7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Jackie
A s soon as we round the corner into the festival gates, I start getting nervous. I’ve researched the ins and outs and regulations and protocols for this process, but I’ve never actually done it. Or anything close to it.
I’m kind of glad Silas fell asleep shortly after the showdown at Walmart, because I’m not sure I could handle his attitude on top of the nerves I’m feeling right now.
When it’s finally my turn in the queue, I proudly hand my organized folder of documents to the young woman at the check-in booth. She looks barely older than me. She skims each sheet: seller’s permit, certification and inspection forms, each clearly labeled with narrow pastel sticky-notes. She ticks my name off a list and, to be honest, the entire process is a little anti-climatic. I’m not sure what I expected, though.
The woman glances over at Silas, still passed out beside me: wavy hair and cheeks slightly flushed, his dark lashes seemingly longer in slumber. Her gaze lingers for a moment and it kind of annoys me that he manages to look good even when he’s sleeping off a hangover. Shouldn’t he be pastey and covered in a sheen of sweat or something?
The attendant returns her focus to me. She hands me a site map and draws a large red “X” to show me where the assigned spot is for Trudy. And just like that, my venture becomes a legit honest-to-goodness reality.
It’s a short drive to the main festival grounds, which is like a scene from one of those “Where’s Waldo” books. Vehicles everywhere, attendants and festival organizers setting up barriers and portable washrooms and merchandise booths. Sweaty guys rigging electrical wires for string lights and hookups and God knows what else. Another rag-tag crew is banging and calling out to each other up on the stage, and close by, more guys are lugging amps and speakers and instrument cases out of trucks.
And the smells are just as overwhelming: cooking oil, beer, sunscreen… something sickly sweet. Chocolate? Corn syrup, maybe? And some kind of musky incense which is really strong and very un-summery, but not strong enough to conceal the odor of weed, which seems to grow progressively stronger the closer I get to my “red X” parking spot.
Basically, everything’s one big blur of chaos. And I don’t do chaos. I like organized and calm and planned and predictable.
I inhale a slow, deep breath. This is what I signed up for. I can do this. I can handle a little mayhem. And pretty soon, surely, this will all become routine to me, right? Or familiar, at least.
Silas still doesn’t stir, even when I park Trudy and kill the engine. I don’t bother waking him since I figure all the while he’s sleeping, he can’t cause any trouble.
So for now: festival prep time. But before unlocking the main door to the camper, I take a few moments to glance around at the other food trucks. Everyone else seems to know exactly what they’re doing, and I can’t help noticing that their menus are long and the selections way more varied than mine. Even their vehicles are elaborate and adorned with colorful awnings or flashy flags or mini Chinese lanterns strung above the window. The Mexican food truck even has smiling chili-pepper lights strung along the entire front of the truck.
I pull my focus back to the task at hand, hoping it will keep my mind from fogging with self-doubt. I’ve already pre-baked all the cookies I should need for tonight, so for this first gig at least, my only focus is on display, accessibility setup, and organization. I have a check-list and I go through it methodically. And thankfully, the next couple of hours fly by as I become absorbed in hooking up the electrical, water, and prepping the truck for business.
About half an hour before the main gates open to the public, I hear the passenger door slam closed and a few seconds later, Silas appears on the first step in the opening of the main doorway. The light outside has changed to a warm evening-glow, and it smoothes the sharp edges I’ve come to associate with Teenage Silas. Behind him, someone up on stage is playing the same guitar riff over and over, adding a little more reverb each time.
I look up from the iPad in front of the order window, where I’m testing the payment app for the fourth time. Just to be sure.
“Good sleep?”
“Yeah.” He stretches an arm out to brace against the door casing, and his T-shirt lifts, exposing those horrible bruises again. But also, abs that were definitely not this defined when he was a lanky kid.
His silver eyes take in the shelved racks of cookies, organized by variety along the back corner wall. Then he peers lazily over his shoulder at the festival grounds.
When he looks back at me, his eyes are narrowed in confusion.
“There aren’t a whole lot of people. Isn’t this supposed to be a concert or something?”
“A festival, yeah. It hasn’t started, though.”
