Chapter Two:
A Delicious Bet
I shivered in the breeze then shook like a dog to dry off. Trudging back up the hill toward the park, I headed to my water fighting booth. Business was done for the day. I deserved a hot shower. I deserved dry clothes. I deserved—
A merry melody rang through the air.
Yes. I deserved ice cream.
After stuffing water balloons, a water gun, and a “Water Fighter” sign into my green camouflage backpack, I flagged down the ice cream truck.
“How’s business going?” asked Dan, the college student behind the wheel. Dan, Dan, the Ice Cream Man had been driving the ice cream truck since the summer I turned eight. Next year he would graduate from Idaho’s own Boise State University.
“Look at me.” I groaned.
Dan surveyed me from my damp cap to soggy socks. “Tough job?”
“My only job.” I focused my attention on the ice cream prices. “I don’t even have enough to buy an out-of-this-world triple dip today.”
“Yeah, this weather isn’t doing me any favors either.” Dan frowned at the gray sky before focusing back on me. “Hey, aren’t you freezing? Why do you want ice cream?”
“I’ll take a fudge pop.” I dug into my pocket for a dollar ninety-eight. “If I don’t spend this money before I get home, my dad will make me put it into a savings account and I won’t see it again until I’m your age. And worse, my mom never buys me ice cream.”
“Never?” Dan pulled my treat from his freezer.
“Never,” I answered solemnly.
“Then I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you this summer.” He shifted back to drive.
“As usual.” I saluted as the truck and its tunes faded into the distance. After ripping the paper off the fudge pop, I licked the ice cream. My tongue stung from the freezing temperature, and goose bumps popped up on my arms. But as cold as I was, I didn’t rush home. I had to finish eating every speck of chocolaty goodness before my mom saw me. Our townhouse was located directly across the street from the park, so I circled the block to kill time. Turning right at the corner, I ran into my best friend and his lawn mower. “Hi, Chance.”
Chance Zabransky wiped sweat from his forehead. He obviously wasn’t as cold as I was. “Hey. I just made twenty bucks in two hours.”
I only had two cents jingling in my pocket. “That’s not bad.”
“How much did you make today?” Chance was all about competition.
I guess when you’ve won every single sport you’ve played, it would become a habit. “Not that much.” I shrugged and started walking faster.
Chance pushed the mower beside me. It didn’t take any extra effort for him to keep up. His legs were longer than mine.
We used to be the same height. That was when he was known as “Fat Chance.” Then during 6th grade he grew. And grew. And grew. Now people called him “Zabransky” as if he should be compared to Jordan and Gretzky. I kinda missed Fat Chance.
“Maybe you should mow lawns,” he said.
Never. First of all, I hated mowing lawns. Second, I was sure I could never mow a lawn as well as Chance did.
“I can make a lot of money as a professional water fighter.” My tongue was numb, but I kept licking the fudge pop.
“How long were you at the park today?”
“I don’t know. I don’t wear a watch.” Yes, I sounded a little babyish.
We turned around a second corner. There was Chance’s house with the basketball key painted on the driveway.
“Well, do you think you made ten dollars an hour like I did?” he asked.
“No,” I pouted. Go home, Zabransky.
Chance laughed. “I bet you couldn’t.”
“I bet I could.” Of course I could. It would just have to be a sunny day.
“I’ll give you a month to average over ten dollars an hour.”
I took a deep bite of my fudge pop. Brain freeze. “Starting tomorrow.” Whoa. That was more like a brain fart. There was no way I could average the kind of money he was talking about.
Chance grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Awesome. You have until the Fourth of July, then.”
The ice cream curdled in my stomach. I was a water fighter because it was fun. Chance had just sucked the fun right out of it.
“What are we betting?” Chance crossed his arms.
Too late to back out now. I straightened up. Because even if Dad said I should never make bets, I was going to win. But … what would I want to win? “The winner gets an out-of-this-world triple dip ice cream cone.”
“That’s a start.” Chance bit his lip and squinted. Sometimes he seemed more bully than buddy. “The loser should have to do something awful.”
I thought back to the brothers on the bridge. “The loser has to lick a slug.”
“Oh, I’ve already done that. Haven’t you?”
“Um …” I couldn’t admit I’d never licked a slug before.
My annoying neighbor, Isabelle Lancaster, came walking her dog on the opposite side of the street. Her dog was actually pretty cool. He looked like a bear and he was great fun to wrestle with. It bugged the boogers out of me that Prissy Izzy owned such an awesome animal.
“The loser has to kiss Isabelle’s dog.” Yet Isabelle kind of looked like a dog herself, her long pigtails swishing around like Cocker Spaniel ears. “No, worse.”
Chance actually cackled like a witch. “What could be worse?”
“The loser has to kiss Isabelle.” Ew … now licking a slug sounded delicious.
Chance shook his head. “That’s not so bad.”
I felt as if I’d been hit by a water balloon in the chest. “Are you serious?”
“Whoa.” Chance held up a hand. “If you’re afraid to kiss a girl, then that’s exactly what we’ll bet—since you’re gonna lose anyway.”
I had to win now. As I started for home, I said, “Fat chance.”
The Water Fight Professional Page 3