Rocky Road (27 page)

T
wenty minutes later, Chief drove Jordan and me to A Cherry on Top. I explained as best I could about Ma crashing and that I’d be running the business today. I asked him to stick around all day, in case someone official came looking for an adult in charge. Then I braced myself for a long string of his bossy orders, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he nodded, put his bony hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “Sure, Tess. I’ll do whatever you need.”

It took several trips to unload our supplies from Chief’s
parked truck, including the tamales and the giant concession-stand sign I’d painted. Jordan carried Lucky’s travel case and heat lamp with the cord dragging behind him looking like a tail. He’d fussed when I explained that Ma wasn’t coming. Letting him bring his turtle was the only way I could get him out the door.

Once Ma and I watched a movie about a guy who had to crash-land a jet plane, even though he wasn’t a pilot and, worse, he was afraid to fly. Standing there behind the ice cream counter and knowing I was in charge—well, I had that same in-over-my-head feeling. My throat was dry. My knees shook—so much that my new capri pants made a scuffing sound. And my shoulders felt heavy like I’d been lifting dumbbells.

First thing I did was read Ma’s start-up checklist, which told me to turn on the waffle-cone griddle, the shake machine, the soft-serve machine, and the hot-fudge dispenser, just like I’d seen Ma do. I checked the freezer temperature—five degrees below zero, where it should be. Then I turned my attention to the cash register. Sure wished I’d listened when Ma told me to practice on it. No matter how many buttons I pushed, I couldn’t get the dumb drawer to open.

After the tenth try it was still stuck. “Darn!” I shouted, whacking it with my fist.

Chief looked up from loading napkins into the dispenser. “Let me have a look,” he said. “I operated sonar in a navy CIC for thirty years. A cash register can’t be more complicated than that.”

So Chief pulled out the operating manual that was stowed
under the counter, and I turned my attention to mixing waffle batter. Then Jordan came out from the storage room, plopped Lucky’s travel case on the dining-area floor, opened the top, and started pouring crickets into the food bowl.

“No. Lucky stays in the storage room,” I signed firmly. “Turtles don’t go with ice cream.”

“No! No! Lucky wants to crawl,” he signed, puffing his lower lip.

I couldn’t bend on this rule. I remember Ma saying that a health-code citation is the fastest way to shut down a food business. Time for a win-win solution. “Turtles can’t be near food,” I signed again, pointing toward the back. “Lucky can crawl in the storage room. That’s okay.”

So, reluctantly, Jordan carried away the travel case and the sunlamp with the dragging cord just as the front door opened.

“¡Olé!”
Gabby shouted, clicking castanets and wearing strappy heels and a sparkly gold skirt. A rose was tucked behind her ear, and her pretty dark cheeks were dusted with glitter.

“¡Qué bonita!”
I called, remembering Juanita’s
abuelita
’s favorite saying.

Chief whistled. “Fine sight like that makes me wish I was a young sailor again,” he called.

Gabby pulled me from behind the counter and twirled me around. “Cute outfit, Tess! Love those highlights, too. Fiesta chic!”

I thought of how Ma and I had spent the perfect mom-daughter afternoon yesterday, getting our hair done and shopping. I must have tried on twenty pairs of pants, with Ma at my
side in the dressing room all along, sipping a Dr Pepper and saying I looked as pretty as a polished pearl. My heart sank to the midseam of my smocked top. Yesterday felt like a year ago.

“Something’s happened,” I told Gabby. “My mother won’t be here today. She’s sick.”

Gabby’s pink-lip-glossed smile faded. “What’s wrong with her?”

“It’s called bipolar disorder, and it’s kind of like this roller coaster she rides of happy and sad spells. Right now she’s sad. Really sad. Can’t-get-out-of-bed sad.”

Gabby’s eyes watered up. “Poor Miz Dobson. I’m so sorry. Doesn’t seem fair—she’s always cheering everybody else up.” She glanced over at Chief at the cash register and asked, “Who’s in charge?”

I rested my hands against the bowl of waffle batter. “Me.”

Gabby paused, then took the rose from her hair and gently tucked it behind my ear. “Then this place is in good hands. And you’re not alone. We’re in this together. Right, Chief?”

“Right as rain, Gabby,” Chief called. “And speaking of right, this cash register is squared away now. So as you young folks say, ‘Show me the money.’”

I found Ma’s clipboard and reviewed the schedule. The Cinco de Mayo parade and sidewalk sales would start an hour after A Cherry on Top opened. The raffle would be held at lunchtime. And Mayor Legato and the TV reporter would
arrive later in the afternoon for the ribbon cutting, with the piñata to follow. The clowns would be here all day.

As I finished reading the schedule, Gabby got the jukebox cranking, and the door jingled open. “Thought you all might enjoy some bagels to kick off your Grand Opening. Compliments of Barley’s,” Mac Kelsh called, smiling as he dropped a brown bag on the counter. For a big guy, he sure had a soft voice.

I walked over to him. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Kel—”

“Call me Mac,” he said, gazing around the shop. He wore a sage-green collared shirt that matched his khaki pants nicely. His
STORE MANAGER KELSH, HERE TO SERVE YOU
name tag was centered neatly above his shirt pocket.

Gabby reached for a poppy-seed bagel, and I started slicing a plain one for Jordan.

“Is Delilah around?” Mac asked.

I shook my head, reluctant to say much.

He looked surprised. “When do you expect her?”

“Not sure. She appointed me acting shop manager. You need something?”

“I wanted to compliment Delilah on her presentation and merchandising,” he said, looking over at the fudge display and topping jars and up at the beaver cycling overhead. “Engaged customers make more impulse purchases, and this place is a real attention grabber.”

