by Gina Calanni
No problem. I’d prefer to shut mine than to stare Brandon straight in the eyes; my cheeks are warm. I need that ice cream in my mouth sooner rather than later.
“Open up.”
I part my lips as nicely as I can and Brandon slides a ball of cold into my mouth. I shut my mouth and take in the flavors. This one is easy. I swallow. I can’t believe this is even an option.
I open my eyes. “Vanilla.”
Brandon smirks at me. “Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope? That’s vanilla, I know it.”
“It’s not just vanilla, though.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, Homemade Vanilla.”
Brandon laughs. “Wrong again. It’s French Vanilla.”
I’m going to have to work on my vanilla-tasting skills, apparently. I shake my head.
“All right, give me the next one.” Shoot, I’d better get this one right. I’m now one for one. I do not like losing. I can hear my mama in my head telling me “Sahara mind your manners, no one likes to lose. Best not be too prideful.”
Brandon whips his body around and goes for the last scoop of ice cream. I don’t want to mess this one up. Brandon peeks over his shoulder and lowers his head toward me. I nod. Like I don’t already know the protocol of closing my eyes. My lids shut and I slowly open my mouth. Brandon lightly touches the smooth spoon over my lip before sliding it onto my tongue. I close my mouth as the spoon exits. This one seems easy, too. Chocolate. But I was wrong with vanilla. It must be something fancier, like Dutch Chocolate. It’s richer than regular chocolate, like it was made from something with more depth.
I open my eyes. Brandon’s dreamy blues are watching me and waiting for my answer.
“Dutch Chocolate,” I say and jut out my jaw. I know I’m right about this one.
Brandon cocks his head to the right and nods. “All right, Dairy Queen girl, you got that one right. How’s about a friendly wager?”
“A wager?” What’s this boy talking about? I swear his head is up in the clouds with his dreamy blues soaring away into some other planet, thinking about things that we aren’t to be concerned with. We have a job to do. Tasting ice cream and not making bets. This isn’t Louisiana. We’re not on some riverboat casino cruise.
“Yes. You’re two to one. If I beat you… you let me take you on a proper date, away from the cafeteria.” Brandon’s eyes are boring into my own. I try and act natural. I can’t say I’m not one hundred percent infatuated by him and his dreaminess but I don’t want to lose sight of why I’m here.
“And if you lose, Mr. Confidence?” I glance around the room, making sure no one is privy to our conversation, or wager for that matter.
“What do you want?” Brandon wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I can only respond by rolling my eyes at him. And then, almost as if one of those cartoon light bulbs has popped up above my head, I have an idea. A good one. A humdinger, as my mama would say.
“I’ll tell you what I want… I have to weed Ms. Myra’s flowerbeds and plant some new things for her.” I bite my lip.
“Deal.” Brandon offers me his hand. I reach out to shake his and it’s almost like he’s got one of those hand buzzers in his palm. There is a surge of electricity that passes from his rough hands. Not rough hands like the ranch hands back home that I’m used to, but still a manly hand.
I let go first and stand up. I stroll up to the front of the class to choose my three flavors for Brandon. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Yup, he’s watching all right.
Ooh, how do I have chills zipping down my spine and no ice cream in my mouth? I’ve got to get myself together. I scan the various ice creams and decide to go with Blackberry Cobbler – he might know his berries. And what else? Nuts? Well, I’m not going to choose pecans, that’s for sure. Every Texan should be able to differentiate between pecans and any other nut, otherwise I hear they will revoke your birth certificate and pass you over to New Mexico or Oklahoma. No, sirree, pecans are a must for Texans.
I’ll go with… ooh, ha, my eyes have found a jewel in the mist. Yes. I couldn’t be happier if the tasting were over and I’d already won our bet. I scoop up some Pistachio Almond cream. Let’s see if he can guess a double-nut ice-cream flavor. And for my last choice, Banana Split. This one is an explosion of flavors: bananas, pineapple, maraschino cherries, almonds, strawberry sauce, and chocolate sundae sauce swirled together with vanilla ice cream. Shoot, he won’t know what hit him or his taste buds.
