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JULIE

My glasses fog over as I lift the lid off the steaming shrimp crystal dumplings. They are perfectly cooked. The shrimp is nestled in a tight curl under the almost translucent dumpling skin. The pleats are exactly as Ahma taught me because they look like a machine made them.

With silver tongs, I pluck four little doughy bites and place them in a takeout container made of compostable bamboo.

Around me, my mom, Tyler, and Ahma are taking orders fast as the line at our food stand stretches even longer. Our chaos at the Saturday morning Pasadena Farmers Market is a ballet of movement. Since today is Lunar New Year’s Eve and everyone wants dumplings for good fortune, our line is nonstop.

I’m in charge of quality control. Ahma trained my eyes to narrow in on the smallest of details. As I uncover the sticky rice red bean bah tsang, I sniff the air. Slightly sweet. I gently poke the green bamboo leaf–wrapped goodies and feel the rice sink in from my touch. They’re ready. After placing four bah tsang next to the shrimp crystal dumplings, I pick up the green ticket order to double-check that I got all the items.

“Kalan. Your order is ready,” I shout.

Danielle, a brown-haired woman, comes forward. Her two sons, Sammy and Gabriel, are near meltdown tears.

I quickly grab two small mango coconut jelly cups and hand the Taiwanese version of Jell-O to the kids.

“Oh, thank you, Julie. You’re a lifesaver,” says Danielle, with a hopeful glance down.

I bend to Sammy and Gabriel’s level. “Chew these slowly, okay?” I help them unwrap the containers and pop up the jelly to eat, then I hand over the takeout container to Danielle, who gives me a grateful smile.

For a second, I glance over at the booth across from us. Sebae is the only other food stand at the Pasadena Farmers Market that has the same long line of customers. I freeze when I see Randall. My ex–best friend. I didn’t know he was working today.

“Jules, what’s the holdup?” hollers Tyler.

Tyler is my older brother, so I’m used to his brusque attitude. He acts all tough with his tattoos and loud voice, but he’s really as soft as a stuffed animal.

We make eye contact. I tilt my head in the direction of Sebae.

Tyler looks over. His brown eyes widen.

We haven’t seen Randall in months. And now he’s here.

Before we can telepathically share our thoughts, Ahma lets out a short whistle. We obediently go back to work. Tyler hollers orders at me as fast as I pack them. It’s unusu ally cold for late January in Los Angeles, but we feel none of it in the tiny huddle underneath the white canopy.

My mom keeps the steamers running so we’re always stocked, but that means she’s constantly opening the Igloo coolers to grab more. I keep out of her way.

The next ticket is for eight egg tarts. I gulp. Our buttery egg tarts always fly fast out of the small case. I only have six left. I secretly relish this since I’m the one who makes them for our Yum Yum Dim Sum stand.

I pack what we have and offer the customers two containers of almond tofu pudding instead.

“Good work, shao guo,” says Ahma. She pinches my cheek before she goes back to preparing more dumplings.

No matter how old I am, my grandma calls me her “little puppy.” She says that when I was a baby, I crawled on the floor with my chubby arms and legs and looked exactly like a puppy wagging its tail.

Tyler sidles up next to me. “Your pastries are always gone like lightning. You’re quite the master baker .” He wags his thick black eyebrows.

“Really? Are you in sixth grade?” I roll my eyes at his joke, then elbow him in the bicep.

“Ouch,” he says, grimacing. Tyler touches his black T-shirt along his right arm, where a fresh tattoo of a red panda is bandaged and covered in bacitracin ointment.

“Sorry! I forgot.”

“Check out Sebae,” he whispers.

We both look over at our rivals’ booth. The line is longer than ours now. What? That’s impossible.

“It’s time,” I whisper to Tyler.

“For real?”

I nod. He holds out his fist and we bump our knuckles together.

I pull out my secret weapon—a silver dim sum cart. I load it up with our best sellers: scallion pancake slices, pork rice rolls, and my grandma’s fan tuan. And of course I add my best pastries—pineapple cakes, hakka mochi, and a new dessert for our customers: twisted taro buns made with fresh purple taro paste.

“I got you,” says Tyler.

He takes and fills orders like he’s an octopus.

I roll out the cart and push it purposely right by Sebae. I can feel Randall’s light brown eyes on me.

Good. I hope he enjoys the shorter line at their family’s booth in three, two, one.

No one at the Pasadena Farmers Market can resist the Yum Yum Dim Sum cart. It’s as easy as luring kids to the ringing bell of an ice cream truck.

Soon, I am doling out the food fast, taking payments, and smiling to myself.

Sebae’s line is cut in half. Sure, their Korean food is the best. Frankly, I dream about the sticky brown rice roll stuffed with chestnuts and jujubes, but I don’t dare glance at their takeout containers.

I sneak a peek at Randall. He glares at me and makes a single hand gesture of “you’re dead” by slicing his hand over his throat.

I laugh. Randall’s always overly dramatic.

“Do you have any shrimp dumplings left?” asks a Black woman.

