Free Brooklyn Girls by Gemma Burgess Page B

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