Amelia, Cate, and the other girls ran out.
The shape of the thing immediately betrayed its age. It was boxy, with plenty of dents and nicks. There were hinges on the side, for a fold-up awning and a fold-down counter. An old logo had been painted over hastily.
Grady hopped out of the Cadillac and directed the tow truck driver to park the food truck behind the stand. “Ain’t it a beauty?” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “I found it on Craigslist last night. It’s been in someone’s garage for the last three years.”
Cate, to Amelia’s surprise, looked just as excited. “Yo, this is going to be so awesome! We can park down at the lake!”
Grady nodded and pointed. “Yes. Exactly. So what do you think, Amelia? Now that I’ve made the impossible possible.”
Cate gave Amelia a nudge. “Come on, Amelia, it would be so much more fun to work at the lake! We could go for a swim on our break.”
Amelia climbed aboard. The inside of the food truck wasn’t in much better shape than the outside. And it definitely wasn’t set up for ice cream. There was a long grill, and underneath, two old propane tanks. Also mouse poop everywhere. Everything that had been chrome was now rusted. The exhaust fan over her head was thick with fuzz. She touched one of the walls with her finger. It felt slick, yellow with old grease, like honeycomb wax.
Cate followed her inside. Her head flinching back slightly, she said, “Grady, I hope you don’t think we’re cleaning this thing.”
But Grady didn’t respond. His eyes were on Amelia, and his expression betrayed his disappointment in her lack of excitement.
“How much did you pay for this?” she asked.
“Not that much,” Grady insisted, though he avoided her eyes as he said it. “And it was the only one for sale in the state!”
“Does it even run?”
“The guy who sold it to me said he’s pretty sure all it needs is a tune-up.” Amelia saw, over Grady’s shoulder, the tow truck man roll his eyes. “It’s a good idea,” Grady said to Amelia, trying to get her on his side. “You’ll see.” He held out his phone to the girls. “Can someone take my picture? I want to send this to my dad.”
By that afternoon, two mechanics had already been over and given Grady estimates. He crumpled them both up and threw them in the office trash can, saying he was sure he could do better.
Amelia expected to feel more victorious than she did.
Other than those disruptions, the traditions of summers at the stand are back in full force. Different games and pranks, always done in good fun, passed down through the years. One that began while Amelia was here—if not last summer, then the one before, she’s not positive—is that if there’s a closed door, there’s a good chance someone is hiding behind it, waiting to jump out. Last summer, Cate nearly killed Heather when she sprang up from the backseat of Heather’s car, but then Heather got her back that very same night, jumping off the roof when Amelia and Cate were closing. Sometimes scares happen in front of customers. Amelia once tucked herself into an empty box on the floor near one of the service windows, and when Britnee was about to hand over two cones, she sprang up and screamed. Britnee smashed both cones into the closed service window.
Amelia hopes that’s not why Britnee chose to stay at Sephora.
Since there are no newbies yet this summer, some chores are falling by the wayside. Namely, the cleaning of the bathroom. But no one has stepped up to pick up the slack.
That’s why, on Wednesday, Amelia is on her hands and knees, wearing yellow rubber gloves, cleaning the bathroom for the second time since the stand opened this summer. The big mop bucket holds the door open. Cate walks up, leans against the doorframe, and folds her arms. “Well, here’s something I never thought I’d see.”
“What’s that?” Amelia says, wiping down the toilet.
“A Head Girl cleaning the bathroom.”
“I don’t mind. . . .” Or, more truthfully, Amelia doesn’t feel comfortable asking Jen, last year’s newbie. She already put in her time. She isn’t a newbie anymore.
“You can’t give yourself bathroom duty all summer. I won’t allow it. Has Grady said when you can hire newbies? We’re down three girls! That’s a whole shift!”
There’s something to what Cate is saying. Yes, they need to hire more girls. But in the meantime, everyone should be required to take a turn.
The fairest way Amelia can think up?
A chore chart.
She makes one on her break that day. A Sunday-through-Saturday grid with separate Post-it notes for each girl, so she can rotate the names around. This way, everyone knows who’s responsible for what newbie chores each shift. And Amelia won’t have to personally seek the girls out to let them know when it’s their turn.
