Rocky Road

by Rose Kent

  “Nothing’s simple, Tess. It’ll take a lot of elbow grease. And the Inside Scoop says we gotta stay ahead of the trends. That’s how those fellas Ben and Jerry got rich, right?”

  Ma quoted the Inside Scoop like it was the Bible. I imagined a chorus of ice cream shop owners kneeling before the hot-fudge dispenser, their hands clutching scoopers and their hearts filled with the divine Spirit of Frozen Creamy Sweetness.

  I heard Jordan giggling as he watched TV. Peanut butter is his all-time favorite flavor. It’s hard to find, but Ma knew exactly where to get it back in San Antonio—at a drive-in stand ten miles north of the city. Once when Pop was still with us, and Jordan was a toddler and teething, we’d been out running errands when we passed the stand. I remember Ma shouting, “Pull over!” Rain was pouring fast and furious, the way it does in southwest Texas in late spring, and Pop was yelling that Ma spoiled us, and for God’s sake who needs ice cream during a monsoon?

  But she insisted, saying ice cream would ease Jordan’s gums. So Pop pulled over, and Ma dashed out. She tripped on a tree root coming back to the car, but she held on to those plastic cups piled high with whipped cream and the works.

  Ma started humming a country song as we finished up the backgammon game. I was one turn away from victory when she rolled double sixes. That moved her last four pieces off the board to beat me.

  Grrrr. I hate losing at board games, especially to Ma, who doesn’t take them seriously. Pop used to say that God looks out for kids and drunks, but I think he gives Ma special breaks too.

  “Where are you going to find money to buy this shop?” I asked.

  “Got it figured out,” she said, arranging her pieces for a new game.

  Ma didn’t offer more details, and I didn’t ask, even though I’d figured it out too. She’d be digging into the Ditch Fund—the last bit of money we had standing between us and being homeless on the cold streets of Schenectady.

  Just as I rolled the dice to start the next game, Jordan leaped onto a stool and, standing, started swinging his arms across his body. Both hands were shaped in a Y. “Party!” he signed.

  Party, our code word for ice cream. Back and forth his arms swung with urgency. “Party! Party!”

  “Careful,” I signed, holding his legs steady as the stool wobbled.

  Ma laughed at Jordan’s excitement and glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s five-thirty, close to suppertime, though that never stopped us from having a party before. Let’s git to it.”

  With that, I pulled down our special red heart-shaped bowls and matching red spoons from the top shelf. Ma put on her cherry-print apron and warmed the fudge sauce while Jordan took out as many candies, nuts, sprinkles, sauces, crumbled cookies, pretzels, cereals, fruits, and mini marshmallows as he could find in the pantry to pour into custard cups.

  Within minutes the counter was transformed into an ice cream smorgasbord, with oodles of tempting toppings just begging to be had. Jordan started first, scooping ice cream, spooning candy and nuts, ladling toppings, and squirting whipped cream like he was a culinary artist.

  “Don’t forget a cherry on top!” Ma said like she always says just before we dig in, holding the maraschino-cherry jar up.

  Jordan read Ma’s lips that time perfectly. Next thing he did was stick his finger deep in the jar and pull out a cherry by its stem. Then he tossed it way high, wiggled his hips, and maneuvered his bowl to catch it centered on his whipped-cream-covered sundae. He quickly set his bowl down on the counter, then signed, “I did it. Jordan is the MAN!” That set off a laugh attack in both Ma and me.

  I didn’t admit it out loud, but I had to agree with Ma. Ice cream does warm the heart, no matter what the weather.

  The first person I saw when I walked into school on Monday was Kim, the tiny freckle-faced girl I’d met at the bake sale. Only now she was wearing a pirate bandanna and an eye patch.

  “I’m not weird. Today’s Hilarious Hat Day,” she said when she caught me staring.

  “Ahoy, mate,” I said, and we both laughed.

  I wished I had something covering my head for another reason. The Mohawk Valley Village had a power outage that morning, and I hadn’t been able to blow-dry my hair. I was wearing my favorite shirt—a magenta henley with pretty silver buttons I’d added myself—but my stringy hair was matted to my head, and my big ears stuck out like Frisbees.