“Oh.” He nods.
His cheeks are still flushed from sleep and the contrast against the rest of his pale skin makes him look like one of those guys from a cologne ad, which is a funny analogy, since I’m pretty sure Silas has never worn cologne in his life.
My mouth twitches into a nervous smile, and there’s an awkward silence. His eyes dip to the flattened grass just beyond the doorway where he’s standing, and for a second he looks kind of sad. A little lost, maybe. It isn’t a look I’ve seen on him yet and it makes me long even more to reach him; to make him a little less sad or defeated or whatever it is he’s feeling right now.
But all I think to say is: “You want something to eat?”
I can’t offer him a lot, but I can offer him food. I motion to the plug-in griddle, the one I found on eBay for fifteen dollars after five weeks of searching.
“Huh?” He looks up. “Oh. No, I’m good.”
“The gates don’t open for another twenty minutes. I was going to make some grilled cheese and heat up some soup before the masses arrive. ”
I want him to think this is no big deal for me—that I’m completely at ease with all of this. I want him to notice that I’m so on top of things that throwing a couple grilled cheeses on the griddle and making soup just minutes before opening does not rattle me in the least.
He’s distracted, though. Obviously, he’s got more on his mind than grilled cheese sandwiches and cookie sales. He glances over his shoulder again. “I’ll just grab something later from one of the burger trucks or something.”
But I know he only has thirty-two dollars to his name, which won’t go far over the next ten weeks. Richard told me he wants to cover the extra food expenses and stuff for Silas, but no way do I want to tell Silas that right now. That will only make him more annoyed.
I try a different approach.
“I’m making it, anyway.” I shrug. “I honestly don’t mind. I’ve got enough cheese to—”
“I said I’m good.” He turns to face me and his gaze is arrow straight now—not even a trace of softness anymore, even though the light outside is exactly the same as it was just a few minutes ago.
He’s already turning away as he finishes: “I’m gonna go look around. I’ll see you later.”
I take a couple of steps toward the open door. “Did you want a couple of cookies to take with you at least?”
“I’m fine.” He calls, walking toward the stage area where the last band is doing their final mic check.
His abrupt departure makes me feel even more deflated. I had no delusions of spontaneously rekindling our friendship or anything after how things went down this morning, but I also didn’t expect to feel like I’m one of the triggers that causes him to close himself off.
Also, a brief “good luck on your first night” would have been nice. Even from a stranger, if that’s what he insists on being.
But I can’t let Silas’ issues affect my opening night: I’ve invested too much to be this easily discouraged. I scroll through the dozens of playlists I created on my phone specifically to appease any post-opening jitters. I press ‘shuffle’ and my spirits already begin to lift as the first few notes of Haim’s “The Steps” fill the cosy space.
I’m ready: I’ve gone over everything two, three, four times, even. I’ve reviewed my check-lists. There are extra cookies stored in air-tight bins, just in case things go unexpectedly (miraculously) well, and rows of chocolate milk and lemonade stocked in the fridge. I’ve got every eventuality covered, because even though I may not have done this before, and Silas’s presence is throwing me off my game, I’ve done enough research and re-tweaked my business plan enough times to pull off at least a half-decent first night of sales. I’ve got this.
I think.
I hope.
People don’t trickle in slowly or in spurts. Instead, they seem to all appear suddenly and out of nowhere. Hundreds of them. Thousands actually, if the past few years’ attendance numbers are right. And they’re loud and giddy. And hungry.
I wasn’t expecting many people to head toward the concession trucks first. But a lot of them do—mostly toward the lobster roll and merch vendors. The rest of them swarm the beer tents.
It’s only ten minutes before I have my first customers: a family with three little kids. Parents with wind-swept hair and their freckle-faced, sunburned kids. And it goes well. The POS system works. I’m efficient at processing the payment and slipping ten cookies off the trays and into the small paper bag. The family goes happily on their way, oblivious to the fact that they were my first ever official customers, and I am ecstatic right now. And I AM AWESOME!!!
