“Um, I was just…looking for the restaurant,”I say, glancing back around. “My dad didn’t bother to show mebefore heading out this morning.”
“Oh. Well, I can show you where it is,” shesays. “They’re probably into brunch by now, but they always havefresh fruit and muffins out.”
I don’t mean to scrunch my face up, but Ileft the bungalow because all we had was fruit and a head oflettuce. Okay, maybe there were carrots too, but I just want realfood. Even junk food. Just something that won’t leave my stomachgrowling all day.
“You know what? Never mind,” I tell her. Iglance at the entrance, wanting to make it my exit. “Is thereanywhere else around here to eat? Like somewhere with realfood?”
The girl laughs and nods her head. “Not abrunch person I take it?”
“Brunch is fine, if you’re into that sort ofthing,” I say, shrugging like an idiot. “I don’t really do brunchin my world. I’m more of a fast food girl.”
“Then I know just the place,” she says. “I’mSloane, by the way. Sloane Harrington.”
“Kaia Anderson,” I say. “Are you from here?On the island?”
Sloane nods. “My dad actually runs thisplace.” She motions around the marbled lobby. “He and my mom movedhere before I was born. My brother was a baby. Dad got this bigshot office job, and we got to live the island life. It’s all I’veever known, but we live in a house in a suburb, much like theUnited States. My parents are from the USA, but I was bornhere.”
She has no idea what she’s missing with roadtrips and Wi-Fi. Places like this are great for vacations, butliving here forever? That would be a tropical prison. Maybe I’mmore free spirited than she is or maybe she just hasn’t experiencedwanderlust yet.
“So, food,” I say again upon feeling thatboxing match in my stomach fighting for whatever scraps may beleft.
“Right,” Sloane says. “Let me grab my bag.You can ride with me.”
After stopping by the bungalow to leave mydad a note and grab my beach bag, Sloane and I venture back towardSt. Catalina Resort. She’s parked in the employee parking lot, nextto a black Hummer. The white sports car beside it flashes its lightwhen she clicks the key fob.
“The Hummer’s my dad’s,” she says, shakingher head. “I told him he was too old for it, but he doesn’t listen.He’s pretty laid back, though. Not uptight like mostbusinessmen.”
I get into the passenger seat and adjust theair vent, even though it’s not too terribly hot. It must be a habitfrom back home. We don’t have an island breeze.
“Did you say you were here with your dad?”Sloane asks.
I nod. “Yeah, he’s a surf coach, and he’sgot this new guy out of California that he’s been training allsummer. This was the next stop on their list of swells.”
She backs her car out of the parking placeand heads out toward the main road. There’s no traffic here on theisland. A few people wave from bicycles, and we meet a couple ofcars along the way, but this is definitely a far cry from the citylife. It’s bright and colorful and serene. I’d never tell my dad,but now that I’ve met someone who can show me around, St. CatalinaIsland may not be so bad.
“So, what’s there to do around here?” I ask,looking away from the window and back toward Sloane. “Please tellme there are parties or bonfires or something that I can escape tolate at night. My dad always crashes early so he can get up beforethe sun to surf.”
She laughs. “There are plenty of parties,”she confirms. “They actually start, most of the time, in mybackyard, and then we move it down to the beach. My parents lovetheir fire pit, but it’s just not the same as blankets on the sandaround a massive bonfire.”
I like this girl already. I sort of wish Icould bottle her up and take her back to California with me andthen release her energy across the ocean and the shorelines. I needfriends like her back home.
She turns onto a side road with a few woodencarts of fresh fruit. An older man waves at us, and Sloane returnsthe gesture. I guess I need to get used to thewatermelon-pineapple-coconut lifestyle since I’m going to be herefor a bit.
“This is actually my favorite place to eaton the entire island,” she says before turning left onto anothersmall strip of road. “My parents believe in supporting smallbusinesses, but they both whisper behind my back about ‘how absurd’it is that I eat here so often.”
I look around, but there is no restaurantsitting among the palm trees. The ocean drifts in the distance,like a pretty picture framed behind a dining room table.
“Where exactly is this place?” I ask, stillsearching through the window. “Why would anyone put a restaurantout here? There’s nothing around.”
“The Tiki Taco isn’t exactly a restaurant,”she explains. Her car slows down next to a canopy of palm trees.“It’s a taco truck, or well, bus, I guess. It’s a taco bus.”
And so it is. The Tiki Taco is parked in theshade under the trees. It’s like an old surf van, back when vanswere made big enough to carry all of your boards and equipmentinside rather than strapping it all to the roof. It’s a beautifulshade of turquoise with a wooden sign hanging on the side.
Sloane parks her car and motions for me tofollow her. It’s probably too early for lunch, but a lady with aflower behind her ear peeks her head out and waves to us.
“Sloane, so good to see you!” she calls out.“And who is your friend?”
“This is Kaia. She’s going to be here for afew weeks, so I figured I better show her the good stuff up front,”she says. Then she gestures to the lady. “This is Sylvia. She andher husband own The Tiki Taco. She usually makes exceptions for mewhen I come before lunch.”
Sylvia smiles. “Always. Come take a look atthe menu.”
She walks out of the vehicle and hangs thewooden menu on the hook. My mouth waters just looking at the wordstacos,