  At the lockers kids paraded by wearing all kinds of freaky hats. I saw a sparkly chicken that clucked, a chef hat, a killer shark, a beanie with a propeller, and an Abraham Lincoln tall hat on a kid with stilts.

  I ran into Gabby in the bathroom before homeroom. “Festive!” I said, giggling at the plastic fruit bowl piled high on her head.

  She was sticking bobby pins into her hair to keep a red apple from drooping. “My father wore this for his law firm’s Halloween party last year. It’s called ‘Got Fruit?’” Then she reached into her backpack and handed me a baseball cap with a pink flamingo on top. “Here you go. Luckily I brought a spare.”

  “No thanks,” I said, smiling. “I’ll pass.” It’s rough enough being the new kid. I couldn’t stand everybody looking at the new kid with a freaky bird hat.

  She grinned. “There’s that workaholic ox again, not taking time to play.”

  “You don’t really believe all that Chinese astrology stuff, do you? I mean, you’re not Chinese.”

  Gabby’s face tightened. “I bet you like pizza, but you’re not Italian, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “We can’t stick each other in categories, you know. Chinese astrology helps me understand my life patterns.”

  “I guess you’re right. Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

  She pushed back a banana that had flopped between her eyes. “I mean it about thinking you’re right for peer mediation. Chinese astrology suggests the ox is no bull in a china shop. She is dependable and steadfast, and we need more of that since most of our classmates are tigers. And besides, everyone knows you don’t mess with Texans, which could help when mediations turn rocky.”

  I laughed.

  “C’mon, Tess. Peer mediation is a blast! Where else in school do teachers let kids call the shots? We meet on Wednesdays. And our teacher-rep brings homemade chocolate chip cookies. Say you’ll come.”

  Cookies sounded good, and hanging around with Gabby was appealing. You never knew what she would say or do. But I wasn’t so sure about peer mediation. I could use my own live-in mediator at the apartment to deal with Ma.

  I looked at Gabby. “Aren’t you forgetting something? I was the kid who tossed a pear at Pete Chutkin.”

  She adjusted a wobbly banana by her ear. “That’s exactly why we need you. You get it, you understand disputants.”

  “Disputants?”

  “Kids who have issues with each other.”

  “I’ll think about it. See ya,” I said, and I waved goodbye.

  In the hallway, Pete Chutkin was leaning against the fire extinguisher. He wore a speckled jester’s hat with jingle bells.

  I pretended not to notice him, but he came right up to me.

  “Hey, Tess. Did you know that I met your family at Walmart?” he asked, walking beside me.

  “No,” I said, coolly thinking he was my disputant. Of all the people for Ma and Jordan to meet!

  “Your mother was wearing a ‘Find Yourself in San Antonio’ sweatshirt, so I told her about the awesome Alamo clay model I built last year. She told me about you, and I said we’d sorta ‘met’ already.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We sure did.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her you threw a pear at me.” Suddenly he pulled his jester’s hat off and stuck it on my head.

  “Get away!” I swatted the hat, and it flew across the hall. Not again, I thought. Not another trip to the assistant principal’s office. Mr. Godfrey would give me detention for sure this time.

  Pete picked his hat off the floor, put it back on, and caught up with me. “Wait—I was just trying to help.
Really. You get a free snack in the cafeteria today if you’re wearing a hat.”

  As Ma would say, he had to be shuckin’ me. Did he actually think I’d embarrass myself for a bag of pretzels? But the thing was, he looked serious—and sorry, like Jordan when he’s making nice after a temper tantrum.

  “I bring my own snacks. And you did me a big enough favor making fun of me and getting me in trouble,” I said with a steely-eyed glare.

  “Really, I was just kidding around. I didn’t mean anything bad. And I swear I didn’t know your little brother was deaf. But it’s true what I was telling your mom. I’m a huge Texas fan. You heard me singing ‘The Lone Star Song’! I bet I know more about the Alamo than you. ‘I shall never surrender nor retreat!’”

  “Never whatever,” I said, turning into homeroom and hoping he’d disappear.

  But he followed me in, with his jester’s hat jingling, and he was loud. “C’mon, Tess. I’m not leaving until we ‘resolve our conflict,’ like my court-appointed social worker always says.”