I’m high on the early whisper of success, and the feeling continues through my next three batches of customers. I don’t even care that some of the other trucks have lineups because this pace is perfect for me: enough to feel busy and like there’s hope for me to actually make a go of this, but not so chaotic that I get overwhelmed right off the bat.
My excitement kicks up another notch when I notice the mother of my first group approaching the truck again. I wasn’t expecting repeat customers this quickly, and even as I serve the three customers ahead of her (and take note that there are two customers behind her now, too), my mind begins to conjure up the possibility that maybe I’ll sell out of baked goods before the festival is even over. Maybe I’ll grow this into an actual business, with franchises and custom T-shirts with an awesome logo that I’ll design myself in Photoshop. Maybe I’m onto something BIG.
And then:
“I think there’s something wrong with these.” The mother holds her previously purchased bag of cookies across the counter. “We just tried a couple of bites and something’s definitely off.”
“Oh, uh…”
I’m totally blindsided. This is Meryl Pemrose’s fool-proof chocolate chip cookie recipe. My adoptive mother is a seven-star Michelin chef. She owns three restaurants. She had a tv show for a while, and has a zillion books out. These cookies are a sure-hit with literally everyone .
I try again.“Are you sure? Is it possible that maybe your son isn’t a fan of chocolate chip cookies? I mean, has he had them before?”
Now she looks annoyed. “He’s a seven-year-old boy. Of course he loves chocolate chip cookies. But these aren’t cookies. They’re… well, I don’t know what they are, but they’re horrible. I had a bite and so did my husband.”
I see the handful of people in line behind her start to shift and lean closer to peer at the bag in her outstretched hand.
“Oh. Okay… I’m so sorry about that.” I take the bag from her and I must look like a deer caught in headlights, because I know there’s a right way to handle this, but it’s totally escaping me right now. “I mean… I don’t— I’m really sorry that you didn’t like them.”
This is not enough, though. I need to say something more. To do something to fix this. Fast.
“Would you uh… Would you like to try a different flavor? I have ginger molasses or oatmeal or—”
“No. That’s ok.” She cuts me off. And then the distress must be visible on my face because she softens her tone and adds, “It’s fine. I just wanted to let you know. But you should definitely check that batch. Someone could get sick if those cookies have gone off.”
“Definitely. Of course.” I nod and force a smile. “Thank you for letting me know.”
And then she leaves, followed by the dozen or so people who were in line behind her.
I lean forward and peer out the order window one more time, but there’s no one left. I slide the panel shut, draw the curtain and flip the sign to “CLOSED”, then stand there for a moment to re-gain my composure. I allow myself five minutes, and then I spur into action.
I take a bite out of a couple of the cookies. The woman was right: there is something wrong with them. It’s salt. They taste insanely salty.
The image of Meryl’s kitchen flashes in my head: the row of matching jars lined along the back of the counter: sugar, flour, salt and tea bags, all in plain glass jars on the counter. I used the wrong jar. I used salt instead of sugar: the classic rookie baking blunder. The kind of mistake Meryl used to warn me about those first few times I baked with her when I was a kid, which just makes it doubly humiliating.
And it turns out that it’s not just the chocolate chip cookies—it’s all of them. Every single cookie variety I pre-baked at home. Which I didn’t even taste-test. Not even one of them. I was so assured by the fact that I was using Meryl’s recipe, that it never occurred to me my own blunder might ruin them. I had all the business and technical bases covered and then messed it all up with the lamest mistake in the books.
I almost drop the cookie in my hand when someone taps loudly against the closed window. There’s a pause and then they tap again. I slide it open to find a girl just a little older than me peering in at me, her boyfriend standing a few steps behind.
“What the fuck are in these cookies?” The girl drops the bag on the counter. “You totally ripped us off. ”
She’s drunk. And angry.
I want so badly to pull the window closed again and not have to deal with her. Or any of this. I’m starting to think this whole food truck thing was a terrible idea.
I let out a slow breath, tucking my hair behind my ears, and I force a smile. I apologize to her. About seven times. And explain my humiliating mishap.
She doesn’t care why the cookies were ‘the worst thing she’s ever eaten in her life’: she just wants a refund. And she wants to be compensated. She wants five free chocolate milks.
