“Alex wants everyone down at the stage in five,” one of his assistants told us.
“You don’t need me,” Ollie said. “Go find out what’s happening. I’ll keep the biscuits baking.”
“I’ll stay here, too,” Uncle Saul said. “I’m working on our savory filling—spicy chicken and eggs. I think I’ll do better with more space.”
I knew our sweet filling was going to be peaches. I could work on that when I got back. I’d been saving a recipe for spicy peaches that I’d found in January for this moment.
“I guess it’s you and me,” I said to Delia. “Let’s see what Alex has to say.”
Miguel joined us outside and walked across the street with us. The tall buildings of downtown Columbia were lit up against the dark sky. There was a hint of rain in the air that I hoped would pass. I could probably make it roller-skating down the city sidewalks if they were dry. If they were wet, I wasn’t sure.
“Good morning, everyone,” Alex called out. It may have been dark all around us, but the stage where he stood was bright as day. “How are you all this morning?”
He went on to acknowledge the sponsors again. He explained the rules and concept of the food truck race. Everyone was waiting for the reason we were all called together. We stood impatiently, hoping he’d come to the point so we could get back to work.
“I know you’re all anxious to hear everything about today’s challenge. You all have your packets with the basics. You already know that you’ll need one of your team to skate and sing as they try to sell their food to people who are on their way into work this morning.”
We nodded.
Antonio Stephanopoulos from Athens, Georgia, the owner of the Pizza Papa food truck, made a rolling motion with his hands. His thin gray whiskers shook. “Let’s get going, eh?”
“I love your enthusiasm,” Alex yelled after he asked for applause. “What you don’t know about today’s challenge is that one of the people you’ll be trying to sell your food to this morning has twenty-five hundred dollars in cash for the first person to find him.”
That brought some enthusiasm and a few whistles.
Delia and I looked at each other and grinned, too.
“Besides singing and skating, part of the challenge is to be the first team to sell a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of product on the street today. The taste challenge will be met by us interviewing people on the street after they’ve had your food. We’ll look at those tapes after the challenge to determine the winner. Now go out and make your sponsors proud!”
“That’s a lot of extra money,” Delia said. “You could really use that, Zoe.”
“If I win it, we’ll split it.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re already helping me and Ollie. Maybe you could take us out for a night on the town when we get home.” She hugged me and ran back to the food truck.
“I hope you win,” Miguel said. “Don’t worry about the skimpy shorts and top. If you fall, you’ll be glad you’re wearing jeans. Besides, you’re already the best-looking food truck owner here.”
I laughed. “Is that comparing me to Antonio Stephanopoulos or Roy Chow?”
“Good luck out there.”
I stepped inside the Biscuit Bowl kitchen. Delia had already shared the news with Ollie and Uncle Saul.
“Stay focused. Look for someone who doesn’t appear to have any money,” my uncle suggested. “Maybe a street person or another vendor.”
“No,” Ollie argued. “This is gonna be on TV. Whoever has the cash is gonna look good. Maybe not dressed in a suit, but good.”
I took their advice, such as it was. Delia looked me over and tied my T-shirt in the back so it was tight on my chest. She also rolled the legs on my jeans so they were up to my knees, but still covering them.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of that bare skin she’d exposed below the knee would be taken up with my skates.
I thanked them for their help and got the peach filling ready. Uncle Saul’s spicy chicken and egg filling smelled wonderful. Biscuits were baking up light and fluffy. Ollie turned on the deep fryer.
I looked at my team. They made me want to cry. They were all such great people.
“Thanks again for all your help. I wouldn’t be here without you.”
Delia winked. “Don’t forget to thank Miguel, too.”
“I won’t. I’m going to put on my skates and get ready. We can be on the street at five thirty. I don’t know how many people will be out there looking for breakfast, but the early biscuit maker hopefully sells her quota early, too.”
I tried not to worry about the biscuit making. It was easy to start thinking you were the only one who could make your headliner food. The biscuit bowl was my creation, but I knew I could trust my team to do a good job.
I put on my skates and cleared my throat. I was more worried about being able to stand up and move around than whether or not I could sing.
I looked around for Miguel. I couldn’t find him, or the Mercedes, anywhere on the street. I started to call him, but I didn’t want to be a nag or someone who’s always trying to keep tabs on him. I didn’t really need his help.
Ollie brought out the first tray of biscuit bowls, savory. I took it from him, got ready to sing, and fell down hard on the sidewalk.
TWELVE
There were only three spicy chicken biscuit bowls that could be saved. The other five had to be thrown away.
What made it even worse was that we were the first team up and running so we were getting extra coverage from the cameramen. They didn’t stop taping when I fell, either. The whole mess—including the ripped, bloody part of my jeans where I’d hit my knee on the concrete—would be preserved for the TV audience.
Ollie helped me up and yelled for Delia. “We have to get that knee cleaned up.”
Delia ran outside with Uncle Saul. They both groaned and said how sorry they were, asking if I was okay.
In the meantime, one of the ministers from Our Daily Bread (not Jay Jablonski) was already on his skates, singing loudly in his professional choir voice and heading into the waiting crowd of spectators with a trayful of cinnamon rolls.
“Never mind that,” I told my team. “We need another tray of biscuit bowls. Delia, could you get me a wet paper towel? Let’s get over this and move on.”
The cameraman had his lens right in my face as I was talking. I wished I could yell at him to move away. I’d agreed when I registered to allow the cameras complete access. What good was a food truck race if they couldn’t capture every single detail?
Delia, Ollie, and Uncle Saul moved quickly. I was on my feet—wobbly but standing. A wet paper towel got most of the blood off my knee. My jeans were only going to be good for making shorts later.
Ollie and Uncle Saul got another tray of eight biscuit bowls ready.
By that time, Fred was skating away from his fish taco truck. Believe me, the cinnamon rolls smelled a lot better than fish tacos at that time of the morning.
Another minister was taking more cinnamon rolls to the first one, who was now lost in the crowd, probably selling his hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of product before I could even get on my feet.
“Come and find me when you have another tray ready.” I started slowly skating down the sidewalk again.
“Be careful,” Ollie said. “And sing. Don’t forget to sing!”
It looked as though Bobbie Shields’s daughter, Allison, who was part of the Shut Up and Eat team, was a worse skater than even me. She was a pretty young girl with waist-length blond hair that gently floated in the breeze as she fell, over and over again.
Finally, her loose meat sandwiches and giant pickles spread out around her, she gave up. I passed her on the sidewalk as she sat there crying.