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The knapsack lies heavy on my back as I pull out my phone to text my friend Marcello. What was once a relationship of convenience based on asking each other to cover our shifts has evolved into an actual friendship. Marcello is my first friend ever. I have to send the message while I'm still within range of my home's Wi-Fi. My phone plan has been cut for months but I'm still able to send messages on WhatsUp, the mobile app my sisters and I use to chat.

Me: On my way.

Marcello: Finally! I've been sitting in my car for the last 20 minutes. Hurry up! Me: I'll be sure to let the bus driver know.

Marcello: Oh well if that's how it is, let me just go on 'head into work then. Me: Marcello!

Marcello: Mmm-hmm. That's what I thought. Me: Blah blah thank you. I'm coming!

Just as I put my phone away, I hear the huffing and puffing of what sounds like an emphysema-riddled dragon. The city bus is speeding toward the stop. 'Dang it.' Carefully, I switch my knapsack to the front and hold it securely against my chest with both hands. I run full tilt toward the vehicle even though I know the driver can see me racing. But I'm not about to miss this ride for anything. Not to mention, some of the drivers have a mean streak and will speed off even if you're within a few feet of the stop.

The bus squeals to a halt in front of me and I clamber on, paying my fare without a word before easing myself into a seat near the entrance. The familiar sights of Little Haiti blur past as we weave our way through town. Colorful houses, rogue chickens, and proud palm trees fill the scenery, eventually morphing into the many-laned concrete highway that will take us south to the Hunter Island ferry.

This morning's ride is a quiet one, and I am grateful for it. Some days aren't as peaceful. Whether it's an older woman thumping her Bible at 7 A.M., shouting for you to repent and save yourself from an eternity burning in hell, or a man in a rubber suit muttering to himself as he rocks back and forth in his seat, squeaking with each movement, you never know what mix of commuters you'll get.

We exit the highway and I prepare to get off the bus for my transfer to the next one. There is no direct bus route from Little Haiti to Hunter Island. Exclusive island community and public transportation don't exactly go hand in hand. No matter that many of said exclusive community's workers rely on the city's (terrible) transit system. Luckily, the trip on the second bus is much shorter.

At last, I am within sight of the ferry terminal. The bus rolls to a stop and I exit, walking the remaining two blocks to the ferry that will take me to Hunter Island. As soon as I step onto the boat, I can see Marcello setting up the table for the makeshift food station that will hold my food samples. He must feel my stare because he raises his head and wiggles his fingers in greeting.

"You made it, bee-yotch!" Marcello says as I place my knapsack on one end of the table.

"Barely." I open my luggage and unpack my items. "I swear the driver of the first bus was speeding to the stop just so he could leave me behind."

"Ugh. I do not miss that at all." Marcello winces. It's been two months since Marcello got his first car. He would've picked me up to take the ferry this morning but I needed him to grab a couple of last-minute items for me.

As more people board the ferry, we work quickly to set the table. Biodegradable plates, utensils, and napkins are in neat stacks toward the front of the table for people to grab as they make their way through the line. (There will be a line, okay?! Think positive.) We've waited until just a few minutes before sailing away to open the chafing dishes full of breakfast-themed amuse-bouche, just in case one of the ferry workers asks us to show them the permit that took us weeks to acquire. If there's something wrong with our paperwork but we've already sailed away, then there's nothing they can do about it, right?

The ferry lurches forward as it maneuvers away from the dock. Marcello and I glance at each other.

"It's showtime," I say. The tremor in my voice is unmistakable.

"Try not to look so sick," Marcello says with a smirk. "You don't want people thinking it was your food that put that look on your face."

I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly to calm my nerves. I know my food is good. 'Better' than good. It's amazing. And I'm not just saying that. I've been cooking the majority of my and Mummy's meals for quite some time now. What started off as wanting to learn how to cook to avoid accidentally poisoning me and my mom—I take over kitchen duty when she's having a pain flare-up—has morphed into a full-blown obsession. I lift the covers off the heating trays and within seconds, I can hear the 'sniff sniff sniffing' of passengers searching for the source of the delicious aroma.

Today I have prepared caramelized banana French toast bites, pan- seared sausage links wrapped in massaged kale, and fresh yogurt topped with a spiced tropical fruit compote. (This is where you say, 'Thank you, Chef'.)

Marcello and I have only plated four servings when a little blond boy who can't be older than eight steps up to our table.

"Can I have some?" he asks, looking directly at the plate that is just a few inches from his small fingers.

"Yes, you can," I say with a wide smile, cheekbones up.