When she hangs up the chore chart, Cate is not thrilled.
“Come on, Amelia. Are we twelve?” Cate whines, and tries to grab her Post-it note and take it off the chart. “Plus, we’re seniors! You and I shouldn’t have to do this at all.”
Amelia sees the girls on the windows quickly busy themselves, but she knows they’re listening. Rather than fight about it, Amelia takes Cate’s Post-it, shifting all the other girls up and putting herself and then Cate last in the order. Hopefully they’ll have newbies in place before her turn comes up.
* * *
It’s around eight thirty in the evening, and she’s just scraped the last scoop of Home Sweet Home out of the drum in the scooping cabinet. It’s been drizzling for most of the evening. There’s no one in Amelia’s line, and Cate’s not too busy either, leisurely chatting up a couple visiting from out of town whom she’s already served scoops of chocolate in waffle cones. Amelia closes her window, drops her scooper into the wash well, and jogs out back to throw the empty drum into the dumpster.
Walking back in, she puts on the purple ski jacket, grabs the tally clipboard, and heads into the freezer, intending to grab a new drum and also do a quick stock check. The girls should be keeping up with this every time they take out a new drum—marking what’s being taken, as well as shifting everything to the right to create empty space on the left for the new tubs, so that nothing is sitting too long in the freezer. Every few days, Molly would come and grab the tally sheet, so she knew which flavors she needed to restock.
No one kept track on opening day. It was so busy, the girls were bringing new tubs out of the walk-in and moving them into the scooping cabinet almost every hour. But over the week, only a few marks have been made on the clipboard, which means only some of the girls are remembering this responsibility. So Amelia now plays catch-up, organizing and straightening, and counts a total of fifty-one drums gone. When she shifts everything to the right, nearly half the walk-in freezer is empty.
“Whoa,” Cate says from behind her. “I’ve never seen it like this. Why hasn’t Grady brought us down more ice cream?”
“He probably never thought to check. I’ll let him know.”
“Do you think he’s started making it?”
“I hope so. There’s probably going to be a bit of a learning curve.”
“Hopefully not too big.” Cate knocks into her playfully. “And, while you’re at it, talk to him about us hiring newbies!”
“I promise I will.” Amelia already has a running list of things to discuss with Grady. The staffing situation, the missing tiles on the roof, the rotten wooden slats, and now ice cream. She goes into the office, straightens her shirt, and undoes the braid in her hair, because of how young Grady had said it makes her seem.
Hey, Grady. We are running low on ice cream down here, just FYI. Also I have a few managerial issues I’d like to discuss with you.
Cate leans over her shoulder. “Make sure you’re assertive with him about the newbies. If you sound like it isn’t a big deal, like we’re managing okay, he’ll blow you off. Remember, his dad told him to maximize profits.”
“You sure you don’t want to have this conversation?” Amelia’s only half joking.
&nbs
p; “You’re Head Girl, not me. Remember? And anyway,” she adds, flopping onto the couch, “I’m on my break.”
Amelia can see Grady writing back.
Sure. Come on up. I’ll leave the door open.
She glances up at Cate. “Oh my God. He’s inviting me inside the farmhouse.”
Cate tries grabbing on to Amelia’s arm. “Wait! I’ll go! I need Grady’s advice on my dorm application anyway!”
Amelia wriggles free and darts past her, laughing. “Enjoy your break!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AMELIA FOLLOWS THE DRIVEWAY UP to the farmhouse. The sun has started to set, filling the sky with shades of pink, and the damp air has the slightest whiff of honeysuckle. Molly’s Cadillac is parked at the top of the driveway, a week’s worth of crumpled fast-food bags tossed in the backseat.
As promised, the front door has been left open for her, but she still feels the need to knock politely on the screen door as she opens it.
“Look out!”
A hand grabs Amelia’s arm and yanks her inside. She falls into Grady’s chest as the screen door slams shut behind her.
Pushing off, she says, “Jeez, Grady!”
