Chapter 10 Naomi [The Past] #2
"Your brother said he’s good on drums."
"Skinny J?" I looked around the cafeteria, pointing at the guy with spiky hair. "That’s him."
Ty glanced over to where I gestured and nodded. "Cool. Thanks."
"So, you’re serious about that band, then?"
"Dead serio—"
The rattle of a tray and plates interrupted our conversation. We both turned toward the sound.
"Who’s the douche?" Ty jerked his chin in the direction of the local rich boy, who was currently standing with his entourage in front of the table where Decker Harrington was most likely eating just a second ago. He was now kneeling in front of the food that had been tossed to the floor.
"That’s Lachlan Pratt," I explained, rolling my eyes. "Local entitled rich asshole cliche."
"Every town has one, huh?" Ty commented quietly.
"Pick it up, worm," Lachlan sneered and kicked Decker’s knee with his sneaker.
I didn’t know much about Decker. We went to the same middle school, but we were never friendly. I’d seen him around with bruises on his arms or neck sometimes.
Once, I'd heard my parents talking about his. They'd said Decker's Mom and Dad fought constantly and that Decker always got the short end of the stick. He seemed malnourished and miserable, and he didn’t deserve to be bullied by guys like Lachlan.
"Pick it up and eat it, worm," Lachlan repeated, and the kids around them just laughed.
"What a bunch of losers," I muttered, getting up from my chair. This constant ego parade was just too much—certain people thinking they had more rights than everyone else.
I strode over to where Decker was hunkering down and locked eyes with Lachlan. "Scram, Pratt."
"Excuse me? What did you just say?" His face scrunched up like he’d bit into a sour lemon.
"I’m not sure if you’re aware—or maybe you’re just clueless—but having money or white skin doesn’t give you the right to treat people like dirt."
"Don’t poke your pretty nose where it doesn’t belong."
"I think it’s you who doesn’t belong." I rarely showed my rage in public. I wasn’t sure if it was buried under generations of submission or if I simply didn’t like conflict.
But right there and then, all that hatred I had in me came out.
Diluted blood or not. It felt warranted.
"If you steal our land, the least you can do it respect it, you piece of shit.
This is not the eighteen hundreds. You're not better than any other student here and you don't own anyone. "
"Ouch," someone whispered from somewhere in the crowd.
"Burn, Pratt," another voice murmured.
"No one cares about that bullshit anymore," Lachlan gritted out. "It’s ancient history."
"Ancient history for you, sure. Not for me, asshole."
If my mother had heard me then, she would’ve grounded me for a week. There would’ve been lectures on language too. But my mother wasn’t in that cafeteria. Ty was. He was by my side all of a sudden, helping Decker up.
"Who the hell are you to talk to me like this?" Lachlan moved toward me, the distance between us becoming uncomfortable. Plus, he was much taller, and it was intimidating.
"If you take one more step, I’ll turn you into dirt," Ty said, placing himself right in front of Lachlan.
"Get out of my way, fresh meat."
"We’ll see who the fresh meat is next time I see you outside," Ty supplied.
Just then, a teacher appeared, and everyone dispersed silently.
The bell had just rung, signaling the start of the last period of the day. Students were slowly filing into the classroom, chatting animatedly with their friends as they found their seats.
Britney and I made our way to our usual desks near the front. I was unpacking my books when I heard Shauna from behind me.
"Okay, spill!" she demanded, leaning forward in her chair. "I saw you with the new guy at lunch. What's the deal?"
Brittney nodded eagerly. "He's so cute! You have to introduce us."
I felt a flush creep up my cheeks. "W-well, his family just moved in next door."
"Seriously?" Shauna’s eyes sparkled.
Brittney arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Come on, give us the details! What's his name? Where's he from? Does he have a girlfriend?"
Shauna giggled, unable to contain her excitement. "He looked so good in those jeans. Do you think he'd go out with one of us?"
I held up my hands, laughing nervously. "Whoa, slow down, you guys! I don't know that much about him. He just moved here from Lone Palm. His dad has a construction company. That's all I've learned so far."
Brittney pouted dramatically. "Well, you better find out more. We need the inside scoop!"
Shauna nodded in agreement. "Definitely. I call dibs, though."
The two of them immediately dissolved into a fit of giggles, drawing a few curious glances from the other students near us. I just shook my head and spun back around, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"Wait." Brittney leaned in. "Why are you so quiet, Naomi? Or did you already call dibs?"
I turned my head and stuck my tongue out at her. "None of your business."
Saturdays were the unofficial family business days—school year or not—in the Medina household.
During the summer, both Adri and I helped at The Gobbler.
But during football season, my brother would always find an excuse not to show up.
Football practice, blah, blah, blah. So I ended up being the one helping customers and scrubbing the truck each evening.
