Brooklyn Girls (8 page)

“This is Ray’s brother Phil’s truck. The specialty is bread, but almost everything is made, grown, killed, or cured in the borough. Get it? A Meal Grows in Brooklyn.”

“Actually, the raisins are from California,” says a red-headed guy coming out from behind the truck. He’s one of those aggressively ironic early-thirties Brooklynites who has a handlebar mustache and wears vintage cowboy shirts. Phil and Jonah do a little man handshake-hug combo, and Jonah introduces me. Apparently Phil runs an organic bakery-slash-café in DUMBO, and has the truck on the weekends for fun.

“Everything is grown right here in Brooklyn?” I ask skeptically.

“Brooklyn is full of food,
ma petite.
” Phil peers into the basket. “Dang, those bees are acing it! I love it when my brother has a good idea. Of course, that’s also probably why Ray is richer and more successful.”

“He can’t grow a ’stache like you, though,” says Jonah. “Do you miss the beard?”

“Not so much,” says Phil, twirling his scarlet mo. “Anyway! Let’s see … ricotta cheese and honey flame-toasted sourdough?” He raises his voice. “Lara? Sweetie? Do we have that ricotta?”

“Yep,” says Phil’s wife, a pretty woman with messy hair, strolling out from the back of the truck.

“Sourdough from our organic bakery in DUMBO, handmade ricotta from a friend of mine in Fort Greene, honey from Williamsburg. Brooklyn food. Get it?”

“Got it.” I nod smartly.

“How’s the eggs and bacon coming along, honey?”

“Small problem.” Lara gets the giggles. “We forgot the eggs.” I get the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve forgotten something.

“Plain bacon sandwiches?” says Phil doubtfully. “Yawn. Any ideas, guys?”

“Bacon … um … and bacon?” says Jonah.

“What about bacon sandwiches with chili jam?” I say. It’s a favorite of mine. Eddie used to make it when we were hungover on vacations, using sweet chili sauce from a bottle. “Breakfast of champions, Keller,” he’d say, pulling me onto his lap to eat it with him, one bite each at a time. Then we’d go out for gingerbread lattes, which are actually disgusting, I swear to God. Eddie said they tasted like the holidays. Urgh, stop thinking about him.

“Yes! I love creative thinkers! Okay, go explore, you two. I’ll need you at noon.”

So Jonah and I wander around the Brooklyn Flea, munching on the ricotta and honey sandwiches.

“So where are you from, princess?” says Jonah, his mouth full of food. “Ricky and Vinnie told me all about you, said you were European, but I thought you were Indian or Pakistani or something.”

Or something? “Uh, I was born in the States. We moved countries a lot, if that’s what you mean,” I say, as we pass a stall selling antique mirrors that would look really cute in the hallway at Rookhaven. I should come back when I have money. If I ever have money.

“Oh, yeah? That’s gotta be weird.”

I roll out the usual responses. “School is school, no matter where you are. Study hall, after-school clubs, homework.…”

“You never went to school in the States?”

“Yes, I did. From twelve onward I went to boarding school here … three, actually.” I pick up some jewelry made from old typewriter parts. “Cool, look at this stuff!”

“Three? Dude, that is seriously weird! Where are your parents from?”

Weird
.
Again
. How can I possibly ever feel like I belong anywhere when people always point out that I’m different? “My mother is from India. My dad’s from Switzerland, but he lived in the States for, like, thirty years. He’s a lot older than my mother.”

“Is that why your eyes are green? From your dad?”

“I guess.” My eyes are a funny jade color; when I was growing up everyone thought they were contacts and I’d have to practically poke my eye out to prove they weren’t.

“So you speak, like, three languages?”

“Not really.”

“So, like, where is home?”

I fight the urge to groan. “Wherever I lay my hat, baby.” It’s one of my standard responses to that unanswerable question. I don’t know where home is. Why does everyone care about home so much? Because once they know where your home is, they think they know who you are?

“Man, your life is freaky.”

“Mmmhmmm.” I start looking through vintage fur coats. I can never explain what it is like to be me. Only Eddie ever really understood me, and he rejected me.

God, this conversation is depressing me.

“You must miss your parents a lot.”

“Uh, yeah…” I never miss anyone, I’m just used to saying good-bye. But people think you’re so cold and hard when you say that.

“And I bet you were one of the popular girls at all your schools.”

“Yeah. I was a total Heather.”