He’s wearing a pair of gray mesh shorts and a Truman T-shirt. It’s the most casually she’s ever seen him dressed, aside from opening day when he overslept. “Sorry.” He crouches down and the black-and-white kitten comes darting over. “Little guy was trying to make a run for it.”
Amelia squeals and takes the kitten into her hands. “I wondered what happened to him! He was with your great-aunt Molly when she passed away.” Amelia twists her arm, but the scratches the kitten gave her have healed.
“He’s my new study buddy. He keeps me from going crazy up here by myself.” The kitten crawls from her arms to his. Grady brings him close and rubs his cheek against the kitten. “Right, Little Dude?”
“You didn’t name him that, did you? That’s a terrible name.” Amelia scratches between the kitten’s ears and he works his head into her palm, purring like crazy. “You should call him Moo. In honor of the dairy.”
“What do you think?” Grady asks the kitten. “Little Dude or Moo?” Moo crawls back into her arms. “Moo it is, then.”
Amelia cuddles Moo for another few seconds before he wriggles to be put down. He starts pawing and mewing and crying at the door. “Grady, you know he’s trying to get outside because he’s an outdoor cat.”
“Yeah, I kind of assumed. But I’m afraid he’ll get run over by a car. It’s safer for him in here with me.” Grady picks up Moo by the scruff of his neck and lifts him so they’re eye to eye. “We’ll both get used to being in captivity, right, Moo?” Then he sets Moo down and uses his foot to nudge the kitten deeper into the house. Then they share in an awkward pause, without Moo as a buffer, and Amelia wonders whether or not things will go back to being contentious between them. “Sorry it’s so hot in here. Turns out Great-Aunt Molly did not believe in air-conditioning. But if I close my eyes”—which he does, to illustrate—“I can almost imagine I’m on a beach in Barcelona with my fraternity brothers.”
It is hot. Stuffy. And though the house appears tidy, Amelia sees hints of Molly’s age. Some cobwebs on the lampshades, dust bunnies where the walls meet the floor; both are likely too faint for old eyes to see.
Amelia follows Grady into the main hallway. Ahead of him, she sees Molly’s kitchen. It’s a classic farm style: white cabinets, big white porcelain sink, a noisy fridge, and a window that frames the back fields. Amelia knew the Meades owned a ton of land, but she’s had no sense of how much until now.
Grady takes a left into the formal living room, with a striped couch, two matching Queen Anne chairs with floral backs, and a coffee table. This seems to be where he is spending most of his time. His laptop is open, perched on a tall stack of college textbooks. Several pairs of his pants are draped over the backs of chairs, his shirts buttoned up on hangers that have been hooked on the fireplace mantel, on the lip of the bookshelves, on the wooden box of a grandfather clock. Molly’s financial records paper the coffee table, three emptied bank boxes’ worth. There’s also a blanket and pillow smushed up on the couch.
“I tried sleeping in the spare bedroom upstairs,” he explains, “but it’s twice as hot on the second floor as it is down here. I can’t get any of the windows to open.”
She walks over to the mantel, where there’s a line of framed family pictures. In a large silver oval is Molly’s high school senior portrait.
Amelia is pretty sure the photograph has been artificially tinted because it has a watercolor-y look. In it, Molly is wearing a red blouse, and her strawberry-blond hair loops in soft bouncy curls over her shoulders. She’s smiling a closed-lipped smile, red and juicy, her shoulders angled ever so slightly, blue eyes sparkling. She is gorgeous.
“Did you know she was elected homecoming queen and prom queen two years in a row?” Amelia asks Grady. “Supposedly a man from Hollywood once slipped Molly’s dad his business card because he wanted to bring Molly to California and put her in movies.” Amelia’s been told stories like these over the years, by the older customers who show up less interested in placing an order than they are in sharing memories of the Meades.
Grady blinks.
“You don’t see it? She absolutely could have been a movie star!” Amelia is suddenly annoyed at Grady for being so handsome. He doesn’t deserve his good looks if he doesn’t care about where they came from.