The whole confrontation is mortifying. Actually, no: it’s demeaning. The way she’s talking to me makes me feel about two feet tall. But I humor her and as much as I hate myself for folding so easily, I agree immediately to her request. If it will make her go away, I’ll give her whatever she wants.
Only it gets worse, because I’ve never processed a refund before and it takes me about ten minutes to figure it out. Which means ten long minutes of Drunk Girl laying into me about how I could have made her sick, and what if she was allergic to salt and had to be rushed to the hospital. And I better hope that no one else ate them who is allergic to salt and maybe I shouldn’t be selling cookies if I can’t even tell the difference between sugar and salt.
I can’t argue with that one. I do want to argue the whole salt allergy accusation though, because I’m pretty sure there is no such thing as a salt allergy. But this is probably not the time to debate. This girl is seriously intimidating. Even her boyfriend looks intimidated by her. He’s been standing behind her the whole time, looking like he wants to melt into the ground. A feeling which I can totally relate to.
I finally figure out how to put the six dollars back onto her bank card and send her off with eight individual cartons of chocolate milk. She leaves looking smug— like she just pulled one over on me. Maybe she did, but I still have this horrible, guilty feeling like I’m the one who pulled one over on all of those other customers who bought cookies before her.
I close the window again as soon as she’s out of sight and pray no one else will come knocking for returns .
Thankfully, they don’t.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, scanning my surroundings. I’m not sure what it is I’m hoping to see. Something to make me feel better, I guess. I rub my hands a few times up and down my thighs. I hadn’t realized how sweaty they were.
I take a shaky breath. I wish Xavier was here: we would be laughing about the whole incident by now. Even as flustered as I am, I can see that there is a glimmer of humor in this situation, if only I wasn’t so alone dealing with it.
But instead, I just feel… let down. Drained.
I know it’s just my first day, and this isn’t the end of the world. I can grasp at least a little perspective. And yet I can’t fully shake off the humiliation that sits like a heavy lump in the pit of my stomach.
The situation calls for some serious pick-me-up tunes. So I blast Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off” as I slide out every tray from the shelf rack and dump the cookies into a large garbage bag, which I then twist into a double-knot. I shove the lumpy bag to the end of the galley, where it sits in front of the door, ready to be tossed in the morning. Good riddance to the first night from hell.
After that, I settle into the bench at the table and finish setting up my CreateHire account. It’s a site people can use to hire freelancers for pretty much anything, and I’m hoping to sell some of the book covers I’ve started designing using Photoshop. I took an online course for fun and became sort of obsessed. And I figure I have nothing to lose by putting some covers up for sale.
The next time I peer at my phone, it’s already nine-thirty. Silas needs to be back by ten for his check-in call to Richard. He needs to actually be in the camper . That was one of Richard’s stipulations: he has to do his check-in calls every night at ten, on Facetime, so that he can prove he is legitimately in the camper and not just calling from somewhere else and saying that he’s here.
Ten o’clock comes and goes. Then, at two minutes past ten, the door rattles open and Silas ambles in. The smell of hot dogs and beer wafts in as he closes the door quietly behind him.
“Hey,” I smile. “You’re back. ”
He affords me a cursory glance as he leans against the counter ledge, his fingers already punching into his phone. Richard answers on the first ring. I can’t see Silas’ phone screen from here, so I don’t see Richard’s face, but I can hear him.
“Silas! Good man… right on time.”
Silas just nods, once. “Hey.”
“How was the rest of the day?”
“Good.”
“I spoke with your social worker and with your probation officer and everything’s all worked out.”
“Cool.” Silas says. “Thanks.” Only he doesn’t really sound like he thinks it’s cool or that he’s thankful.
“So you’re in the camper right now?”
Silas does a quick pan of the kitchen with his phone. The side across from the closed sales window, thankfully.
“That’s great. Thank you for checking in on time.”
Another nod from Silas.
“You and Jackie are getting along?”
I wait for his answer, as if it will reveal something about his feelings toward me. But of course, all he delivers is a one-word answer. One syllable above an actual grunt.