Okay, so I sort of hung out with the popular crowd, but I was never really one of them. How could I be? Those girls had been wearing the same clothes, getting the same highlights, taking the same vacations to the Hamptons and Martha’s Vineyard since they were born. I just didn’t fit in: the color of my skin was different, my clothes were different, everything. The only way to survive was to float above the fray, without being an outcast, and that meant always looking like I was happy, no matter what. And then I met calm, steady Eddie, and real happiness was easy. For a while.

Jonah picks up a pith helmet and tries it on. Nice biceps. For a second I imagine licking his arms, imagine him on top of me in bed … I wonder if it is normal to fantasize about sex with dudes I’m not romantically interested in. Julia would say no. Angie would say yes.

“I’m hungry again,” says Jonah. “Wanna split a hot dog? Double ketchup! I once drank a gallon of ketchup for a bet. I won!”

And
phloof
! My Jonah sex fantasy is gone. Just then I see Angie about twenty-five feet away, in a tiny blue tea dress, holding the arm of an older Euro-trashy guy I’ve never seen before. Probably French, from the looks of his slightly too-short jeans.

Just as I’m about to shout to get her attention, Angie slaps him across the cheek. He pushes her hand away sharply and says something dismissive. Then she shoves him away from her so hard that he takes a step back. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but the last three words are very clear because she’s shouting them at the top of her lungs.
Go fuck yourself
.

Everyone is staring now. “What a sweetheart,” comments Jonah. Then Angie turns around and runs away. The guy flicks his floppy bangs a few times, and disappears into the crowd.

“She’s my best friend,” I murmur. Why hasn’t Angie mentioned a new guy to me? I thought she was into Hugh, that English lord. Who the hell is this dude? I take out my phone.

“Yeah, you should probably call her,” says Jonah.

“No…” God, men are stupid sometimes. If Angie wanted me to know about that guy, she’d have told me. She obviously didn’t, and I have to respect that. But I can make it easier if she wants to tell me now.

I write Angie a quick text.
Hey, ladybitch. What up? Wanna hang out later?

A second later I get a response.
Maybe. I’m out. Let’s drink tonight.

Typical Angie, I think as Jonah and I keep walking.

If I saw Julia having a fight with a mystery man I could just be direct with her. Not that it’d ever happen, of course. Mystery isn’t her thing. Last time Jules hooked up with a guy she texted me while it was happening. Literally.

Not Angie. Once when we were on vacation in Thailand with my parents when we were fourteen, Angie told me that she was going to bed early. So I snuck out barhopping with a couple of the bartenders from the hotel. Come midnight, I went to the ladies’ room in some dive, heard sobbing, and saw Angie’s shoes under the cubicle door. I sat outside the stall for an hour, begging her to talk. She refused, and kept telling me she didn’t need me, that she wanted to be alone. Eventually I left, and the next morning she’d checked out of the hotel and gone home to her parents.

I never found out what happened, and she didn’t talk to me for almost a year after that.

That was the same year I got kicked out of my first boarding school, come to think of it.

Then the following summer she acted like everything was fine between us, so I just went along with it. Sometimes friendships are more complicated than any relationships.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Jonah.

I look at him and frown. “Sorry. They’re worth more than that.”

CHAPTER 6

It’s nearly lunchtime at the Brooklyn Flea, and while Jonah lines up for a caramel-and-sea-salt ice cream, I lean against a beat-up old truck at the side of the market, people-watching. Is it compulsory for men aged between thirty and forty in Brooklyn to grow a beard, or what? Every male vendor has statement facial upholstery. And they all look so happy.

That’s what I need: I need a job that’ll make me smile.

Who am I kidding? I just need a job.

“Hey, watch it,” says a gruff voice. It’s an older woman with long silvery hair curled around the top of her head in a chignon.

I look back at the truck behind me with alarm. It’s a food truck, I now realize, painted pale pink and older than I am. I didn’t think it’d damage that easily. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m kidding.” She grins at me. “This is Toto.”

“Toto the truck? As in the song, ‘Africa’?”

“It was that, or Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,” she says. “Toto seemed easier. I’m Francie.”

“Pia.” I lean over to shake her hand. Very firm handshake, I notice.

“You taking a break?” she asks.

I’m thrilled that she thinks I might actually work here. “Not exactly … I’m waiting for a friend. I love this place, though. Everyone seems so happy. Especially the food truck people.”

