Stef Soto, Taco Queen Read online

16

  Eventually, the streetlights blink on, and a line begins to snake around the arena.

  The line around Tía Perla is almost as long. There’s no way Papi could have managed it without me.

  “Four chicken tacos!”

  “Two quesadillas!”

  “One steak burrito, hold the beans!”

  I’m calling back orders and counting out change with hardly a break between customers. The dinner rush is such a whirl that I almost miss Amanda and Arthur jumping up and down, waving their arms from the middle of the line. I’m surprised at how glad I am to see them—and surprised to see Arthur at all.

  I poke my head out the window and mouth, Come over! We talk between orders.

  “I thought you couldn’t stand Viviana Vega,” I tease Arthur. “‘Pop trash,’ wasn’t it?”

  He sinks his hands in his pockets and looks away. “Well, Ms. Barlow said if I wrote a music review for extra credit she wouldn’t give me a detention for wearing my headphones in class again. Plus, free ticket.”

  Amanda pokes him in the shoulder. “Whatever. We all know you’re Viviana’s biggest fan.”

  “And you’re on a first-name basis?” Arthur pokes back.

  Just then, a black limousine pulls up in front of the arena. Amanda points. “Think it’s her?” she asks breathlessly.

  “No way,” I answer. “She wouldn’t just walk in through the front door.” Would she?

  We watch as the driver gets out, walks around to the back of the limo, and opens the passenger door. Out steps Julia Sandoval, wearing a shimmering gold tank top and enormous sunglasses perched on her head.

  “In case she has to hide from the paparazzi?” Amanda jokes.

  “Obviously.”

  We watch to see whom she’s with—which lucky seventh grader gets to spend the evening with Julia Sandoval and her backstage passes? I’m guessing Maddie, but the next person out of the limo is Julia’s little brother. And then her mom.

  Julia looks in Tía Perla’s direction, but I can’t tell if she sees us. She pulls her sunglasses over her eyes and walks toward the entrance with her family.

  Papi comes over to the window with dinner bags for Amanda and Arthur. “You two be careful in there,” he tells them. “Call us if you need anything. Estefania, you make sure they have your phone number.”

  “Papi,” I whine.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Amanda says. “My sister’s gonna wait for us, and Arthur has his mom’s cell phone in case we need it.”

  See? I want to say. Instead, I bite my tongue and wave good-bye to my friends. Amanda promises to buy me a program, and they hurry off to join the line. I turn around again and notice that Papi has been watching me. He looks like he has something to say, but before he does, a face pops into the window.

  “How fast can you get me a couple of tacos? I don’t want to be late for the show.”

  Papi wipes his hands on the apron tied around his waist and heads back to the grill. “Two tacos,” I say. “Coming right up.”

  chapter

  17

  I open my eyes the next morning, still so tired you would have thought I had actually gone to the concert. Sunlight pours through the gaps in my mini-blinds, casting shadow stripes on my quilt. It’s late, I can tell. Stretching under the covers, I’m surprised my parents haven’t shaken me out of bed for Sunday breakfast at Suzy’s. Finally, I yawn, twist my hair into a knot, and stumble into the kitchen, where I expect to find Mami and Papi drinking their coffee.

  Instead, the kitchen is bright and empty. Two coffee mugs are drying on a dish towel beside the sink, and the only sounds I hear are the ticking of the clock and the hum of our neighbor’s lawn mower. Weird. Maybe Mami and Papi are already working in the garden? Then I spot a note taped to the refrigerator door: DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE YOU, it says in Mami’s neat cursive. GONE TO SUZY’S. CALL IF YOU NEED ANYTHING. I can’t believe it and even peek through the blinds to see if my parents are actually hiding in the backyard or something. But it’s true. I’m home alone.

  No way.

  Then again, considering that Suzy’s is just down the block, they might as well be in the backyard. And it’s only breakfast, after all. They won’t be gone for more than an hour or so. But still, my parents have really left me home alone. I feel like I can do anything. And then I can’t think of anything to do.

