by Gina Calanni
“Sahara, you all right? The tour is about to start.” Brandon squeezes my hand. Air begins to fill my lungs, like I was out for a minute and with his appearance I’m able to be resuscitated. It’s all coming back to me now. Not like that Meatloaf song. But Mary’s words. Yet, with Brandon in front of me, her words couldn’t seem farther from the truth. How could he be harboring any ill will toward me? He’s only ever been nice and kind and I’ve only swooned every which way possible. Here he is. His big, strong shoulders that are like huge boulders that have blocked off the fear of something I want to avoid. Like Brandon is a chiseled road that I can glide upon under the sunshine of his voice, his skin, his eyes. And I can somehow not be rained on when I am near his body. Like he can provide shelter over any type of darkness that I have ever feared. But I don’t know him and Mary seems to, or says she does. Why am I titter-tottering between these two different versions of reality? I want the one with Brandon to be true. The one where he really is this great guy who is interested in me and not the one Mary is warning me about. The guy that is conniving and trying to be something else. I don’t want that one to be true. Not at all. Either way, I’ve got to keep moving.
I can’t sit in this moment and ponder the what ifs or maybes. I have a job to do. It’s bad enough that I’m not getting any answers from Eagle Online, other than when am I going to pay my bill. But, I can’t focus on that. I’ve got to set my sights on the task at hand. And, this was not what I expected my third week of training would be like. Brandon and I are partners today as tour guides for the factory. About a dozen or so kids and their moms flock through the building as we explain how the big machines work, and afterwards dole out a scoop of ice cream to each kid. I’m used to being around kids as I have lots of cousins, and prior to getting the job at Dairy Queen I was a sought-after sitter. I even had fancy business cards made up. I might have been inspired by The Baby-Sitters Club books but I would never outright admit that, at least not then.
“All right, everyone, remember to stay together. The factory is filled with dangerous machinery.” Brandon’s eyes get bigger than a full moon in the desert as he says this, almost like he is telling a ghost story.
“Um, excuse me, but I don’t recall signing any sort of release form, and if there is any type of danger then I am going to need a refund.” The woman pushes her sunglasses on her head. “Stat.”
“Oh, ma’am, Brandon here is just having a little fun. We promise our factory is one hundred percent safe.” I eye Brandon and give him the kind of look my mama gives me when she wants me to get in line and stop messing around.
The sides of Brandon’s mouth pull up into a full-blown smile and his flashy whites – most likely bleached, but then again everything about him is so shiny and perfect he was probably born that way –
Shoot, I need to get a grip.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Sahara is right, I was just having a little fun, but you can rest assured I will make sure everyone on this tour is safe.” He nods at the woman and it’s almost as if she melts under his gaze.
She glances at her friends and I catch one of them making fanning motions. I roll my eyes and turn to Brandon. We need to get a move on. I don’t want to be marked down for taking too long on these tours.
I tap my clipboard with my pen. “Okay, everyone, please follow me.” I push the metal turnstile and pass through the entrance into the factory. The machines are zooming on full force, making the ice cream, packaging it and sorting it. There are about half a dozen workers on the floor at one time. Each one is fitted with a hair net and gloves. Even though the company’s number-one rule is that a smile can go a long way, safety comes first. The number of ice-cream shipments that exit the factory each day is astronomical.
The fussy woman seems to be clinging to Brandon as if he really is going to protect her from anything in this factory. I get it. But come on now, she’s got to be at least ten years older than him.
I stop in front of a large silver tank. “This is our Blend Tank, which is a one-thousand-gallon, stainless-steel mega-blender. Once all the ingredients are placed in this machine it is blended for about five to seven minutes.”
“What are the ingredients?” a little boy asks.
“That’s a great question. They are heavy cream, condensed skim milk, egg yolks and liquid cane sugar. And for our chocolate flavors we add cocoa powder.”