I almost gallop back to our spot and do my best not to look like a gushing daisy with my smile. I can’t help being excited about the ice creams I’ve chosen.
“You ready?” I nod for him to turn around.
“I’m always ready.” Brandon closes his eyes. I thought with his eyes closed I would feel more at ease and not like I was under a microscope. Yet now I’m even more nervous. I don’t want to drop the ice cream in his lap or, worse, miss his mouth altogether.
I scoop up the Pistachio Almond first. I maneuver the white spoon to his mouth and tap on his lips.
“Open up, here comes your first taste.”
Brandon’s lips part and I slide the spoon in and he closes his lips with the spoon in his mouth. I blink. My hand is still on the spoon and he opens his eyes. His big, dreamy blue eyes that are twinkling at me, as if he thinks something is funny. His hand covers mine and he opens his mouth and we retract the spoon together. My heart is beating faster than I think is probably healthy or should be reserved for real cardio work, not sitting on my behind eating ice cream.
“Almond and…” Brandon bites his lip and glances up at the ceiling. This gives me a second to regain my composure.
“Pistachio Almond ice cream.” Brandon wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I slouch my shoulders. Hmm, I didn’t think he would get that one. A double-nut ice cream. What is he, a nut connoisseur or something? I purse my lips to the side.
“All right, great, let’s try the next one.” I turn to get my next scoop. I’m going to go with Banana Split. It might be cheating or making things extra hard, but I think his palate will still be on overload from this one so that when he tries the Blackberry Cobbler, he probably won’t know which fruit it is. Ha, sneaky maybe… but technically not cheating.
“Close those dreamy blu…” I cannot believe I just said that out loud. Brandon’s eyes are on me and then he shuts them, I’m sure out of respect for the red flush in my cheeks. I know my cheeks are red because they are hotter than a heat rash from vinyl car seats. With his eyes shut it’s almost as if I can still see his eyes twinkling back at me and, even with his mouth closed, it’s obvious he is grinning.
I tap the spoon against his lip and he opens his mouth, so I quickly drop off the scoop before he can close his mouth and hold my hand in place again.
Brandon opens his eyes and chews the ice cream as if trying to decipher the explosions of flavors colliding against his tongue. He opens his mouth to speak and then licks his lip. I let out a sigh.
“Tough one.”
“Give up?” I wish I had refrained from being so giddy to hear him concede.
“Never…” Brandon rubs his lips together. “Banana Split.”
I jerk my head back in surprise. He must have practiced tasting ice cream over the weekend. I did, too. But obviously my tasting didn’t pay off. Blackberry cobbler is my only hope that we will end evenly, which isn’t anything to be proud of.
I scoop up the cobbler covered with bright blackberries and peek over my shoulder and give Brandon the close-your-eyes glare. He does and I push the final scoop into his mouth and then drop the spoon in the cup behind me.
Brandon’s eyes are brighter than before. Great. His mama’s favorite pie is probably blackberry… shoot, I should have chosen another nut ice cream, or maybe even a fancy version of chocolate.
“Blackberry Cobbler.” Brandon winks at me.
“All right, class, I think we’ve had enough time to try several flavors. Everyone please take their origina
l seats,” Mr. Flints calls from the front of the class.
Brandon stands up and gathers our cups and spoons and drops them in the garbage can at the back of the class. He strolls back to his seat. My chest is heavy; he didn’t even check to see if I confirmed his guess – if you could call it a guess, given that he was so confident. And now I’ve lost and yet won an official date with him? Not just the grocery store pick-up. I can’t imagine that going over well. He makes my insides dance while we’re sitting in a supervised classroom with thirty other people. How am I going to be able to keep still when we are all alone? Again. I barely escaped his house without giving everything of myself to him. There was a lack of chitchat and our bodies seemed to be communicating with each other on a different level until I had called surrender. As in, I had to get home, because Ms. Myra was expecting me. But this. I gulp. What have I gotten myself into? I should have just politely said no to his offer and made up something, like that I don’t bet. Now I’ve gone and signed up for who knows what. The idea of going out with Brandon makes me more nervous than walking on a tightrope over the Niagara Falls.