“Yeah.”
Richard is quiet for a second.
“Look, Silas… I’m sure you’ve got a lot going through your head right now, and probably a lot of emotions. And I understand that you don’t know me and you don’t want to talk. That’s completely understandable.”
He pauses, presumably waiting for some sort of response from Silas.
He doesn’t get one. But he continues, anyway: “I’m going to give you some space, if that’s what you need. And a bit of time… a couple of days to just collect yourself, alright?”
“Yup.”
“But you still need to do your check-in call every night. Same time. Ten every night, okay? ”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, then… Well, I won’t bother Jackie on her first big night, but make sure you tell her I said hello and that Meryl and I send our love.”
“Sure thing.”
He doesn’t even glance in my direction. They say their goodbyes and end the call. And before I have a chance to say anything else, Silas is out the door and I’m left sitting there, deflated. Alone again.
It didn’t occur to me that he would go back out after the check-in call. I don’t know why it didn’t; it’s perfectly in line with the way he’s acted the rest of the day. He can’t stand to be around me.
I know I should probably go check out the festival, too; at least watch the last band for a while. But I just can’t bring myself to leave the safety of Trudy’s cozy belly. What if I run into one of my irate customers? That would just be more embarrassment than I’m up for handling right now.
So I brush my teeth and get into my pajamas, then get under the covers. I can hear a steady drumbeat thudding through Trudy’s thin walls. The riffs from the guitar rise and fall along with the increasing enthusiasm of the crowd, and I recognize a couple of the songs.
I read in bed for a while, trying to take my brain off things until Silas gets back again. It hasn’t been the first night I’d hoped for, but that’s okay. This is what I wanted: to deal with this kind of stuff on my own and not crumble at the first sign of failure. And here I am; doing it.
I didn’t crumble.
Silas didn’t come back. It’s past one in the morning and there’s still no sign of him and I’m starting to worry. I’ve tried texting and calling, but he’s not answering. And based on the little insight I’ve gleaned over the past twenty-four hours, getting drunk and passing out are obviously pretty commonplace occurrences for him .
But what if he passed out in the back of someone else’s camper and they called the police? He’ll get thrown right back in juvie if he gets arrested again, because I’m pretty sure he’s more than used up any more free chances.
The later it gets, the more I worry. And at about two thirty, when the bands have long-stopped and the crowds have left, I climb out of bed. I’m not going to get any sleep until I find him, so I shove my feet into my converses, throw a jacket over my sleep tee and head out to find him.
There’s hardly anyone up; just a few vendors sitting in lawn chairs outside their vehicles, smoking weed and chatting quietly under the stars. I go up to a few of them and ask if they’ve seen someone who looks like Silas. But no luck.
Eventually, I run out of places to look. I don’t know where he could even be at this point. It’s not like any bars or restaurants or anything are still open. And he’s underage, anyway. So where would he even go?
And now I’m really worried.
I can’t help thinking that it could just as easily have been me out there—if Silas had been the one who lucked out and got adopted by a loving couple who looked out for him and paid for therapists, while I got the crap end of the stick. I might be the one out there trying to fill whatever hole it is Silas is so hell-bent on trying to drown in liquor and denial and anger. It could have been me determined to shut everybody out the way he is, because circumstances have made him mistrust every single person who claims they’re on his side. And this is why I’m not to going to give up on him.
It’s close to three-thirty by the time I finally stumble back into the camper, exhausted and stressed and wishing I didn’t feel so utterly clueless about how to handle this. I come close to calling Richard. I know I should call him. But that feels like I’m ratting Silas out. And anyway, I’m probably just being paranoid. He’s probably fine.
I barely get any sleep. Instead, I lie on my mattress, staring up at the scratches scarred across the ceiling, remembering all the times Silas stood up for me when other kids teased me about how shy I was back then, and the way his face would light up every time I showed up at his door, eager to explore and just happy that I was a willing partner on whatever adventure he had dreamed up that day .
It’s bad enough knowing that his adventures now are so much darker than any of those carefree pursuits from our childhood. But what breaks my heart even more is the fact that he is so intent now on pursuing them alone.