The next morning, the sun barely peeked over the Eastside buildings, painting the quad in gold, when I found myself back in front of Sweet & Savory Streets. My first paycheck from yesterday sat folded in my pocket like a treasure I wasn't quite sure I deserved yet. I had survived the chaos, spilled syrup and all, but today felt like a bigger test. A chance to prove to Tina, to Marky, and maybe even to myself that I could actually handle this life.
Tina was already inside, orchestrating the morning rush with her usual flair. Fries went into containers with precision, churros landed perfectly on trays, drinks slid across the counter without tipping. She caught my eye as I approached and gave me the tiniest smirk.
"Ready, Ty?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound confident. My voice probably squeaked a little, but Tina didn't comment. "Ready."
"Good. Start with prep. Fry the churros, portion the fries, handle the drinks, and… try not to burn the truck down."
I nodded, remembering yesterday's chaos. Golden brown. Crispy. Don't drop them. Got it. I had survived once; I could survive again.
I placed the churros into the bubbling fryer carefully, counting each one under my breath. The hiss of hot oil sounded like it was mocking me, daring me to make a mistake. Naturally, I dropped the first one.
This time, I didn't panic. I snatched it midair, set it back gently, and focused on the tray in front of me. Tina's eyebrow lifted, and Marky, leaning against a bench outside, whispered, "Improvement already. Or beginner's luck."
I glared at him, ignoring the comment. There were students lining up, waiting for their breakfast. Each order felt like a little test of survival, a tiny battlefield where spilled syrup could be the difference between triumph and humiliation.
After the first few trays, Tina slid me toward the cash register. "Money first, food second. If you mess this up, students will notice."
I tried to focus. Numbers weren't my enemy, not really—they were just like street math: chaotic but manageable if you paid attention.
The first customer ordered fries and a bubble tea. I punched in the total, hoping for the best.
"Uh… twenty-three?" I stammered.
The customer raised an eyebrow. "Twenty-three what?"
"Dollars?"
He sighed, handed me a twenty, and walked away, muttering about "rookies." Lesson learned: keep calm, count twice, don't panic, and maybe invest in a calculator.
By late morning, the rush began. Orders flew in faster than I could track. Drinks toppled, fries burned, and one churro even bounced off the counter and nearly hit a student in the shoulder.
Tiny was outside attempting skateboard tricks again, this time so close to the truck I half expected him to crash into it. Of course, he did. He fell spectacularly into a trash can, and Rash appeared from behind a bench to help him up, both of them laughing like nothing in the world could touch them. I almost laughed too—almost.
Then, as if scripted, Dante "D-Money" Rivers and Flip strolled by, smirking like they owned the quad. I grabbed a fry and tossed it at Dante. He ducked. I grinned. Victory was small but real.
Even minor distractions had value. Jasmine and Tori, gossiping students I'd never met before, were whispering and giggling, apparently entertained by my milk-stained hoodie. I wanted to be annoyed, but their laughter made the chaos feel… lighter. At least someone found it funny.
During a brief lull, I stepped outside to wipe my hands on a paper towel. Keisha sat on a bench nearby, sketchbook open, shading a figure that seemed impossibly alive. She glanced up, smirked, and nodded.
"You're surviving," she said.
"Surviving?" I laughed nervously. "More like teetering on the edge of disaster."
"Chaos suits you," she replied, returning to her sketching.
Her calm confidence made me feel… grounded, in a way. Maybe chaos wasn't my enemy. Maybe it was just life, and I was finally learning how to navigate it.
By mid-afternoon, I started noticing small patterns. Certain students always ordered the same drinks, others liked their fries extra salty or extra crispy. Timing became slightly predictable. I even caught myself anticipating which tray would burn first—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
Mr. Nguyen, the elderly man who always ordered the same bubble tea and immediately complained it was too cold, became my unexpected mentor. His critique forced me to pay attention to temperature, timing, and presentation.
Jasmine and Tori, meanwhile, had gathered a small audience to watch my every move. "He's like a one-man circus," one said. "But… cute?"
I rolled my eyes, but secretly liked it. Being memorable had its perks.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the quad, the rush slowed. I moved trays, wiped counters, and finally took a deep breath. My hoodie was sticky with syrup, my hands smelled of fried dough, and my feet ached—but I was still standing. I had survived another full day on the truck.
Marky slapped me on the back. "See? First full day, survived. And look at that, paycheck in hand."
I held the folded envelope like it was treasure. Real money. Earned. Mine.
Walking back across the quad, I thought about everything I had learned. Every spilled drink, every miscounted coin, every churro that nearly escaped into the abyss of the quad was a lesson. Unlike the streets of Westside, where survival often meant running, hiding, or hustling with fear in your chest, here I was creating, learning, and thriving. Small wins mattered. Mistakes were lessons.
I glanced down at my notebook. Tiny, D-Money, bubble teas, churros—they all stared back at me from doodles on the page. Life was messy, unpredictable, and sticky. And for once, I didn't feel like chaos was something to run from. I felt like I could survive it. Maybe even thrive.
Tomorrow would bring more trays, more chaos, more orders, and more lessons. And I was ready. Somehow, hilariously, I was ready.