Brandon is grinning at me like I’m about to mess up my speech or something. He appears to be holding in a big laugh and no doubt it is at my expense. My cheeks are hotter than a cup of hot cocoa poured from a fire pot. I hold my hands at my sides. I will not fan myself like the women did earlier about Brandon. I wish we were alone so I could give him a shove. Well, not just a shove. The kiss we had in Ms. Myra’s garage has passed through my mind a few times and maybe that would be nice to have again.
We make our way to the Pasteurization and Homogenizer Room. It’s Brandon’s turn to take the lead. “Now, this room has two very important steps. Step one is pasteurization.” Brandon points to a rectangular, large, silver box. “Our pasteurizer is made of several stainless-steel plates. Hot water gushes over the plates and then the ice cream is pumped through on the other side of the plates where the water is transferred, heating up the mix.”
All the women nod as if they are taking down mental notes in case Brandon might have some questions for them.
“Next step is when the mix enters the homogenizer; it’s kind of like a tornado and it whisks the cream up and down at a very high rate.” I nod at Brandon.
“That’s right and then it makes its way to the Tank Room,” Brandon says.
“There’s tanks in here?” a little boy in a bright-red shirt asks.
Brandon lets out a laugh. “Sorry, buddy, I wish there were real tanks in here, too. But these are ice-cream tanks where the ice cream sits, kind of like in a time out.”
“I don’t want to go to the time-out room.” He stomps his feet.
Brandon smiles. “Me neither, so let’s skip to the automatic filler – that’s a cool machine. What do you say?”
“Yay.” He jumps up.
I’m happy to get this tour over, too, but I don’t want to get in trouble for skipping any steps. And these ladies seem to be keen on making sure rules are followed. We didn’t show them the Flavor Vats or the freezer. I follow behind Brandon as the little boy skips alongside him.
Technically it’s my turn to speak but Brandon seems to have taken the lead and, given the response from this group, I think everyone prefers that he is the speaker anyways.
“This is the automatic filler. It works through about one hundred and thirty pints a minute.”
The group all nods. This is always the impressive part of the tour. Those machines work so fast. Brandon glances over at me and winks. My face warms. I can’t believe he winked at me while we’re hosting a tour. Skipping steps and now a wink. He’s going to get both of us in trouble. I’m just sure of it.
Finally, we make it to the small metal table and Brandon grabs a tub of ice cream fresh off the conveyor and begins scooping up ice cream for all of the kids.
“Oh, my, it’s really quite cold in here,” the huffy lady says and casts her eyes at her chest and then at Brandon.
I can’t even believe she is calling attention to her deer-in-headlights. My grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if I ever did something like that. Thankfully, Brandon’s eyes are on the children and the ice cream. His manly face has a boyish quality to it as he hands the ice cream to each kid. I get it. I always am happy to give ice cream to kids; they are so excited about the taste of the frozen goodness and it’s like I’m a queen or something, or like a fairy passing out glitter to everyone and they are going to be able to fly.
I shake my head. Brandon’s doing all the work while I daydream about fairies. I glance around; thankfully, Mr. Flints has not walked through the factory to inspect us on our tour. He did with our first one but this is our third tour of the day, though he
did warn us he might pop up at any time.
I grab a cup and pass out the ice cream to the next child so Brandon can focus on the scooping. With the last cup filled, I hand it to a sweet-looking little girl. Her eyes are bright like she has just been to Disneyland. I suppose being in an ice-cream factory is kind of like going to Disneyland, though I’ve never been so I wouldn’t be able to say for sure. But I’m guessing it might be.
Brandon grins at the ladies. “Ladies, can I offer you a scoop?”
Some of them giggle like schoolgirls; others fan themselves. Huffy speaks up. “If you’re offering, I’m accepting.” She licks her lips.
I check her hand and, sure enough, a big sparkling diamond is planted on her ring finger. Brandon seems to ignore this fire-engine-red flirting and continues to scoop ice cream. He hands it to Huffy.
“I bet this will be the best ice cream to ever pass over my lips and into my mouth.” She licks her lips again.
