Whistleblower ✓

40 | all in the presentation (part two)

PART ONE OF THIS CHAPTER WAS POSTED YESTERDAY (MAY 19). MAKE SURE YOU'VE READ IT FIRST. CHEERS.

The marquee sign on the roof of Pepito's glinted in the mid-day sunshine. Oscar was working the register. Pedro and Joaquin stood behind him, their movements a well-rehearsed dance that allowed them to avoid bumping into either each other or the hot grills in the compact space.

The brightly colored posters that'd been plastered to the pick-up window had multiplied and spread to the order window.

CHICA DESAPARECIDA. JUSTICIA PARA JOSEFINA.

"Good afternoon," Oscar greeted as my group members and I huddled under the shade of the stand's red terra-cotta roof. He shot me a smile under his wiry mustache, but didn't outwardly show I was a regular, since I was with people he didn't recognize.

Olivia and Ryan ordered first.

Bodie insisted I go ahead of him.

"The usual?" Oscar asked me with a smile.

He meant, of course, three carne asada tacos with extra pico de gallo and pickled jalapeños and carrots.

"Si," I said. "Y estoy pagando por el chico alto."

I beckoned Bodie up to the counter beside me. He ordered a super burrito with just about every ingredient in it (including both chicken and pork). When he pulled out his debit card to pay, I hip-checked him out of the way and slid a twenty dollar bill onto the counter.

"You don't have to do that," he protested.

"It's a burrito, not a paint job."

Bodie sighed, like he knew this was a fair point but still wanted me to know he wasn't happy about it, and shuffled over to the plastic cutlery and napkin dispensers, grabbing two of everything for us.

Oscar watched this interaction with unapologetic intrigue.

"Su novio?" he asked me, in a voice that seemed far too loud despite the language barrier that offered us privacy.

"Todavía no," I blurted. "Casi. Estoy trabajando en eso."

Oscar's laugh drifted after me as I followed Bodie over to the metal picnic table Ryan had claimed.

The four of us ate like a family of raccoons who'd found an overturned dumpster, shoveling Mexican food in our mouths with such frenzied ardor that we barely paused to speak. It was only after we were stuffed that Olivia, our beloved group leader, spent a solid six minutes complimenting each of us on our performance while she picked at the last few bites of her quesadilla.

"Laurel," she said when it was my turn, "you looked very cute—"

I laughed.

"Glad I could contribute to the group aesthetic."

Bodie looked up from his phone. He'd been typing away at it for a while now, the last few bites of his burrito abandoned on the foil wrapper he'd flattened out into a makeshift plate.

I caught a glimpse of his screen.

He had Google Translate open.

"I'm not done!" Olivia protested, shooting me an annoyed look even as she bit back a smile. "You looked cute, and you didn't mess up your slides, and you made that really good point about diversity. And you didn't puke! So I'm proud of you."

I rolled my eyes, to hide the fact that I was embarrassingly touched.

"Thank you. I should probably get going, though. I have this Writing 301 assignment I have to turn in by midnight."