  I warm a mug of hot chocolate in the microwave and take it to the living room with the newspaper. My parents have locked the doors and even closed all the curtains. It’s dark and quiet, and really kind of strange without them. After skimming through the comics and gulping down my hot chocolate, I reach for the cordless phone, resting on the coffee table, and pull it from its cradle. Mami left a note there, too: IN CASE ANYONE CALLS, DO NOT TELL THEM YOU’RE HOME ALONE.

  “I know, Mami,” I say to no one but the ticking clock. Rolling my eyes, I dial Amanda’s house. Now that it’s finally over, I really want to hear about the concert.

  Amanda’s mom answers.

  “Oh, hi, sweetheart,” she says. “Amanda told me she saw you last night. I was so sorry you two couldn’t go together. But she and Arthur had a good time. They got home pretty late, though, and she’s still in bed. Is it urgent, or can I have her call you later?”

  I tell Mrs. Garcia that it’s not urgent—I’ll just see Amanda at school tomorrow. She hangs up, and I wonder what to do next. It’s no use calling Arthur—he has Korean school every Sunday after church and won’t be home for hours.

  I rinse out my mug and go back to my room, guessing I’ll just take a shower and then get a head start on my reading for the week. The front door opens as I’m brushing my teeth.

  “Estefania?” Mami calls before the door has even closed behind her and Papi.

  “In the bathroom!” I shout back, my mouth full of minty foam. “Just a sec!”

  I find them waiting for me in the kitchen.

  “Everything okay?” Mami asks.

  “Of course,” I answer breezily, like it’s no big deal that they left me home alone for the first time in my entire life. “What could go wrong?”

  Papi and Mami look at each other. This time, both of them roll their eyes at me. Then Papi holds up a take-out box from Suzy’s. “We missed you at breakfast. You haven’t eaten, have you?”

  I haven’t. And to tell the truth, I was starting to regret missing out on Suzy’s amazing chorizo and eggs.

  “Your favorite,” Papi says, setting the box on the kitchen table. Mami brings me a plate and a napkin while Papi goes to their bedroom to work on shopping lists for the week ahead. Mami sits down next to me as I shovel chorizo into my mouth.

  “How did you get him to agree to that?”

  “Agree?” Mami answers. “It was his idea. I was worried sick. I wanted to call you from the restaurant.”

  “Maaaaami, seriously,” I whine. “You were, like, a block away. I was fine.”

  “I know.” She sighs, squeezing my shoulders. “Now finish your breakfast, and then how about you press your school blouses like you did last week? And Papi’s pantalones, too, now that we know you can use an iron.”

  If it means my parents are going to start treating me like a thirteen-year-old, I’ll iron every shirt in the house, not to mention the pants. Socks and underwear, too.

  chapter

  18

  Mami is called in to cover another assistant manager shift on Monday morning, so Papi offers to drop me off at school. Since it’s not our usual routine, and because we have to pick up Tía Perla on the way, I barely make it to school on time. Even though it’s late, I had hoped to find Amanda and Arthur outside class, ready to spill all the concert details. But when I get to the door, I hear their voices already inside. I guess they couldn’t wait to tell everyone else about Viviana Vega. I’m a little jealous I didn’t get to hear first, but I guess I understand.

  Stepping into the classroom, I see a swarm around Arthur’s desk. Right next to him at the center of it is Amanda, her hands fl
uttering in front of her face. I try to piece together what she’s saying and what she’s so excited about.

  “… I mean, we were there right after. We must have just missed her. I’m so mad.”

  Arthur sees me. “There she is!” Everyone turns around and stares. Everyone but Julia, whose eyes are fixed on the cell phone in her lap.

  “What?” I look down at my shirt to see if maybe I spilled something in the rush out the door this morning. Looks clean. I pat the top of my head. Nothing sticking up. “Seriously. What?” I look to Arthur and then Amanda.

  “What was it like?” Maddie demands all of a sudden. “Did you touch her?”

  “Touch who?”

  “Was she nice? Did you get an autograph?” Matthew asks. “Please tell me you got an autograph.”

  I look from face to eager face and can’t figure out what any of them are talking about. Are they teasing me? Because my parents didn’t let me go to the concert? But that can’t be it. Arthur and Amanda are my friends.

