Page 8

RANDALL

Now that I have London and Julie fully on board, it’s time to launch the second part of my plan. Our project needs funding, and the only person I know who understands how important it is to have gardens is Enrique.

The problem is that Enrique is always busy on market days. He never answers texts. My best chance to catch him is early Saturday morning.

I hustle over to Nazie’s booth. Her line snakes so long that it folds in on itself. Her sons, Khan and Asadi, are fast-talking salesmen. They quickly tear a piece of bolani, smear it with a thick cheese sauce, and add a dollop of sweet chili sauce. My mouth waters as Khan hands out samples to passersby.

“Randall, how about some?” asks Khan.

“You know I can’t resist,” I say.

He hands me a thick wedge of spinach bolani topped with my favorite spicy hummus and sweet chili sauce. I stuff my face immediately.

Nazie is talking with Enrique. They are huddled together while she somehow still manages to uncase more bolani. I inhale to breathe in that delicious, freshly made, flaky pastry bread scent.

She stuffs a few bolani into a bag for Enrique. Nazie spots me and offers me my favorite: pumpkin-stuffed bolani and two containers of her signature chili sauce.

“Take, take,” says Nazie. “Your muscles need extra protein.”

I laugh. “You sound like Halmeoni.”

Nazie wags her finger at me. “She’s a smart woman.”

Enrique gives me a wave, and I chase after him. He’s already headed to Tentadora Tamales.

“Hey Enrique. Got a minute?”

Enrique breaks into a big smile when he sees me. He gives me a quick hug.

“Follow me.”

He ducks into his office, a white tent marked “Pasadena Farmers Market Information.”

“Maureen, I’ll be with you in a minute,” says Enrique to an older white woman waiting at the booth.

He turns to face me.

“What’s up, kid?”

I speed talk. “There’s this project at school. We need funding and I thought of you immediately. The Garden of Eating club I told you about. We need your help. The market’s help.”

He takes off his blue LA Dodgers cap and scratches his head. “Do you have a proposal?”

“Um…”

I have nothing in my hands other than warm pumpkin bolani.

“Come back with a proposal. I need the details, budget, etc., so I can see if we can sponsor your club.”

“Fantastic!” I clap my hands.

“Before you go celebrating, you should know that I already have fifteen proposals waiting for my review. Make a good case for yours,” says Enrique.

He turns back to the customer at the booth, and I walk away, buzzing from excitement. The one person I think of immediately is Julie. She’ll be stoked.

I look over at the booth where Yum Yum Dim Sum usually is, now replaced by a gluten-free baker, who I’m sure is very nice, but there’s no long line for their goods. It’s also strange to see anyone else in the Wu family’s spot.

I hear my halmeoni’s voice holler my name, loud and clear. Instantly, I am five years old, being scolded for eating all the Choco Pies in Halmeoni’s pantry.

I fast track it back to my family’s booth and race to my usual spot, bagging up the orders.

Halmeoni is four feet, ten inches, but her barking orders rival a drill sergeant. She tenderly hits my bum with the smack of her silver chopsticks.

“Where you go? We busy,” says Halmeoni.

I hold up the bolani as penance. Halmeoni’s expression immediately softens. She loves Nazie’s food. I slip the Afghani food into an empty cooler.

Today’s market is different than the others. Without Yum Yum Dim Sum, we have the longest line with everyone coming to our booth. Hippie moms, voice-over actresses who swear by my grandma’s honey ginger tea, and gym fanatics who love our protein-packed tempeh.

I chat with our regulars and some newbies. My job is to answer all their questions with the same bright smile, even if it kills me to explain how to use kimchi to people who tell me they don’t like cabbage or spicy food.

Mercy taps me on the shoulder. “Do we have any more brown rice energy rolls?”

This is Mercy’s code for “I need to talk to you,” so we duck under a table with the pretense of pulling more product.

She whispers, “Are you and Julie hanging out?”

“No! It’s the community service project. You know, the one where we are in a group with London Park,” I say.

Mercy slightly swoons. She has had a crush on London Park ever since the eighth grade, when they had one dance together.

“Halmeoni heard about it,” says Mercy.

“It’s for school!”

I bump my head on the white table, knocking off a few brown rice energy rolls. I quickly pick them up and stack them in their usual spot.

Halmeoni pats me on the head. Being raised by my grandmother means that she is my mother, father, judge, and jury.

Mercy leans in closer. “You better tell her all the details before she gets any other ideas.”

Mercy raises her eyebrows as she says “other ideas.”

I sigh, for the first time feeling exhausted from holding a grudge.

My grandmother and Julie’s grandmother have had a long-standing grudge for the past five years. They used to be best friends. Our families spent holidays and birthdays together.

Mercy, Julie, Tyler, and I had endless sleepovers. A shared notebook that we passed around in middle school with our secrets, crushes, and answers to tests (for emergency uses only). We were tight until The Big Fight. The one we explicitly do not talk about anymore but definitely still act like it happened last week.

“There’s literally nothing happening but boring school stuff,” I hiss to Mercy.

My cousin elbows me in the ribs because I have accidentally bagged all the brown rice rolls into one takeout container.

A blonde woman in tight yoga clothes smiles. “I just wanted two rolls please, and the ginger honey tea,” she says with a polite smile.

“Yes, so sorry,” I say.

I repack the bag quickly. I have to get my head back here instead of worrying about the fight that my grandmother is most definitely going to have with me about spending time with Julie, even if it’s for school.