I smiled. “I’ll pass on your kind words.”

After he left, a familiar voice called from the storage room. “Soda jerk reporting for duty!”

Pete walked out and Gabby, Chief, and I all spoke at the same time. “Whoa!”

He was dressed like he’d time-traveled back seventy years, with a spiffy white tuxedo jacket with tails, a bow tie, and a paper hat covering his slicked red hair.

“Look at you!” I blurted out.

Pete grinned proudly. “Miz Dobson expects us soda jerks to serve with distinction. In the old days we were the superstars. Knowing that, well, I did some serious picking to upgrade my wardrobe.”

“Through trash?” I whispered, grimacing.

“Naah.” He straightened his bow tie. “The Salvation Army just got a new shipment.” Then he whistled at Gabby and me. “Never mind me. Get a load of
you
ladies. Not one, but two eighty-seven and a halves!”

“Huh?” we both said at once.

“That’s soda-jerk slang for
pretty ladies
,” he explained, pulling an index card from his back pocket.

I motioned for him to come behind the counter and wash his hands. “Gabby and I could use a refresher lesson on sundae making. My ma won’t be here today, and everything has to operate on schedule, just the way she planned.”

Pete raised his eyebrows, then nodded without asking any questions. “Good thing I memorized the recipes for all forty of the sundae specials. Miz Dobson trains her soda jerks well, plus I took notes from the last S&P session.”

“S&P session?” Gabby asked.

“Scoop and pack. The top two essential skills for a soda jerk,” he said matter-of-factly.

Gabby gazed at Pete with amorous eyes as he scrubbed his hands. “I can see why soda jerks were considered superstars.”

I couldn’t take any more of this employee flirting. I spread peanut butter on a bagel for Jordan and walked back to the storage room.

The smell of smoke struck me before I even got there.

“Oh no!” I shrieked, my heart racing.

Flames shot out from the corner of the storage room. Lucky’s sunlamp had fallen into Lucky’s travel case. The box was melting and browning, with a giant hole through the center getting bigger and bigger.

“Jordan!” I yelled. He was on the opposite side of the room, his back to the fire, kneeling over Lucky, unaware of what was happening.

Ring! Ring!
The smoke alarm went off.

I rushed over and grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink. Ma’s fire-safety training flashed through my mind, and I quickly pulled the pin off the extinguisher. Aiming at the base of the fire,
not
the flames, like she told me, I squeezed the trigger and swept side to side.

“Should I call 911?” Gabby shouted, rushing in.

“No, definitely not!” I said, worried that firefighters would discover the owner wasn’t here and shut us down.

Back and forth I swept the foam for a good five minutes
until the flames subsided. A gray smoke cloud hovered above the sink, but the danger was gone.

I waited a few minutes and then picked up the charred remains of the box, only to realize the ash and extinguisher foam had ruined the tamale sign beside it too. I gathered it all and a giant ruined box of plastic spoons and tossed them out back in the Dumpster.

When I returned, Jordan was clutching Lucky to his chest, crying. “Stuffy nose. Smell nothing,” he signed.

I rubbed his head and wiped his wet cheek. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared,” I signed.

Pete, Chief, Mr. and Mrs. Bianco, and Mr. Harley were all huddled in the storage room. Chief grabbed paper towels and started wiping up the mess. I pulled the box of tamales away. Luckily they hadn’t been destroyed.

“Everything’s under control,” I said, reaching for a broom to clear the soot on the floor. Pete gave Jordan a big bowl to hold Lucky temporarily.

“And I’ll get more spoons,” Pete said.

“Where’s your mother?” Mr. Harley asked me, his face worried.

“Home. She’s in bed, sick,” I explained yet again. “But Cinco de Mayo goes on as scheduled. It must.”

Mr. Bianco’s mouth dropped open. “But you’re a kid. No one can expect a—”

“Please, Mr. Bianco,” I said. “I’ve
got
to do this. For my ma’s sake. I can’t let her down.”

He nodded and then, along with Mr. Harley, picked up
more ashy debris as Mrs. Bianco took the broom from my hands. “Delilah Dobson reaches out every time she sees someone needing a hand on State Street. You don’t have to do this alone,” she said.

Mrs. Bianco put her hand on my shoulder. “We won’t
let
you do it alone.”

“H
ere you go, ma’am, two twist cones with rainbow sprinkles,” I said to the lady with a stroller. “Enjoy!” I added, using Ma’s closing salutation.

Quickly I started mixing the next customer’s SmAlbany Strawberry Shake. No time to idle. The line was out the door and snaking down the sidewalk. Pete had just dashed off to Barley’s for more spoons, and we were already missing him behind the counter.

“If only I’d memorized the sundae specials like our soda
jerk did,” Gabby whispered as she ladled blueberry syrup on a Yankee Doodle Dandy.

“Yeah, I’m getting whiplash from turning around to read the menu board. And we’re running out of spoons. Sure hope Pete gets back soon,” I said.

“I hope Peter hurries, because he’s soooo funny,” Gabby gushed as she placed three pieces of caramel fudge in a box with tissue.

“Peter?”
I asked.

She nodded, handing the box to a customer. “
Peter
sounds more fitting for a soda jerk.”

A Cherry on Top was wall-to-wall customers. People were laughing, talking, digging into sundaes, and licking away at cones. Silly Billy & Son had just arrived, and little kids were crowded around them as they set up their show. The clown son looked about my age, though it was hard to tell with that bushy red wig and white-painted face.