  I turn to Amanda again, my eyes begging her for a clue.

  She stares back at me and blinks slowly. “You seriously don’t know? Arthur, show her.”

  Arthur snatches a piece of newspaper from Maya, then holds it up for me to see. There, in black ink, is a picture of a taco truck that looks suspiciously like Tía Perla.

  What now? I take the newspaper from Arthur, and everyone watches me read.

  It is Tía Perla—and someone’s outstretched arm passing a bag to a customer whose face you can barely make out under a dark hooded sweatshirt.

  “I don’t get it—wait.”

  I take a closer look at the picture and finally notice my outstretched arm. I remember the customer: wheat-free, dairy-free, egg-free, nut-free, and meat-free. I served her the night of the concert. It still doesn’t make sense, though. Who would have taken this picture? Why would anyone have taken this picture? And how would it have ended up in the newspaper?

  “But what… even… is this?”

  Amanda, impatient now, takes my wrist and shakes it. “Come on, Stef. Look! Read!”

  Okay, okay.

  I look at the caption: POP STAR VIVIANA VEGA TAKES A BREAK FROM REHEARSALS TO SAMPLE THE LOCAL FARE BEFORE HER SOLD-OUT ARENA CONCERT SATURDAY NIGHT.

  No. Way. I turn the newspaper clipping over, suddenly suspicious. “Is this even real?” Mami and I read the paper every day. We wouldn’t have missed this. And then I remember, we didn’t have time to look at the newspaper this morning.

  Amanda starts laughing. “You didn’t get to go to the concert, but you were the only one who got your picture taken with her. Crazy, right?”

  Julia finally looks up from her phone. “It’s a miracle she didn’t have to cancel the concert because of food poisoning.” But I don’t even care. I can’t take my eyes off that picture.

  “So did you get her autograph, or what?”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “What did she eat?”

  “Is she as tall as she looks?”

  “Was anybody with her?”

  I can’t keep up. “No, I… I just, I didn’t…”

  “Oh my god.” Julia smirks, her eyes flashing as she suddenly realizes something. “You didn’t even know it was her. Viviana Vega came to eat at your crazy old taco truck, and you didn’t even know it was her.”

  “Whatever. Of course I knew,” I lie lamely. “I’m just, you know, surprised someone took a picture. Viviana wanted it to be a private dinner.” Did I really just say that?

  Finally, the bell rings, and Ms. Barlow gets up from her desk. “All right, that’s enough. Everyone settle down and take your seats. If we have any extra time at the end of the period, Stef can tell us all about her celebrity sighting. For now, please open your textbooks to page one hundred fifty-nine.”

  As I pull my language-arts book out of my backpack, I turn around and whisper to Arthur, “Can I keep the newspaper to show my dad?” He nods yes.

  By lunchtime, I’m not the girl whose dad drives a taco truck. I’m the girl who has met Viviana Vega. If you believe all the rumors, I’m the girl who has eaten dinner with Viviana Vega, who is practically best friends with her. It feels a little weird at first, but I get used to it. Quickly.

  Our table is so crowded I have barely enough elbow room to open my milk carton.

  “I mean, she’s really down-to-earth for being such a major celebrity.” (After all, she did eat off a taco truck, right?) “Viviana is just, you know, pretty normal.”

  I look across the table at Amanda and Arthur, double-checking that they’re not about to gag. They still seem excited for me. Then for the first time all day, I notice the Viviana Vega button pinned to Arthur’s polo shirt.

  “I thought you couldn’t stand her.”

  “Never underestimate the power of live music.”

  “Anyway,” I say, looking around the table and nodding at Arthur. “He actually introduced us.”

  Arthur looks confused. I remind him of Papi’s Official Arthur Choi Menu. “Specialty of the house?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He grins.

  “If it wasn’t for you, we might not have had anything to feed her.”

  Arthur straightens up on the lunch bench. “That’s right,” he says. “Viviana Vega’s favorite dish is the Arthur Choi special.”

  chapter

  19

  After school, I find Tía Perla at the far end of the parking lot, her front end peeking shyly out from under the shadow of a big ash tree. But since I’m still feeling so full of bubbles and butterflies to have (sort of) met Viviana Vega, it doesn’t even bother me to see her there. When Papi honks the horn and waves, I wave right back, holding up the newspaper clipping.