“It’s not that,” he says, defensive. “I just feel weird calling my great-aunt hot.” He points out another photo, this one of the three Meade siblings standing in height order on the stairs. “I think this guy’s my grandfather,” he says, pointing to the one on the top step, tall and wiry, in slacks and a boxy button-up. “Patrick. I never met him, but I’ve seen his picture. And that’s for sure my dad’s nose.”
“Your nose,” Amelia says.
“You think?” He runs a finger down the slope. “Sometimes I wonder if my dad and I are actually related. Anyway, that would make this other guy my great-uncle Liam,” he says, pointing to the shorter and stockier of the two Meade brothers. “He died in a car accident a couple years after making it back from the war.”
To Amelia, it seems unfair, how much tragedy has befallen the Meades. She scans the other photos. The last one on the right was taken in front of the stand, and it seems to be the most recent. Molly is laughing jovially at the camera. Next to her, a tall woman in cutoffs and a white linen shirt is smiling at a little boy, who’s bawling because he lost the top scoop of his cone.
Grady.
“That’s my mom,” he mumbles.
Amelia leans closer, trying to match this woman up to the one she first saw at Molly’s funeral.
“So, ice cream,” Grady says, backing up.
“Um. Right.”
Grady leads her down a hallway, past the kitchen, to a black wooden door with a glass knob. It opens to a narrow stairway, walls decorated with a dustpan and broom, some shelves of canned goods. He descends first and Amelia follows, every step getting darker until they reach the bottom. Then Grady walks off and a few seconds later flicks a light switch.
Amelia’s hand goes straight to her mouth.
It’s less of a basement and more of a teenager’s hangout from another time. The walls are pasted with faded magazine clippings of fashionable girls in beautiful outfits alongside images of dairy cows, and the juxtaposition of these subjects makes Amelia smile. A few small windows are up near the ceiling, each one with a set of cute, home-sewn curtains made from pink ticking-stripe fabric with white eyelet lace at the hem. There are a couch and a club chair that exactly match the yellow love seat down in the stand, only not nearly as faded and worn.
Most amazing, though, is the kitchen. This part of the basement is like something out of the future: sterile, clean. There are two large industrial freezers and a stainless steel table that wouldn’t be out of place in a doctor’s office. Underneath the table are stacks of nest
ing bowls, and hanging from S hooks are several sets of silver measuring cups and spoons. Waist-high containers marked as sugar and powdered milk, each with a huge scoop. A stainless steel vat, large, like a witch’s cauldron with general temperature gauges.
Finally, Amelia notices a silver rectangle sitting on a second table all by itself, unsurprising as it isn’t a friendly-looking contraption. It’s about the size of three microwaves stacked on top of each other. There are a couple of unmarked knobs and gauges, and one big triangular spout in front. It’s old. You can tell by the way the metal is stamped with the company name EMERY THOMPSON AUTOMATED MACHINE.
Grady pats the top of the ice cream maker like a used-car salesman. It seems to be in good shape, not a dent or a scratch on it. It’s like peering under the hood of a classic vintage car, all shiny chrome.
Amelia makes a slow spin, trying to take it all in. This was Molly’s sanctuary, but thinking of her working alone down here for so many years tugs at Amelia’s heart.
“So what are we looking at, in terms of restocking?” Grady asks.
“We’re down almost fifty gallons. I’ve got the exact breakdown of flavors here.” She takes out the stock sheet, unfolds it, and hands it to Grady.
There’s an awkward silence as he glances at it. He folds the paper and hands it back to her. “Was there something else?”
This confuses her. Maybe Grady has a photographic memory? “I noticed earlier this week that some of the wood on the back wall is rotten. And there are a lot of broken shingles on the roof.”
Grady yawns and stretches. “I try to stick around here in the mornings, in case my dad calls from New Zealand, but I’ll check on it tomorrow after lunch.”
She takes a moment to steel herself. “There’s one more thing. We need to hire more girls. Three more, to replace Heather and Georgia, who graduated last year, and Britnee, who decided to stay at Sephora.”
“Let’s table that for the time being. I’m still trying to explain to my dad why I agreed to pay you girls so much for scooping ice cream.” He quickly follows up with “I don’t mean you, of course. You’ve been a huge help.”
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