I don’t hear her at first until she clears her throat.

“Oh yes, you’re in luck. My last one,” I say.

“Perfect. I’ll take that and a package of red bean buns,” she says.

By the time the cart is completely cleared out, the damage has been done. Sebae’s line has dwindled down to only a few customers.

I smirk at Randall, who puffs up his cheeks like a blowfish. He pushes his pointer finger into his cheek.

The gesture is our made-up childhood curse. It’s the equivalent of the f-word. We used it in front of our grandmas, which we thought was hilarious when we were eleven. My ahma and Randall’s halmeoni, who were best friends, figured it out quickly and started using it with each other. It was funny until they actually meant it—after The Incident that we do not talk about ended their friendship.

I repeat the same gesture back at Randall and turn away.

Tyler is fuming. He approaches me. “Did Randall really just do that?”

I touch Tyler’s forearm. “Let it go. Help me load up the cart again.”

We go back to our delicate dance of preparing orders. I can’t help but think about Randall and how he’s back in the Sebae booth.

Randall looks so different now. His dark brown hair is cropped short and shaved on the sides. He is wearing a bulky white sweatshirt. I see a single silver star earring dangling on his right ear.

And yet, his smile is the same.

I’m shaking my head to extract the image of Randall’s dimpled smile when Enrique, the farmers market manager, walks up with a grim look on his face. Ahma smiles and offers his usual favorite—red bean buns freshly made this morning by yours truly—but he declines. This must be serious.

“You can’t have the dim sum cart. It’s a violation of our market regulations.”

Over Enrique’s shoulder, I see Randall smirk. I grit my teeth.

“How is it a violation?” asks Tyler.

“First, you know your food sales must be contained within the booth.”

“But,” I counter, “we’ve done the cart before without incident. Customers love it. Dim sum restaurants don’t roll out carts anymore, so we want to bring that experience back.”

Enrique grips his brown clipboard against his chest. “I let it slide for a bit, but there was a customer complaint this morning about the cart blocking the path. I’m sorry. I have to request that you stop using it.”

Customer complaint my ass is what I’d like to say, but Ahma and my mom would not be thrilled if I did. But I just know Randall is the one who reported us because our booth was doing so well. He couldn’t stand to see us beat their food stand.

Ahma comes over with a soft smile. Her hand rests on my shoulder. “We understand. Thank you, Enrique. Please take some home to your wife and kids.”

Ahma has packaged the red bean buns in a small pink takeaway box wrapped with red and white string. Enrique’s tight expression finally loosens as he accepts the gift.

“Thanks! Monica can’t get enough of these buns,” he says.

After he’s safely away from our booth, I grunt to Tyler. “I can guess who complained about us.”

Tyler nods. “Yeah, me too. Come on.”

He stomps out from behind our table and I hurry to follow. He approaches the Sebae booth with fire in his eyes.

“We know what you did,” says Tyler, pointing at Randall.

Randall immediately puffs up into a fighting stance, shoulders back, his mouth in a tight line. “You can’t prove anything.”

I step in. “Don’t be ridiculous. You couldn’t handle our family doing better than yours, so you tattled on us.”

Randall comes out from behind the white table to get closer to us. “Go back to your own booth.”

“Or what?” counters Tyler.

I instinctively step between them. Halmeoni, Randall’s grandmother, notices and clucks her tongue at us.

“Kids, stop. Get back to work,” she scolds.

But it’s too late. Randall gives another smirk and Tyler’s anger hits its boiling point. He tries to grab at Randall. I block him. Instead, he knocks over several glass jars of homemade ginger honey tea. The glass shatters, the homemade concoctions oozing out onto the pavement. Thin, coin-sized slices of yellow ginger float on a golden ocean of sticky honey.

Everyone goes still, the market falling silent, until a child’s piercing scream rings out. He’s wandered too close, and a piece of glass has cut his foot. His mother rushes to pick him up, lifting him away from the glass.

Enrique rushes over with a first aid kit. After he helps bandage up the crying child, he turns his attention to us. I have only ever seen Enrique mad twice in my life. Once when I was his intern last summer and a racist customer told Ahma to go back to China. The second time is right now.

“That’s it!” he shout whispers. “You can’t be at the same market on the same day. I’m done with the constant fighting.” He turns to Tyler and me. “Since you two started this, you can inform your grandmother that I’m moving your booth to Sundays. Sebae keeps Saturday.”

Tyler is red in the face. “We didn’t start—”

Enrique cuts him off. “A kid just sliced his foot on glass that you knocked over. You want a one-month suspension instead?”

Tyler, for once, is silent. I grip his arm. “Let’s go,” I say softly.

We leave in defeat. I death glare at Randall, who goes back behind the table with a smile and acts like he didn’t just put our family’s booth on the least profitable day of the weekend market.

Neither me nor my brother wants to break the news to Ahma and my mom, but I do it because Tyler is likely to get worked up again if he does.

The look of disappointment on my grandmother’s face is enough to make me curse the entire Hur family for eternity. Just like they’ve been cursing us.