Page 5

RANDALL

When I walk the fifteen blocks from my school to the garden at Hope Street Elementary School, the crap from the day fades. Rows and rows of neat lines of earthy brown dirt greet me. Artichokes rise out of the ground with green buds heavy with the spiky vegetable. Ripe red cherry tomatoes hang in clusters. The moment I see my Garden of Eating club, the third graders squeal at my mere presence.

“Randall!”

I open my arms and squat down. Twelve kids try to squeeze in to give me a group hug.

“Okay, you all are going to knock me down,” I beg. I try to balance under their hugs. “The garden is looking amazing.”

Zoey, a Black girl with a bright smile, waves to get my attention.

“We’ve got aphids on the kale,” she says ominously.

“Oh shoot,” I say.

The group follows me as a I head to the leafy greens section of our garden. The tall green stalks of kale tower to the kids’ height.

I inspect the dark green dinosaur kale leaves. Sure enough, there are tiny white aphids feasting on the centers of each leaf.

“Zoey, can you grab—”

She thrusts forward the spray bottle of neem oil we use as natural insecticide. She spritzes the leaves heavily, like a small superhero.

“Get out of here, bugs!” she shouts. The other kids cheer.

Each kid is in charge of one plant, whether it’s a vegetable, herb, fruit, or flower. They proudly wear a pin on their Garden of Eating shirts that displays their plant baby’s name. We’ve raised the plants since they were tiny seeds inside toilet paper roll tubes, growing them into seedlings.

I make my rounds one by one. I pull out a small notepad from my back pocket and take notes on what supplies we need, what plants we need to keep an eye on, and what needs to be harvested or fertilized.

Eric, a chatty Puerto Rican kid, presides over the strawberries. He proudly shows me their baby photo compared to how they look now.

“Look how big they’ve gotten,” says Eric.

The berries have grown since they were white flowers and are full pieces of fruit now.

“We just have to wait until they turn red to harvest them,” I say.

Eric licks his lips. “I can’t wait. I have plans for them.” He pats his belly.

I pat his back. “Of course you do.”

“I’m thinking chocolate-covered strawberries,” says Eric. “My mom loves those.”

“Brilliant.”

Eric claps his hands.

I approached Principal Waldman when I came up with the idea for Garden of Eating. At first, she was skeptical. How would I ever turn an empty corner of the school playground into a fully functional garden? It wasn’t easy, but after talking to the teachers and parents, I got enough financial support as well as volunteer help from the Planeteers, the elementary school’s environmental club.

Now, I stand over the product of our club’s labor. It’s amazing.

“Randall, look at how they’ve grown,” cries out Laura, a fat red-haired girl.

I hurry over to her section. Out of the dirt, there are the tender green shoots of a plant. The beginnings of orange cantaloupes. The flat leaves will grow tendrils in the coming weeks.

“Do you have the lattice supports ready for them when they sprout up?”

Laura nods. She beckons that I follow her to the supply shed. She proudly holds up her white-and-orange-striped wooden lattice fence.

“I painted this pattern so they would know what color they’d be inside,” says Laura.

I give her a sideways hug. “I love it. Your cantaloupes are so well cared for.”

She beams at me before running over to Zoey to inspect the kale leaves. They are little plant doctors, talking to their patients, whispering words of encouragement and assessing each one’s needs.

When I see Principal Waldman, I can’t wait to take her around the garden, even pluck her a ripe tomato to take home. But the moment I see the pinched look on her pale face, I know something is wrong.

“Randall, can I talk to you over here for a second?” asks Principal Waldman. She waves me over to the silver gate entrance.

I dust off my teal-colored gardening gloves and put them in my work apron pocket.

“Be right back, guys,” I say.

Principal Waldman turns her back toward the garden. She’s so tall that she blocks my view of the kids and their plants.

She has a clipboard in her hand that she consults before clearing her throat and looking at me.

“Randall, there’s no easy way to say this,” she starts.

“I can handle it,” I say, even as my stomach drops.

“The garden club is running out of funding. The PTA needs to redirect the funds to other resources. Unfortunately, that means you’ll have to use what you have left of your supplies. While this program is a wonderful idea, truly, I’m afraid we won’t have the financial resources to continue it,” says Principal Waldman.

My throat goes dry. I can’t even clear it.

“There’s absolutely nothing we can do? A bake sale using produce from the garden? How about we offer a small portion as a community garden space and each person pays to have a section of land?” I sputter out.

She shakes her head. “I appreciate your vigor and ingenuity, Randall. And I know the kids have really benefited from your experience. We all have. But my hands are tied.”

As she walks away, all I can think about is what I’m going to tell the kids. How do I break the news to them when they’ve worked so hard?

I stare at the notepad in my hand then sit down on the nearest bench, scribbling notes to myself.

Ideas to Save the Garden

Sell our produce

Bake sale

Sell off sections of the garden

Silent auction fundraiser

Then, it dawns on me. My school project. I could propose saving the garden as the community service project since it is a vital part of Hope Street Elementary School.

I jot down what I’ll say to Julie and London to persuade them that this is the right cause to support. I snap pics of the kids as they work. I calculate our current supplies and make a list of what we need.

Zoey and Eric bound over with huge smiles, and I try to push down the queasy feeling in my stomach.