  “You have to see this!” I say, climbing into the truck. Papi takes the paper and studies the picture. Surprise crosses his face, and then confusion, as he recognizes Tía Perla but can’t quite figure out why he’s seeing her in the newspaper. I know the feeling and help him out.

  “It was her!” I say, nearly jumping out of my seat belt. “Viviana Vega. At our truck! Crazy, right?”

  “Ah, sí.” Papi smiles. “Specialty of the house.” He hands the paper back to me and starts the engine. “So you got to see her after all.”

  I shoot him a look that says too soon, but it dissolves quickly back into a smile. I tell him we should make a poster-size copy of the article and hang it up near the menu. This has to be good for business. Papi nods and says, “Mmm,” but I can tell he isn’t really paying attention. I’m a little frustrated that he doesn’t seem to understand what a big deal this is when I realize we aren’t heading for any of our usual dinnertime stops. I’d been talking so much and so fast I hadn’t noticed.

  “Wait, where are we going?” I ask. “Did you forget something at the commissary?”

  “We’re not taking Tía Perla out tonight,” Papi tells me. “There’s more important work to do.”

  If we’re giving up a whole night’s business, I think, this must be pretty important.

  A few minutes later, we pull into the commissary and the lot is fuller than I have ever seen it. There are more kinds of food trucks than I could have ever imagined seeing in one place: Wok ’n’ Roll, Lotsa Pasta, Dim Sum and Then Some, Heart and Soul Food. But mostly there are taco trucks, many of them with vivid murals on their sides that make Tía Perla look even older and plainer than usual.

  El Toro is a bright red truck with a giant black bull painted right in the middle, its head raised nobly as it gazes off into the distance.

  A garland of red, orange, and pink hibiscus flowers creeps all the way around Burritos La Jamaica.

  On the back of Mariscos el Nayarit is a swordfish leaping out of turquoise water, its knife-edged tusk pointing at a glowing sun.

  The trucks are just like canvases, I realize, suddenly seeing them in a new way.

  As Papi eases Tía Perla into a parking space, I unzip my backpack and start pulling out my math book, figuring I’ll start my home
work while he takes care of whatever important business he has inside. Instead, he tells me I better come along. He’s not sure how long this will take.

  I follow Papi to the warehouse where we store dry goods like beans and flour, and supplies like forks and napkins. Dozens of drivers are in there already, only none seem to be doing any work. They’re sitting on upturned buckets and standing in groups of three or four. All of them look very serious, with hands shoved into pockets or balled into fists.

  Papi stands near the back, folds his arms against his chest, and leans on a shelf. I find a bucket and drag it over to sit down next to him. Finally, Vera, from Burritos Paradiso, walks to the front of the room.

  “Can everyone hear me?” she asks. I can tell she’s nearly shouting, but from back here, her voice sounds small and flimsy. Someone calls out, “Louder!”

  “I’ll try to speak up.” She nods. “Can you hear me? Can we come to order?”

  Someone clangs a spoon against a big glass jar of pickles. Ping, ping, ping. The low rumble of voices peters out. “Thank you,” Vera tells the man with the spoon. Then she turns again to face the group. “As you know, we’re gathered here tonight to come up with a plan to fight these new regulations. I admit, Myrna and I didn’t believe anything would ever come of it, but here we are. We have to take a stand.”

  There are murmurs of agreement, and the rumble threatens to build into a roar again. Vera holds up an arm like she’s directing traffic. The rumble dies down, but my ears perk up. Regulations? Again? Papi had told the drivers everything would be all right. I believed him, and I haven’t really worried much about it until now. I look up at Papi as he listens. He hardly blinks.

  I pull on his sleeve. “You want me to translate?” I whisper.

  He shakes his head and pats mine. “No, m’ija.”

  The city council, Vera explains, has scheduled a public hearing to discuss rules that will govern all mobile food vendors. “That’s us,” she says. “We need to come prepared to make a strong case for ourselves.”