I dismiss the call and shove my phone back in my pocket. I don’t have time for this madness when I have a gaggle of nosy vloggers and wannabe paparazzi crowding my food truck space. They’ve been hanging around, cutting in front of the customers in line, shoving people aside, and shouting questions at me sporadically throughout the day.

How any of them obtained my phone number is beyond me. Apparently, some of these food vloggers in Maui are aspiring to be paparazzi scum given how ruthlessly they’ve been behaving.

The warmth of Mom’s hand on my arm is a tiny comfort. She looks up at me. “You ready to start the day, anak?”

I take a breath and nod.

When I open the window to the food truck, I’m promptly greeted with our usual line of customers. But at the very front are a handful of food vloggers I recognize from local blogs and YouTube channels elbowing one another. When they look up and see me, they shove their phones and cameras in my face.

“Nikki! Congrats on your win at the Maui Food Festival! Would you be willing to mention my blog in your commercial?” a high school–aged boy asks. I roll my eyes and say nothing.

A woman in sunglasses and a fedora shoves the high school kid to the side with her free arm, her other hand pointing her phone at my face. “Was your relationship with Callum real, Nikki? Or did you do it for the publicity?”

Mrs. Tokushige and Penelope stare daggers at the back of the fedora’s head. Seeing them show up here day after day is much-needed comfort in this madness. There are a few more questions shouted from the crowd. And then someone asks if Callum is as skilled in the bedroom as he is in the kitchen. That’s when my blood turns to magma.

I slam my hands on top of the metal countertop. “Listen the hell up!”

My shout silences every last one of the vloggers. The high schooler looks on with a shocked expression and mutters, “Yes, ma’am.”

“My personal life isn’t up for discussion. I’m also not interested in name-dropping any of you in a commercial when you’ve been harassing me and my customers every day since the festival. I’m here to cook and serve food, and you goddamn piranhas are crowding around my truck, making it impossible for my mother and me to serve our customers. Either get the hell out of the way so my customers can order, or else.”

There’s silence, followed by soft mutters. A scrawny white guy in the back of the crowd tucks his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms, stubborn written across his frown. “Or else what?”