“We have a recipe idea using both of our crops,” says Eric. He points to Zoey, who waves her hands excitedly.

“A strawberry kale salad with a fresh strawberry vinaigrette,” says Zoey.

“That sounds so good! I love it!” I give them both high fives.

As they walk away, I tell myself that I’ll convince Julie and London that Garden of Eating is worth saving, so I don’t have to break the bad news to the club just yet.

JULIE

I plaster a smile on my face to the point that my cheeks ache. I have to pretend that everything is all right, even though it’s crickets here. Sunday mornings at the Pasadena Farmers Market are an absolute dead zone.

My mom is at the hospital on Sunday mornings, so it’s just Ahma, Tyler, and me. My mom wants to become a neonatal nurse and needs another year of clinical experience before she can move into the neonatal intensive care unit.

I’m glad she doesn’t have to see this.

It’s gotten so bad that Tyler is sitting on one of our coolers, watching tattoo TikToks, while Ahma busies herself with tidying the booth. I write down new (lower) prices on our chalkboard menu.

It sucks.

I snap a photo of the desolate market and text it to Mercy with several sad-face emojis. She’s the only person I can tell who gets it and won’t tell her family.

Mercy texts back immediately.

Mercy

Yikes

Me

Help

Mercy

Convince Enrique that your family can keep the peace

Me

Hahahaha. I’d have better luck fixing climate change.

Mercy

Didn’t you intern for Enrique last summer? You must know how to get on his good side.

Me

You know what? You’re right.

Mercy

And what else?

Me

You’re brilliant

Mercy

AND?

Me

Gorgeous, charming, amazing, and everyone wants to get with you.

Mercy

Exactly. You got this.

Me

Easy for you to say. You don’t have to fix this.

Mercy

This is our second Sunday banished here. The usual vendors we chat with aren’t here. Sales have been abysmal. We’ve had to give unsold products to people in our neighborhood. They love us and even try to pay us, but Ahma waves them off.

If we continue at this pace, we won’t be clearing our regular monthly profit. While my mom works as a full-time nurse, this booth (and its popularity) has always been what keeps our household running.

I tap out an email to Enrique. I know he absolutely hates it when vendors complain to him by email, but I see no other way to fix this.

“Hi!” says a chipper brunette.

I pause from typing. She is tall and skinny, with dark sunglasses on. Her cascade of silky brown hair frames her heavily made-up face.

I tuck my phone into my pocket.

“How are you doing?”

“Fabulous,” she singsongs.

I inwardly sigh. I cannot take this much sunshine when my inner self feels like dark clouds.

“I’ve never had dim sum before. What would you recommend?” she asks.

I will my inner saleswoman out of hiding. For my family.

“Our most popular items are the crystal shrimp dumplings and the red bean bah tsang.”

I place two containers in front of her. She leans in to examine them.

“What’s that green stuff on the outside of this?”

“Dried bamboo leaves. We stuff it full of red bean paste and sticky rice, then steam it in the leaf.”

She picks up the container to examine it. “Does it taste like bamboo?”

“Oh no. It’s sweet sticky rice and sweet bean paste,” I say, chuckling slightly.

Behind me, I hear Tyler snickering. He could be helping me with this customer, but he chooses to sit on his butt.

“These look cute. What are these?”

She holds up the egg tarts I made this morning.

“Egg tarts. They’re filled with an egg custard and surrounded by a buttery pastry crust.”

“Is it gluten-free?”

“No.”

She places the tarts down and smiles at me, then puts her palms together in a prayer gesture. “I eat cleanly so I don’t think I can purchase any of this food, but thank you! You have a blessed day!”

Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “Bye!”

When she’s out of earshot, I kick Tyler’s foot. “Thanks a lot for your help.”

He laughs. “What’s bamboo sticky rice?”

I give him the finger. He goes back to his tattoo TikToks. I see Ahma chopping up one of the egg tarts and placing single toothpicks in the pieces.

“Let me help you,” I say.

We work silently until we’ve cut up and speared two egg tarts. Ahma pats my arm.

“Julie, can you walk around with samples? Tell customers they can have more for twenty percent off.”

“Sure, Ahma.”

I carry the tray around, noticing there are fewer people milling in the market than on Saturday. I approach people, but most wave me away, like I’m a fly in their face.

To say it’s humiliating is an understatement. My cheeks burn with anger. It’s all the Hur family’s fault. If Randall hadn’t said our cart was a violation, we wouldn’t be here.

I look around for Enrique. I never did finish that email, but it’s probably better to catch him and chat in person.

He’s nowhere to be found.

In my head, I draft the rest of the email I want to write while I carry the egg tart tray around the last section of the market.

I only get two bites, and both people tell me they’re watching their calories so that tiny nibble was “just perfect.”

Back at the booth, I can’t bring myself to tell Ahma the truth—no one wants my egg tarts.

“Some said they’d stop by later,” I say instead. “But if we have some left, we could donate them to the Feed the Hungry program that takes leftovers to shelters.”

Ahma pats my face. “Great idea. Let’s do that. Thank you, my shao guo.”

I beam under her praise. I hate lying to her about customers. I’ve got to fix this problem fast. We can’t keep having barren market days.

I need to convince Enrique that we can keep the peace with the Hur family. Which is about as easy as finding a cure for cancer.

I sigh and eat the rest of the samples. I’ll figure something out. I have to.