When I got home, I went straight to my room and flopped face-down on my bed. My coolers sat unpacked in the garage.
I heard a knock on my door.
“Kiora? Can we come in?” It was Mom’s voice.
“I guess,” I mumbled into my pillow.
Mom and Dad came in and sat on the edge of my bed. I could feel them looking at me, but I didn’t want to turn around.
“We heard what happened at the park,” Dad said gently.
“Officer Hernandez called us,” Mom added. “He wanted to make sure you got home safely and that we understood the situation.”
I finally rolled over and sat up. “I’m done. My business is over. I can’t compete with Mr. Griggs, and now I can’t even sell at the park anymore.”
“Hey,” Dad said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t the end. It’s just a bump in the road.”
“A bump? Dad, I got shut down by the police! I’m probably going to get arrested or something.”
Mom shook her head. “Officer Hernandez said you were very polite and cooperative. You’re not in any trouble. You just need to learn how to do things the right way.”
“But it’s too complicated,” I said, feeling tears starting again. “He said I need a permit. I don’t know how to do any of that.”
“That’s what parents are for,” Dad said with a smile. “To help you figure out the complicated stuff.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Mom said. “Look, what you’ve built here is impressive. You’ve proven you can run a business. Now you just need to make it official.”
Dad pulled out his phone. “Let’s start by researching what permit you actually need. Officer Hernandez mentioned getting in touch with the city hall as a good next step.”
We spent the next hour looking up information about business permits for the city. It was confusing at first—there were more forms and regulations than in my math textbook, and that was saying something. But Mom and Dad helped me understand what each requirement meant.
“Okay,” Mom said, making a list. “For a small food vendor in city parks, you need a temporary vendor permit. That’s actually not as complicated as Officer Hernandez made it sound.”
“How much does it cost?” I asked nervously.
Dad checked the website. “The application fee is twenty dollars, and they say it normally takes two to four weeks to process.”
“Two to four weeks?” My heart sank. “The tournament will be over by then. Summer will practically be over.”
“Wait,” Mom said, scrolling down the page. “There’s an expedited processing option. For an additional fee, they can process it in one business day.”
“How much additional?”
“It doesn’t say. You have to go to city hall in person to apply for expedited processing.”
The next morning, I rode my bike to city hall with twenty dollars from my earnings clutched in my hand. The building was big and official-looking, with marble steps and tall columns that made me feel very small.
Inside, I found the permits office and waited in line behind two adults who were applying for building permits. One of them had a stack of papers so tall it looked like he was planning to build a skyscraper. The other kept muttering about “zoning regulations” and “setback requirements” like they were ancient curses.
When it was finally my turn, I approached the counter where a tired-looking man with glasses sat behind a stack of papers that made the skyscraper guy’s pile look tiny.
“Can I help you?” he asked without looking up.
“Hi, I’m Kiora, and I need to apply for a temporary vendor permit for the park.”
He looked up at me with surprise, blinking like he’d never seen a twelve-year-old before. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“And you want a vendor permit?” He said it like I’d asked to adopt a dragon.
“Yes, sir. I have a snack stand, and a police officer told me I needed permits to sell in the park.”
The man—his nameplate said “Mr. Chen”—studied me for a moment. Then he pulled out a form and set it on the counter.
“Fill this out,” he said. “Normal processing time is two to four weeks, but since you’re just a kid with a snack stand, I can put you on the expedited list for a twenty-dollar fee. You’ll have an answer by tomorrow afternoon.”
Twenty dollars on top of the twenty-dollar application fee. That was forty dollars total—more than I’d made in my terrible day yesterday.
But what choice did I have?
I filled out the form as carefully as I could, answering questions about what I planned to sell, where I planned to sell it, and what days I wanted to operate. Mr. Chen looked it over and nodded.
“Looks good. That’ll be forty dollars total.”
I handed over the money, watching two twenty-dollar bills disappear from my earnings.
“Come back tomorrow after three o’clock,” Mr. Chen said, handing me a receipt. “I’ll have your answer then.”
I rode my bike home slowly, forty dollars poorer and with no guarantee that I’d even get approved.
All I could do now was wait and hope that tomorrow would bring better news.