I swallow and take out my pen and paper to take down the next of Mr. Flints’ notes. I wonder if he’s got any tips on how to handle oneself on a date with someone you are swept away by and can’t imagine seeing yourself with. There is something different about Brandon, like he doesn’t belong here or among the average folk. He stands out, not just in this classroom… but in every room.
Chapter Six
I peek my head in the kitchen and Ms. Myra catches my eye. “Now, where you headed?” She’s baking up a batch of cornbread. I weeded out all of her flowerbeds this morning. Part of the arrangement of renting a room was that I would handle some of the chores. Which is fine by me. I handled all the chores at home. Shoot, I need to call my mama and find out how she is getting along. I called her after class yesterday and same old dial tone. I wanted to fill her in on my week and how things were going and find out about hers. I’m sure she’s turned off the answering machine because it never picked up. And I haven’t seen any missed calls on my phone even though she said she had been trying to call me, too. Maybe she was messing up the number and putting in the wrong one. I shake my head and glance at Ms. Myra; she is stirring her bowl and watching me.
I smile. “I’m not quite sure. Brandon said to wear jeans and that’s all I know.”
“Wear jeans? That doesn’t seem like much of a date. In my day, the fella wouldn’t tell the gal what to wear, and if there was even the slightest possibility of it, it wouldn’t be jeans. Are you sure you don’t want to go and put on a nice dress?” Ms. Myra glances up from her bowl.
I laugh. “I’m okay in jeans, I feel comfortable. Besides, I don’t know if he really thinks this is a date or just some way of teasing me.” I pour a glass of ice tea into one of the marmalade jars. Ms. Myra is a big saver. She’s got sandwich bag ties for days – could probably weave eighty afghans out of them.
“Teasing you for what?” Ms. Myra drops her wooden spoon in the batter and puts her hands on her hips.
“Oh, not in a mean way, but he tried to pay for my lunch the first day and I wouldn’t let him, so I don’t know if this is just his way of being able to do that.” I shrug my shoulders and take a sip of the tea.
“Now, did you not have your pocketbook with you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did. But he tried to pay for both our lunches in the cafeteria, and I wouldn’t let him.”
Ms. Myra laughs. “I see.” She picks up her spoon and stirs the contents a few more times and then suddenly grasps the counter.
“Are you all right?” I rush to her side.
“Yes, dear. I’m just getting old. How’s about you help me to the kitchen table and I’ll finish up this batch sitting down.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I guide her to the table and she slowly sits down like it pains her with each bend of her bones. I grab the bowl and pan from the counter and bring them to the table.
“Should I stay and he…”
“Now, don’t you dare. I’m fine.” Ms. Myra shakes her head at me. She stirs her bowl a few more times before rolling out balls and putting them on a greased tin pan.
A knock at the door breaks the silence of our conversation. I stick my cup in the sink.
“I suppose that’s him.” I nod at Ms. Myra.
“I suppose you’re right. You might as well get the door then.” Ms. Myra wipes her hands on her sunflower apron.
I stalk to the door and pat my hair down. I probably should have checked myself out once more in the mirror, but I had combed my hair thoroughly and put some gloss on my lips. My mascara was already in place from after my shower. I don’t wear much makeup but those are staples ever since junior high. I remember the day my mama said I could finally start wearing makeup; all the other girls had been for two years. It was my last year of junior high, and on my birthday she gave me a tube of light-pink lip gloss wrapped up with a silver bow. It wasn’t much of a gift for most girls, but to me it meant the world. My mama’s approval of lip gloss. And it was a pretty color.
I open the door. Brandon is standing on the doorstep with a bouquet of yellow roses. I take a step back and smile. “Hey.” Brilliant. I probably should have practiced what I was going to say as I was combing my hair for the umpteenth time.
“Hey, these are for you.” Brandon hands the flowers to me. I lean into them and take in a deep whiff. Mmm, I could smell roses all day long, no need to remind me.
