Simmer Down - Sarah Smith Page 0,5

of ducking from the constant stream of curveballs life chucks at her.

As of today, I’m done ducking. I’m fighting back.

He wants a war? It is motherfucking on.

Chapter 2

War isn’t always blood and guts, explosions and air strikes. Sometimes it’s unspoken strategy, a sneak attack your enemy doesn’t even notice. Sometimes it’s quiet as a mouse, and by the time the other side even realizes they’ve been infiltrated, it’s too late. The damage is done.

The makeshift cardboard sign I’ve propped against the far end of Hungry Chaps’ food truck is exactly that: quiet, unsuspecting carnage. Day two of Tiva’s Filipina Kusina versus Hungry Chaps, and my side’s victorious already.

Mom and I enjoyed a steady lunch rush from 10 a.m. to almost 1 p.m., while Callum and his food truck only had a couple dozen in that same chunk of time—and it’s all my doing.

I stick my head out of the window to call out another order. When I hand the customer their food, I sneak a seconds-long peek at my enemy food truck just feet away. The sign I threw together this morning is holding up well.

“Mediocre Imperialist Cuisine!”

The giant black letters practically shout from the ragged chunk of cardboard. They’re probably visible from across the nearby lava field.

Mrs. Tokushige, Mom’s best friend and our most loyal customer, mutters a thank-you when she comes to pick up her order of chicken adobo wings, all the while squinting at the sign.

“So strange they would think that sign would be good for business.” She tucks a loose chunk of her thick jet-black hair behind her ear.

I bite my lip to keep from chuckling. I shrug and tell her, “Bon appétit,” when I hand her the food. “Thank you again for letting us use your commercial kitchen, Mrs. Tokushige. You’ve helped us so much.”

She flashes a kind smile before dipping her finger in the soy sauce–vinegar mixture of the adobo and tasting it. She lets out a satisfied hum. “Of course, hon. Anything for you and your mom.”

She pats my hand, and I’m grateful again. Mrs. Tokushige is a widowed property owner who Mom got chummy with after first moving to Maui. They even belong to the same book club and mahjong club. I’m grateful to know her. Not only has she been a generous and supportive friend after we lost Dad, but she’s been invaluable to our food truck, letting us use her commercial kitchen, which is right next to our condo, at a deep discount. I don’t know if we would have made it had we been forced to pay regular prices to rent space.

“It’s always open for you and your mom, whenever you want it,” she says. “You’re practically family.”

She tiptoes up and smiles at Mom through the window. “Hi, Tiva! Smells yummy in there! And this adobo sauce, my goodness. Perfectly tangy and salty. I’ll never get tired of it.”

Mom beams. “Oh, Joan. You’re sweet. Thank you.”

Their conversation carries on while I inwardly gloat about my sneaky actions from this morning. It was petty as hell for me to arrive early to scrawl that sign. It was also petty to strategically place it at the perfect angle: leaning on the back tire of the Hungry Chaps food truck, facing away from the window and door. Callum and Finn can’t see it from inside their truck, but customers get a full, unobscured view.

I catch a glimpse of Callum. He’s sporting that same scowl he blinded me with yesterday. Not once does he let up, even when taking customers’ food orders. I wonder if anyone has ever told him that acting pleasant and smiling at the patrons is necessary in the food service industry.

I duck back inside. “How many lumpia are left, Mom?”

She drops another order into the fryer. “We’ll be out in an hour probably, if orders keep up.”

I pat her shoulder, and she smiles. She and I have the exact same facial features: dark eyes, arched eyebrows, narrow button noses, high cheekbones. Even our smiles are the same. Our full mouths stretch across our faces in a straight line instead of curving up like most other people’s. It’s like gazing into a mirror of what I’ll look like in thirtyish years if I opt for a bob hairstyle and maintain an excellent skin care regimen. Considering all the emotional and financial stress she’s been through this past year, she’s wearing it like a champ. She’s a stunning mature woman.

She pats my lower back. “Don’t slouch, anak. It’s bad for you.”

I’m