I knew he wasn’t really practicing half the time. That talentless goon of a brother was less than a year away from his eighteenth birthday and had no idea what he wanted to do with his life.
In some ways, football was probably a roundabout method of postponing the inevitable—the actual adulthood.
And maybe, just maybe, I felt a little sorry for my older brother as I was handling onions that September morning when Ty strutted into view outside The Gobbler. All brooding swag and that bad-boy attitude.
The food truck was parked where it always was during the busiest weekends—in its designated spot in the town center.
It was a hot metal box bursting with smells and noise and more life than anything else in the area.
We’d been open for a couple of hours now, and my arms hurt from all the prep I’d had to do because the girl who worked for us had come down with something and called in sick.
We were short-staffed, with Mom currently in the corner, wrestling with tortillas and yelling at Adri over the phone to get his ass to the town center.
Dad worked the grill, and his laughter was loud and infectious. Even when we were slammed, he always smiled and talked to the customers like they were his friends.
Giving me a wink, he flipped a quesadilla, let it sit there for a second until it was crispy enough, then slipped it onto a paper plate. I was already speed garnishing it with some radishes and limes and our signature red slaw.
"You’ve got the magic touch today, mija," he said, watching me create flowers from cilantro and veggies.
Food spoke to me in a similar way that it spoke to my parents. Customers, especially kids, liked when their plates looked pretty, be it a smiley face or a bird or an animal.
"Number thirty-six," I shouted, setting the plate on the counter and scanning the growing crowd outside the truck. My eyes landed on Ty. He was halfway down the line, alone, watching me push the food out as fast as I could.
I felt self-conscious all of a sudden in my bright yellow work tee with The Gobbler written in red across my chest. I had my hair in a messy bun, and there was a coat of sweat on my neck.
What if I look ugly like this? The thought went through my head.
The world outside the truck was loud and bright, a mess of colors and voices. People gathered around us, eating and talking and spilling into the sunlit street.
But I couldn’t see it today. I could only see Tyler Brady inching closer to the window, where my mom was back to taking orders after her yelling match with Adri, who allegedly had football practice again.
"Tyler," Mom said excitedly. "Nice to see you here."
"I’m a big fan," he said with a grin.
"Son, how are you?" Dad threw over his shoulder, waving a spatula in the narrow space.
"Hey," I tossed at him casually, trying to keep my eyes on the plate in front of me. I was working on making a pine tree, but it looked crooked. This was the first time I experienced the Tyler Brady effect. My brain said one thing, but my body did the exact opposite.
"What would you like to order, honey?" Mom asked.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him checking how much cash he had. It was a five-dollar bill and a few coins. He ordered a two-taco plate and a small soda.
"Are you coming over to see Adri later?" Mom continued her interrogation as she punched the buttons on the register and gave Ty his change.
"Maybe. He said he’d let me know after his football practice."
"That boy…" Dad shook his head. "No knack for sports. I’ll be happy if he gets into a community college."
"Can I take a break?" I asked as soon as Ty stepped aside to wait for his food.
My parents exchanged glances but agreed. Since I was technically just a minor volunteer, they couldn’t keep me inside the truck all day.
"I’ll grab something to eat," I announced, taking three churros and a chicken enchilada plate that was made by mistake just a minute ago.
I exited the truck through the side door and put the food down on the stool behind the vehicle. Then I darted over to the front, where Ty lingered by the window.
"Meet me in the back," I whispered as I yanked at his sleeve.
"Okay." He nodded.
I returned to my little break spot behind the truck. Two minutes later, Ty showed up with his own plate. He sat down on a stone block, and I handed him a churro.
"Best ones in all of SoCal," I said with a straight face.
"Bold statement." He accepted the churro and took a bite off it.
My heart fluttered in my chest. I worked very hard on that batch today. I added a little vanilla extract just to see if it tasted any different.
"Mmmm." Ty licked the sugar off his lips. "I think you’re right. They are pretty good."
I felt warm and happy on the inside. Then I just sat there, watching him messily devour his food as we talked about random stuff like the size of the crowd here today, that horrible algebra homework, and a new System of a Down song.
Halfway through the meal, he leaned in a little closer. "You guys need an extra set of hands?"
"You volunteering?" I asked with a challenge in my voice.
He pretended to think it over. "Depends," he said, "on what the pay is."
"Volunteering doesn’t pay."
"Wait, so you’re telling me all these things you do are for free?"
I rolled my eyes. "Obviously. It wouldn’t be called volunteering otherwise. Besides, we can’t legally work yet. Not until next year, anyway."
He smiled, and I felt a rush of something bright and new. Something that had started the moment I saw him in our living room and was getting bigger every day.
It had no name yet, but I knew it would bring me trouble.
No. Trouble with blue eyes and messy hair was on my doorstep already.