek yogurts.

“Thank you, Grown-Up Pia!” shouts Gabe.

Lina and I both get the giggles at this. “That’s what we call you at home so everyone knows you’re not little Pia,” explains Lina.

“No one’s ever called me a grown-up before,” I say. “I like it.”

I’m so busy this morning that I hardly look up, though I could swear—I mean really, really swear—I see Aidan walk past at one point. My heart jumps into my throat and I do a textbook double take, but he—if it was even him—immediately disappears. That’s the fiftieth time that’s happened since I went full psycho and ran away from our date.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts of Aidan, and serve the next customer, a girl about my age shouting on the phone. “Hell no, I’m not returning his calls! That was the worst date ever! My life is hard enough right now, right? Okay, honey, call me later, bye.”

She hangs up, and looks up at me.

“My date last night phoned his mom at ten to give her a good-night kiss. He’s twenty-nine years old. I said, do you need me to change your diaper? He said, no, I wipe my own butt now. And he was
proud
.”

I laugh so hard I almost can’t give her the order. God, I love people. And yes, I know I sound like a total loser by saying that. But they’re just so funny and nice. I’d hate a job where I didn’t get to interact with people all day. Working in a cubicle? Only corresponding with the outside world by e-mail? Forget it. I was born to do this!

“Let me in!” shouts a voice. It’s Jonah. He jumps in and immediately assumes his usual easygoing I’m-here-to-help-y’all attitude that customers just love.

“Does he come with the dessert?” asks the dump-date woman.

“I sure do,” he says, flashing his best I’m-a-good-ol’-boy smile at her. “But I’m full of sugar.”

“Oh, I think that’d be just fine.” She’s practically meowing. She reluctantly takes her food and leaves.

“Great line, Jonah,” I say. “Okay, more working, less flirting.”

“Yes, bossman,” he says. “Hello, sir! How may I help you?” He turns to the next guy in line.

“I was hoping
she
would serve me,” says the guy, one of my regulars: a chubby accountant type, cheap suit and a light sweat.

“She’s busy, but she sends her best regards,” says Jonah smoothly.

The accountant ignores him. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve lost ten pounds since I started eating your lunches three weeks ago!” he says triumphantly. I lean over and high-five him.

“Dude! That’s incredible, well done! Thank you for telling me!”

“No, thank
you
! I’ve tried every diet there is!”

Smiling, I turn to the customer behind him. It’s the
Grub Street
video blogger, Becca.

“Hi there!” she says. “Can you give me a sound bite about how you feel about being nominated for a Vendy Award?”

“Wow! I was? Who would nominate me? I mean—I was?”

Becca grins. “It’s kind of a big deal, you know. It’s the Oscars of the street food vendor world. Okay, I’ll start filming now.… Speak up, there’s a lot of traffic noise. In fact, shout if you can.”

“Oh, yikes, thinking on my feet isn’t my strong point,” I say, but before I even have time to panic and get that acid public-speaking stomach and inevitable panic-driven muteness, the little red recording light comes on.

So I open my mouth and somehow, the words just come out. “I’m Pia from SkinnyWheels, and I’m honored and delighted to be nominated for a Vendy Award. It shows that New Yorkers want a food truck that cares as much about their asses as their taste buds! Go SkinnyWheels!”

I must have been shouting much louder than I think, because the entire line erupts into cheers and wolf whistles. I blush. Oops. Wow.

I’ve never even been nominated for anything in my life. Even if I don’t win, this is a sign. Everything is going to be fine.

We run out of pancakes around 10:30
A.M.
, as usual, close the window, and put out the
CLOSED TO PREPARE FOR YOUR SKINNYLUNCH!
sign that Jonah made. (It’s a little perky for me; I might remove the exclamation point.) We clean up from breakfast and prep for lunch. God, it’s so much easier with two people.

“Hey, guess what. A Meal Grows in Brooklyn is no more. They ran out of money.”

“No kidding,” I say. “Poor Phil and Lara! Are they okay?”

“They’re fine, they’re pretty easy come, easy go, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.” But all I can think is: what a shame. A Meal Grows in Brooklyn was such a great idea. But it failed anyway. A good idea isn’t enough. You need to work as hard as you can, too. You need to be dedicated. You need to give it everything you’ve got.…

“Hey, Jonah … would you consider working for me full-time, once I can, you know, pay you more?” I say. He’s working for a criminally low wage at the moment.

“Can I have time off to go to auditions?” he asks.

“Of course! Since when do you have auditions?”

“Since I got an agent last week,” he says modestly.

“Dude! That’s incredible, congratulations!” I say.

“Pia, it’s all thanks to you. Remember that Sunday in Carroll Gardens, how you said that the only person who can make my life happen the way I want is me?” he says. “It really shook me up. I’ve been sittin’ around all these years, waiting for something to drop into my lap.… Well, screw that!”

“Damn straight! Dude, I’m so happy for you, well done! And if you have an audition, you just head right off.”