“Yes, ma’am, we here at Blue Ribbon pride ourselves on quality and taste. Anyone else?” Brandon raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, I’ll have some, too,” another woman says, and the rest form a line like Brandon is giving out deep-tissue massages or something.
I’m a fish out of water in this weird situation. Luckily, Brandon is a fast scooper and gets through the ten women before I pass out from disgust. I wonder what he would do if the situation were reversed and we were scooping out ice cream to a bunch of men? Then again, it’s not like we’re a couple or anything. One date… well, two dates and a kiss… my shoulders slump. That was not a kiss, that was like a firework. The prettiest, tastiest firework I’ve ever experienced.
“Sahara, do you want some?” Brandon winks at me.
Somehow I don’t think he is asking if I want any ice cream. Somehow I think Brandon is not unaware of these lusty women and is offering me a chance to join in with them. I don’t think so. I’m not a sharer. And I definitely wouldn’t want to be a part of this group of embarrassing women. Lord help me never to end up on an ice-cream tour with my kids and me acting like a hussy in heat. Shoot, no.
“No, thank you.” I eye the floor and then scan the empty cups on the table. The tour is over and it’s our last one of the day. Time to get these ladies out of the freezer and into the hot Texas sun. That will be a temperature shock for them to really call attention to.
“Well, then that concludes our tour. Follow me and I’ll show you the exit.” Brandon leads the group to the metal turnstile and I stay back and clean up the empty cups and make sure the factory is the way we found it.
I dump the last of the containers into the trash and Brandon grabs my hand and leads me into the deep freezer.
“Brandon, what are you doing?” My eyes are wide with surprise. I don’t know what he is thinking but we need to clock out and take our notes from today. I’m still in a blur about everything from before.
“This.” Brandon cups my jaw and kisses me. His full lips cover mine and his tongue enters my mouth like it’s on a hunt for something and that something is me. I can’t help but reach out to him and kiss him back. Kissing him is like a hot fudge sundae of desire. He holds me against the wall and runs his hands through my hair and down my back. I hold on to the back of his neck almost as a security. So I don’t fall. His hands are on my back; even if I did fall he would catch me. But would he? Or would I be left in a cold freezer with all my emotions frozen together. My brain is freezing and my body is heated over. I’m a polar vortex of confusion and fear.
Chapter Ten
My phone is blaring from my pocketbook. The ring tone of Gene Autry belting out “Deep in the Heart of Texas” clues me in that it’s my mama.
“Hi, Mama, how are you?” I unlock the front door of Ms. Myra’s house and wave to her. She is sitting in her blue rocker with her feet up and reading a book.
“Sahara Smith, didn’t I teach you manners?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well then, you gonna explain to me how come I’ve been ringing your phone all day long and you haven’t been answering nor calling me back?”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I was in training for work and I can’t take calls during that time.” I drop my purse in my bedroom and make my way back to the kitchen. I’m parched.
“Hmm, well, I don’t know what kind of company would keep you from talking to your mama. That’s just not right.”
“Mama, they aren’t keeping me from talking to you.” I take out a glass and pour myself some sweet tea. Ms. Myra likes her tea extra sweet. Too sweet for me, but I can’t complain or make my own version as that would be bad manners.
“Fine. Listen here, Sahara, the reason I’m calling is because that school keeps on calling saying you owe them a ton of money.”
“I do, but they said they would take it out of my first paycheck.” I take a sip of the tea. Too sweet.
“Well, that’s not what they’re telling me. They said you gotta pay up right now.”
“I’ll call them, Mama, and take care of it. Don’t worry. I get my first paycheck this Friday.”
“All right, make sure you do. I’ve got to go. Buh bye.”
“Bye, Mama. I love you.”
The dial tone blares in my ear. Would have been nice to hear love you back, but my mama has never been one for love you’s. Love you’s are for the birds. You know I do. I don’t have to say it. Ain’t that right, Sahara?
I do love my mama, but if I have kids, they’re going to hear me say I love them every day. Every day.