  Sleepy kids slouching in their chairs perked up when they heard court-appointed social worker.

  Then he leaned over my desk and stuck his hand out to shake. “Apology accepted?”

  His breath still smelled like cheese. But I could also see clear into his golden-brown eyes. There was no meanness.

  I shook his hand. “Apology accepted, and I’m sorry too—about throwing the pear.”

  The homeroom bell rang.

  “Since you’re from Texas, I’ll grant you an unconditional pardon. I better scram. The grim homeroom reaper will thrash me!” Pete shouted as he took off.

  Just before he reached the door, he whirled around. “Hey, Tess, one of these days remind me to show you my Alamo model. I got a B. Remember the Alamo!”

  I’ll remember you, all right, I thought, rolling my eyes as he jingled out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Take time to prepare a business plan. Running a retail operation without a business plan is like building a house without a blueprint.—The Inside Scoop

  What’s going on? I wondered as I walked into the lobby of the apartment building later that afternoon. “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” was blasting from a boom box, and the space was wall to wall with seniors eating ice cream, chatting, and filling out forms. Snow was falling outside again, and the lobby was drafty. Old men and women dressed in coats and scarves and boots filled the room, swaying to the music and eating.

  “Hey, sweetie pie!” Ma blew past me, wearing her cherry-covered apron and carrying a tray full of ice cream in small Styrofoam bowls. “Can’t talk long. Conducting market research.”

  “What’s market research?”

  “Business homework. Neighbors have kindly offered to test-market ice cream and give me their two cents on flavor, texture, and presentation. So far this crowd gives fudge ripple four stars and rum raisin two thumbs down. And in case you haven’t noticed, they’re wild about Elvis, just like me.”

  I walked toward the mailroom, where even more White Hairs were sitting in a circle, talking and stretching back lazily in chairs like it was summertime. Those chairs looked familiar. Ma’s parents’ old patio chairs! And nearby, I noticed she’d arranged the end tables from the bedroom where Jordan and I slept. They were pushed together and covered with bowls of toppings, as well as hot fudge and cans of whipped cream and nuts.

  “Hey there, Tess!” Winnie called, waving a spoon in the air. Two older black men sat across from her, and Catherine was parked beside them with a bowl on her lap. Something squeezed right beside Catherine in her wheelchair was wiggling. I thought it might be Rudy the cat, but it wasn’t.

  It was Jordan.

  “Look, Tess. Peanut butter ice cream!” Jordan signed to me, smiling with a tan mustache.

  “Your brother just polished off his third bowl,” Catherine said, patting his head with her trembling hand and smiling.

  Winnie introduced me to the men, Melvin and Sam, “fellow music bandies,” she said. Melvin had wavy gray hair gelled back in a flip. His eyes twinkled when he told me that Winnie was the real star of their act.

  “How’s the ice cream?” I asked.

  “Never had better,” Melvin said, scraping his spoon against the bowl.

  “And you can’t beat the price,” Sam added.

  Winnie dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I must admit I tossed my diet out the window when Delilah offered me seconds. Peppermint ice cream is my weakness, and this brand just melts in your mouth like a cloud. I predict your mom’s shop will be a gold mine, Tess. No wonder she’s in a hurry to buy it on Wednesday.”

  Wednesday?

  “Attention, all hands,” Chief shouted from the lobby. “Last call to turn in your survey. And Delilah says don’t hold back with your opinions. Good, bad, or ugly.”

  “No need to worry about that with me, Chief,” Winnie said, reaching for a pencil.

  I could tell which people were from the Assisted Living building. Their hands shook more than the other seniors’, and a few aides in white smocks stayed nearby.

  Ma came over as Winnie and her friends finished writing and handed me a bowl of ice cream. “Here you go, Tess. Rocky Road, your favorite,” she said.

  I stared over at the tasty toppings spread out on the end tables. I felt torn about eating ice cream right now. For one, the lobby was downright chilly, and my ribbed-jersey henley wasn’t keeping me warm enough under my jacket, even if I did like the look. More importantly, I wasn’t sold on Ma’s new business. Last year she’d tried to butter me up when she bought the cat kennel too, saying in no time we’d make enough money to go to Disneyland. Within two months we took a trip, all right—out the door of our apartment to a fleabag motel, where we had to stay for a month until Ma scraped up enough money to cover the next apartment’s security deposit. The carpet smelled like pee, and the women who lived downstairs hardly wore any clothes.