“Thank you… uh, let me put these in some water, real quick.” I close the door on Brandon. I swing it back open. Brandon has a big grin on his face.
“Sorry about that. Do you want to step in for a minute?” I wave my hand into the entryway. Which is not much space; Ms. Myra’s house is a total of eight hundred square feet and that includes my small room. The entryway, if you could call it that, is basically a small space in-between the kitchen and the living room.
I hustle into the kitchen.
“Oh, well now, roses, that’s very nice.”
“Yes, and they smell great.” I offer the flowers for her to smell. She sniffs the roses as if she hasn’t smelled a flower in years, though she’s got a backyard full of various flowers. I know, as I just weeded about fourteen different flowerbeds this morning.
“There is a vase underneath the sink you can use.” Ms. Myra motions for me. I glance over my shoulder and Brandon is rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Brandon, this is Ms. Myra.”
Brandon strides into the room and offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Myra.”
“Hmm, yes, nice to meet you, too, Brandon.” Ms. Myra eyes him up and down. I’m not sure if this is a normal response or if she is feeling protective of me. But I would have thought, after her pure excitement over the roses, it would have guaranteed him a better greeting.
I fill the green glass vase with water from the sink and stick the yellow roses in. I stand back and admire the beauty of the yellow against the green. Almost like that painting by Van Gogh, except I know those were sunflowers, but these are special like a famous painting. For one, they are the first flowers I’ve ever received. Of course, I won’t be sharing that with Brandon. I don’t want him to think I’m not used to the nice things in life.
“All right. Well then, we should be going.” I raise my eyebrow at Brandon.
“Yes, we should. Nice to meet you again, Ms. Myra.” Brandon nods.
“Yes, nice to meet you.” Ms. Myra draws out the operative word.
We head out through the front door and down the wood porch; it’s on my chore list to repaint it at some point. My chore list is about two pages of things to take care of. I hope I still have a room when I finish all of the items. Ms. Myra never gave me a lease date. She just said we would see how things went, and I didn’t really have a lot of other options. Well, really, none, to be exact. I happily agreed to her terms, which were pretty straightforward. I pay my monthly rent and take care of the chore list.
Brandon beeps the door to his truck. It’s a shiny silver Ford F-450 Platinum Super Duty. These things cost a fortune. I bet he’s got a hefty car payment, let alone the insurance. I know my small Chevette insurance is a third of my Dairy Queen paycheck and I’ve never had an accident or ticket. Shoot, my mama would want to tan my hide if I ever got a ticket for speeding. I know this for sure.
I climb up into the cab and buckle myself in. Brandon slides into the seat next to me.
“What have you been up to today?” Brandon eyes me as he puts the truck in gear and steers us off of Ms. Myra’s property.
“Weeding out the flowerbeds all by myself, as I seem to have lost the opportunity to have any help.” I purse my lips to the side. I’m not that bothered. I had never figured I’d have help with the beds, but when the possibility arose I can’t say I wasn’t looking forward to the idea of having someone help me. Ms. Myra is great, but other than her, I haven’t really had any chitchat with anybody else except the grocery store clerk, and that amounted to the normal niceties of how are you and thank you, have a nice day.
Brandon lets out a laugh. “True, you did lose. We might need to work on your tasting skills.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I give his arm a shove. His solid body doesn’t move and I retract my hand like I burned it on the stove. I take a deep swallow.
“So, where are we going?” I toss my hair over my shoulder.
“Well, I guess I can tell you since we’re almost there. How do you feel about going horseback riding?”
I bite my lip. The only horseback riding I’ve ever done was at Maribel Grahams’s tenth birthday party, and it was a pony not a horse.
“Sounds great. I’m glad I wore jeans and not a dress.” I let out a laugh.
“You were going to wear a dress?”
“Ms. Myra suggested that I wear a dress if this was a da…”
Brandon’s dreamy blues are on me with a raised eyebrow. Shoot, is this not a date? I’m sure my cheeks are ablaze again. Darn, I wish I was able to hop out of the truck and hitch a ride back to Ms. Myra’s place.