It’s fine. It is. I don’t need my mama to tell me she believes in me or that I’ve made the right decision. Shoot, at this point, I’m not sure that I made the right decision… I’m still not sure how I could have been off on that many zeros with the debt I owe to Eagle. But even worse than the money situation is the possibility that my degree isn’t real. Because, like my mama always said, “If it’s something that time or money can fix, than it isn’t really a problem.” Given the situation, if my degree is fake then that isn’t something that money or time can fix. So that one is a problem. A real problem.
“Everything all right, Sahara?” Ms. Myra takes out the ice tea from the refrigerator.
I jump. “Oh, yes, ma’am, everything is good.” I hope she didn’t hear me talking about the school money. I need to give them a call. I scroll through my phone and call my school counselor, Linda Leroyson. I step out onto the porch to take my call. I don’t want Ms. Myra to be concerned about my school troubles. I’m sure my mama’s just over-exaggerating.
The call goes straight to her voicemail. “Hi, Ms. Leroyson, it’s Sahara Smith. One of your former students. That’s right, I graduated. Anyways, my mama said there have been some calls made to her house about my student loans. And I’ve been trying to figure out some things; there are some unanswered questions.” I clear my throat. “Could you please give me a call about that? Thank you.”
I hang up and head back inside. I find Ms. Myra in the living room reading one of her romance books. She’s got bookshelves lined with romance books. I wonder if she ever had any special romances in her life or if the only ones she has experienced are the ones in her stories.
Of course, I can’t ask that as it would be bad manners; I can imagine my mama gasping at the idea of it.
Ms. Myra hops up and places her hand over her mouth and charges down the hallway and slams the bathroom door shut. The sounds of her sickness echo through the room. I follow after her and tap on the door.
“Ms. Myra, are you all right?”
More sounds of sickness fall into the commode. I hustle back to the kitchen and grab a glass of water for Ms. Myra.
“I’ve got some water here. Would you like me to bring it in?”
“No, Sahara, please give me some space.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I bring the glass back to the kitchen and set it on the counter.
My phone rings in my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hey there, what are you up to?” Brandon
’s husky voice sounds through to my ear. A warmth covers my cheeks.
“Nothing really. Ms. Myra isn’t feeling well.”
“Oh, do you want me to come over and see if we can take her to the hospital?”
“No, she asked me to give her some space.” I rub my lips together.
“Well then, why don’t I come pick you up?”
“Okay,” I say before even thinking. I’m afraid if Brandon comes and picks me up that at one point I’m going to fall. Every time I’m with him my heart is soaring through the clouds, but what if I’m left there all alone? What if he is one of those guys that is just looking for fun and not anything more? What if all this is just like one of Ms. Myra’s romance novels and isn’t real? But, how could that be? Brandon’s more real than any person I’ve ever met. But, that nagging warning from Mary can’t seem to go away. It’s like a little flicker, a flash of a flag, or a message in the sky but only half paid for. So it says “be careful” but not really advising as to what I’m supposed to watch out for. This is what Mary’s warning was. It didn’t really give me any insight as to what I should say or do. It was cut off and abrupt.
“See you in five minutes.”
Brandon ends the call… abruptly, before I can change my answer and tell him I don’t want him to pick me up. That I can’t see him anymore because I’m a fraidy cat. I roll my eyes. Can’t I be brave for once? Can’t I be better than this? What if I’m wrong? What if he isn’t like my… like my… what if he wouldn’t leave? Maybe he gets the same swishy feelings in his tummy the way I do? I laugh. I can’t imagine Brandon getting all gooey on the insides about anything. His big strong body makes it seem like he isn’t an emotional guy.
I hustle back to my room and check out my reflection. I brush my hair and slick on some lip gloss and drop it back in my purse. A knock on the door alerts me that Brandon is here. I want to tell Ms. Myra that I’m leaving, but I don’t want to interrupt her again. I pick up the pen and paper on her kitchen counter and write her a quick note. I open the front door and the oxygen and whatever carbon dioxide is swept away.