  Eating this ice cream could send the wrong message. But … I was hungry, Ma sure had this lobby looking festive, and Rocky Road was hard to resist, what with all the chocolate ice cream, marshmallow bits, fudge, and nuts swirled together and staring up at me.

  “Thanks,” I said, and I dug in. And while Ma continued peppering seniors with questions on their ice cream preferences, I moseyed on over to the toppings table and loaded up with extra nuts and fudge sauce.

  Tug. Jordan yanked at my jeans. “Me too. More!” he signed.

  I shook my head and moved my fingers. “You’ll get sick.” Too many times I’ve seen Jordan overeat and end up driving the porcelain bus, as Ma calls vomiting.

  He stomped his foot. “More now!”

  My head shook again. “No!” I signed firmly.

  So he ran over to Ma and signed that I was no fair, but Ma didn’t understand, and she was too busy talking to seniors to concentrate. That made Jordan even madder, and he charged back to me at the toppings table, grabbed the fudge jar from my hands, and stuck his tongue in.

  “Ugh!” One of the ladies seated nearby groaned.

  I grabbed the jar from him, shaped my hand like a claw, and circled it on my stomach. “Disgusting!”

  “Tess meanie!” he signed back. Then he swiped the whipped cream can and took off.

  “Get back here!” I yelled, no matter that he couldn’t hear me.

  Round and round the lobby Jordan galloped, all the while grinning and aiming the can at seniors he passed, who looked horrified, like he was pointing a machine gun.

  I kept trying to grab him, but he was speedy—probably on a high from all that sugar. Then he ran past me with the whipped cream can pressed between his lips like a baby bottle.

  I reached out and caught the tail of his shirt. “Gotcha!”

  Psssst. Whipped cream sprayed everywhere. On the carpet. In my hair, on my jacket, in my face, even up my nose.

  “Brat!” I roared—I didn’t know that sign. I wiped cream from my eyes. I could feel the heat on my face from the seniors’ disapp
roving stares. Jordan sat on the floor beside me, covering his eyes with messy hands, looking embarrassed.

  Chief hobbled over with paper towels and started wiping the mess. “This behavior is unsat. Somebody’s going to fall and break a hip,” he growled.

  Ma appeared, her arms full of papers. “Take him upstairs, Tess,” she pleaded. “Jordan’s going to run customers off before I even own the shop.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. Then I grabbed Jordan’s hand in a huff and headed over to the elevator.

  Jordan went straight to the bedroom when we got in, and he stayed there. He was wise enough to stay clear of me. I knew the FrankenJordan episode was only partly due to his being sugared up. He was overwhelmed by all the change in our lives too. He had a new home, a new school, and a new life—and with Ma, who knew what would hit next. I wanted to talk to him, to set him straight that things would settle down, but the words weren’t there. And I was tired too.

  Ma returned to the apartment an hour later, her arms full of leftover ice cream and toppings. Her nose was red like she’d been outside. “Phew, conducting market research requires active listening! My ears took in a boatful about ice cream likes and dislikes. These seniors sure aren’t a bland vanilla bunch. The funkier the flavor, the higher they rate it, with Mississippi mud and turtle cheesecake tying for the top spot.”

  “Have you been serving ice cream this whole time?”

  “No. Afterward, Chief talked me into snowshoeing with his friends. I couldn’t turn ’em down since they helped me out. A sporty ol’ gal named Veronica had an extra pair of snowshoes, and we clomped our way through a two-mile trek behind the apartment complex. Chief keeps a speedy pace. He’s better at snowshoeing with one leg than I am with two!”

  I stared at her hard. “You didn’t tell me you were buying that ice cream shop on Wednesday.”

  “Must’ve slipped my mind,” she said, sticking the whipped cream in the fridge. “Tell ya what, I’ll make it up to you. You’re about to be the first person in Schenectady to hear the name for our new shop. Drumroll, please…. Introducing A Cherry on Top!”