“Cool,” he says. “Uh, so I can leave early this afternoon? They’re casting a part for this lawyer show—I mean, it’s totally a long shot—”

“Yes! Which one? The one with that woman who was in the thing with that guy? I am obsessed with her eyebrows.”

We talk and prep the food, enjoy an unusually busy lunch period, then Jonah heads off to his audition, and I keep serving.

Sometime after 3:00
P.M.
, the line dwindles.

And that’s when it happens, just as I’m handing over a salad to one of my regulars, a geek in a button-down shirt.

A huge
bang
. Toto shakes and lurches beneath my feet, reverberating with a crunch of metal and breaking glass.

The geek and I freeze and look at each other.

“Did you hear that?” I say.

His eyes are wide with fear. “It sounded like Godzilla hitting your truck!”

I quickly open the back doors: it’s a skinny bald guy I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt and basketball shorts, has an unhinged, ultra-focused look in his eye … and he’s attacking my truck with a baseball bat. He’s already taken out one rear brake light, and the moment I get out of the truck, he slams the bat into the other.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I scream. “Get the hell away from my truck!”

“I wouldn’t talk like that if I were you,” he says in a singsong voice, swinging the bat above his head like a professional ballplayer. I suddenly notice that he’s sweating, and one eyebrow is twitching uncontrollably. Shit, he
is
crazy.

“Please stop hitting my truck with that baseball bat,” I say, trying to sound calm.

He ignores me, still swinging the bat above his head. “This is just a taster.”

“A taster of what?”

He swings the bat again and slams it into the door, denting it, my truck, my darling Toto.

And suddenly, I feel a little crazy myself.

“That’s it! I’m calling the cops! You fucking lunatic! You’re out of your fucking mind! You can’t destroy someone else’s property!”

Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ringing cell phone, and hands it to me. “It’s for you, Pia.”

He knows my name?

I grab the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Pia my darling,” says a familiar voice. “Cosmo here.”

A chill runs through my body. “Cosmo.”

“I wanted you to meet Nolan. When Nicky can’t do something, Nolan does it.”

“Oh…” I say, eyeing up Nolan. He’s sniffing and chewing and dipping his head up and down to nonexistent music. He’s not nuts, I suddenly realize. He’s on meth or crack or something. He’s a junkie. And another one of Cosmo’s henchmen.

Cosmo sounds like he’s smiling. “How are you, sweetheart? How’s business?”

“Why did you do this? I’ve got all the money, I wasn’t going to.…” I can’t quite get my thoughts in order with a hopped-up addict just inches away from me. “Why beat up my truck?”

“I thought it might be nice to remind you that I’m a serious businessman. In case that little punk-headed bitch told you otherwise. Get it?”

Bianca. He knows about Bianca coming to warn me about him. And now he’s pissed. How could he know that?

“Got it,” I say quietly.

“I’ll be at your home in person on Sunday night, seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.” My voice is a tiny whisper.

“Good. Oh, and I liked that little outfit with the shorts you wore out with that guy. Will you wear it on Sunday for me?”

I gasp. My date with Aidan. He’s been watching me. Suddenly I feel like throwing up.

“Gotta go, Pia! Look out for Nolan. He’s a bit of a live wire.”

Cosmo hangs up and I hand the phone back to Nolan, who is still swinging the bat in big circles over his head.

“Please get away from my truck,” I say in what I hope is a controlled, super-confident voice.

“I’ve called the cops!” shouts a voice.

“You better leave,” I say to Nolan, trying to stare him down. “If the cops find you, you’re fucked.”

Nolan sneers. “Stupid move, bitch. I was gonna break your truck windows and leave it at that. But instead, I’m going to your yuppie fuckin’ brownstone and I’m gonna break every fuckin’ window one by one. Just to teach you a lesson.”

I gasp. “You wouldn’t—”

“I hope that little blond girl with the big tits is home. I like her.”

Holy shit! Coco? “Don’t you touch her, you junkie piece of—”

Nolan lets out an ear-splintering Tarzan yell, shaking the baseball bat in my face while jumping up and down. Then he runs around Toto, taking wild swings. The entire truck shakes with the sound of crunching metal. The customers and passersby who have been rubbernecking our fight from a safe distance scatter. I hear more breaking-glass sounds, but I can’t move. I feel paralyzed by shock, or fear, or something. Like one of those dreams where you’re trying to scream, but you can’t even squeak.

Then he runs up the street to a little red car, jumps in the driver’s side, and speeds away.

Oh, my God.

He’s heading for Rookhaven. He’s going to break every window and do who knows what to Coco, who is due home from work at any moment. And Vic and Marie are probably home, what if they hear something and come out? What would he do to them?

I don’t have time to think, I don’t have time to do anything. I just have to get home and stop him from destroying my house and hurting my friends. So I slam Toto’s back doors and shout “Sorry! Next time!” to the few remaining would-be customers gawking from a safe distance, then run to the driver’s seat and get in.