“They should be, those upstart trucks are making a damn fortune,” she says, checking her iPhone. Impressive. My mother confuses the remote control and the cordless phone. An iPhone would induce a total meltdown.

“Really?” I say. “Do you work here, too?”

“Nope. I’m trying to sell her. No luck,” Francie says, sighing and patting the truck, as though it—I mean she—was a dog.

“Why not?”

“She’s old.” Francie shrugs. “She’s fully equipped—she used to sell ice cream at Coney Island—but she doesn’t have all the modern bells and whistles they want. And her engine ain’t great.”

“Poor Toto,” I say sympathetically, giving the truck a pat. Her paint feels sort of warm and grainy, rather than the high-shine gloss of all the other food trucks. And I like her shape, too. I know nothing about food trucks, or any kind of motor vehicle for that matter, but Toto’s kind of … cuddly.

“How much is she?” I ask.

“She’s nine thousand dollars, give or take a hundred. My problem is I don’t want to sell her to someone who won’t love her.”

I could love that truck, I think suddenly. Can’t you picture me driving her? Selling food out of the back? I could do that; I know I could … if only I could cook.

Damn.

“Okay, gotta go, honey. I’ve got a date at Battersby at five.”

She opens the truck door, jumps nimbly in, and drives away with a salute.

Deep in thought, I turn around and almost knock over Jonah and Bianca, that bitchy punk-headed waitress from Bartolo’s.

“Look who I ran into!” says Jonah happily, his face full of ice cream. He leans over conspiratorially. “Bianca’s hungover.”

“I was celebrating never having to visit that freaking pawnshop on Pitkin again,” says Bianca. She’s talking exclusively to Jonah. Classic mean-girl stuff. “Cosmo gave me my money and my truck is on the way!”

“He’s a loan shark. It’s his money,” says Jonah.

“Whatever! It’s mine now!” Bianca goes into peals of seriously annoying laughter.

“What a surprise, running into you,” I say in my sweetest voice. I bet she knew Jonah would be here.

Ignoring me, Bianca leans over and sticks her tongue right into Jonah’s ice cream. It’s a gesture of ownership so transparent I fight the urge to salute her. Whatever, sister. He’s all yours.

“I really dig the whole food truck
concept,
you know?” says Bianca as we walk back toward A Meal Grows in Brooklyn. She’s on Jonah’s other side, talking just low enough that it’s hard for me to hear her. “I love how we’re teaching the huddled masses the intrinsic value of food that truly nourishes, body and soul.… It feels so right that I’m finally starting my own artisan caketruckery.”

Huddled masses? Artisan caketruckery?

“Dude, you’re gonna rock!” says Jonah.

“Seriously, J. Maybe food trucks are the beginning of something bigger, and the drones in Manhattan will stop poisoning Mother Earth now, and realize that we’re here to make the world a better place for our children’s children.”

I snort with laughter. Is this chick for real? I go to exchange a glance with Jonah—sorry, “J”—but I see he’s nodding. “I see your point. It’s all about education, about educating people that what they eat really makes a difference.”

“That’s what food trucks are all about!” shouts Bianca. “We need to harness the Zeitgeist, influence pop culture, establish grass roots that can grow into trees!”

“I thought food trucks simply made life easier for people who can’t afford the time or money to sit in a damn restaurant every lunch break,” I mutter, half to myself. “And since when does grass grow into trees?”

There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, what?” says Bianca.

I clear my throat. “My friends who work in Manhattan always say they don’t get time for lunch. A food truck should make their lives easier, right? It’s fast, cheap, good food.”

“Well, that’s true, too,” says Jonah.

“I bet you have a lot of friends in
Manhattan,
” Bianca says snarkily.

“Oh, I do.” I flash a fake smile. Wow. She is such a skank-face.

We reach A Meal Grows in Brooklyn, and Phil leans his head out of the truck. “We need your help! We’ve almost run out of our lunch food already!” he calls, and starts laughing, slightly hysterically. “It’s not even noon!”

Lara hurries toward us. “Jonah, can you please drive me back to the bakery to get more supplies? We didn’t plan this very well.”

“Okay, and I’ll call Ray,” says Jonah, frowning in that Boy-Scout-I-can-fix-it way that nice guys always do. Eddie had a frown like that. “He’ll be sure to have something we can use. Buffalo mozzarella, maybe, or some of that awesome local sausage—” He pulls out his phone.