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Chapter 4 - Chapter 4 – Food Truck Frenzy

The first day I noticed the food truck, I was wandering the Eastside College quad, notebook in hand, half-listening to Professor Ellis drone on about "the emotional essence of modern art." Honestly, I could barely focus. My mind was tangled between doodling caricatures of D-Money tripping over his backpack, Tiny performing a failed skateboard trick, and wondering whether college students really thought milk-stained hoodies were a crime against fashion.

And then I smelled it. Sweet, salty, fried, irresistible—the smell hit my stomach like a freight train. My steps quickened until I saw it: a bright orange food truck parked near the library, smoke curling from the fryer, orders piling up, students laughing, and chaos humming in the air like it had a rhythm of its own.

Behind the counter moved Tina Lopez, the owner. Young, stylish, confident, and clearly able to control chaos better than I could control my own shoelaces. She tossed orders with precision, flipping fries into containers and handing drinks to customers without missing a beat. My first thought: I want that kind of skill. My second thought: Do I really want to survive a day here without burning down the truck?

"Yo, Ty," Marky called from a few feet behind me, crunching on some chips like he owned the quad. "That's your new playground. Students love food. Food plus hustle equals money. Plus… maybe impress someone."

I groaned. "Impress someone? I'm still figuring out how to walk without spilling a notebook."

Marky smirked. "Exactly. That's why you need this. Chaos, responsibility, people watching you, and, yeah… maybe some romance. Welcome to Eastside survival 101."

I followed him to the truck, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened whenever I thought about Keisha James, the girl from my art class who somehow walked through my thoughts like she owned them.

Tina's gaze landed on me the second I stepped up. "You here to eat or work?" she asked, arms crossed, eyes scanning me like a hawk.

"Uh… work?" I said cautiously, my voice higher than usual.

She smirked. "Good. You start by cleaning the counter, then prepping orders. Don't mess up. We don't have time for disasters, and I mean any disasters."

I nodded, trying to appear confident. Inside, I was thinking about every time my life had gone sideways in Westside streets: the milk truck incident at twelve, the grocery delivery fiasco at fifteen, the time I accidentally set a neighbor's trash can on fire with leftover chili. Now, it seemed, disaster was my specialty, and I had a whole food truck to potentially ruin.

Lesson One: Prep

Tina handed me a tray of churros. "Golden brown. Crispy on the outside. Soft inside. Don't drop them."

I took a deep breath. Golden brown. Crispy. Soft. Don't drop them.

Of course, the first churro slipped. I caught it midair but sent it bouncing off the counter into a pile of napkins. Tina raised one perfect eyebrow. "Not bad… not exactly good either."

Marky, outside recording the chaos, whispered, "Disaster king in action!"

I glared at him but smiled a little. Maybe surviving and making people laugh at my mistakes wasn't so bad.

By the third tray, my hands were greasy, sweat dripping down my forehead, and the timer for the next batch was already buzzing. Students were lining up faster than I could count. I realized quickly that the fryer was one thing, but customers were another.

Lesson Two: Cash Register

After a few minutes, Tina motioned me toward the cash register. "Money first, food second. Mess this up, and you'll know how much students love complaining."

I swallowed. Money. Numbers. Calculations. Not my strong suit.

The first customer, a tall guy with a backpack, ordered fries and a bubble tea. I punched in the total… incorrectly. He blinked at me.

"Uh… that'll be… twenty-three?" I stammered.

"Twenty-three what?" he asked.

"Uh… dollars?"

He shook his head, handed me a twenty, and I fumbled his change. Somehow, he ended up with three extra coins. He sighed and walked away muttering about "rookies."

Tina pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ty… breathe. Count first. Make the food. Then… maybe survive to the end of the day."

Rush Hour Chaos

By lunch, I had learned three important lessons:

Students are impatient.

I am clumsy.

Milk-stained hoodies make me unforgettable.

Tiny appeared outside, attempting skateboard tricks dangerously close to the truck. One went wrong, and he toppled into a trash can. Rash popped out of nowhere to help him, both laughing so hard I nearly spilled a tray of fries. Somehow, amidst all this chaos, I was still managing to keep up.

Then came the true test: the lunch rush. Orders flew in like arrows, bubble teas toppled, fries burned, and I almost handed a student a churro that had rolled across the counter into a puddle of syrup.

"Ty, one tray at a time!" Tina barked, and somehow, I obeyed. My heart was pounding, hands shaking, but I was surviving.

During a lull, I stepped outside, wiping my hands on a paper towel. Keisha was there, sitting on a bench, sketchbook open. She glanced up, smirked, and nodded.

"You're actually… surviving," she said.

"Surviving?" I laughed nervously. "That's generous. I'd say I'm teetering on the edge of disaster."

She tilted her head. "Good. Teetering keeps things interesting. And chaos… suits you."

My chest felt tight. Something about her voice made me want to not drop the next tray of churros

By mid-afternoon, the truck had drawn its usual crowd. I met:

Mr. Nguyen, an older gentleman who ordered the exact same bubble tea every day but somehow critiqued the temperature each time.

Jasmine and Tori, gossiping students who had already started joking about my milk-stained hoodie.

Professor Carter, passing by and frowning as if I personally offended her with my life choices.

Every interaction taught me something. Patience, observation, improvisation. I started noticing patterns in orders, favorite flavors, and which students tipped. Slowly, the chaos became slightly predictable, which felt like progress.

By the end of my shift, I was sticky with sugar, sweaty from the fryer, and exhausted. But I felt… proud. Unlike the Westside streets, where survival often meant hiding, running, or hustling with fear in your chest, this chaos was different. I was creating, learning, making people happy—even if just for a few minutes.

Marky clapped me on the shoulder. "See? You survived. Look at that—your first paycheck in hand."

I held the crumpled envelope like it was gold. Small, yes, but earned. Real. Mine.

Walking back across the quad, I realized something: every tray, spilled drink, and awkward interaction was a lesson. I had survived my first day. Survived chaos. And slowly, hilariously, I was learning the hustle.

I glanced at my notebook—sketches of D-Money, Tiny, bubble teas, and churros staring back at me. Life was messy, unpredictable, and sticky with spilled syrup. And for once, that felt exactly right.

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