* * *
Before I left for the stand, I told Mayzee to find out if someone my age had moved into Miss Myrtie Mae’s house.
She was stretched out on the couch, flat on her back, reading a picture book, holding it high above her head. “It will cost you,” she said, not bothering to glance over at me.
Her piggy bank was for only one thing—a trip to Disney World. She was determined to get there, one nickel at a time.
“I’ll pay you fifty cents,” I told her.
“No deal!” She raised her legs to the ceiling, flexing her feet.
“Okay, a dollar.”
Mayzee dropped the book. “Deal!”
* * *
By the time the ice machine was turned on and the OPEN sign was facing out, I had my first customer. It was Vernon. Before he and Twig started hanging out, he hardly combed his hair. Now he heaped on so much product that in a gust of wind, his hair flapped, saluting.
“Medium Lemon Tang,” he said, “and an extra-large Bahama Mama.”
He didn’t have to tell me who wanted the Lemon Tang. I glanced around for Twig, but she was nowhere in sight.
I pulled two cups from the stack.
Vernon smirked. “So have you heard, those New Yorkers are moving in today?”
I started to nod, then changed my mind. Maybe he knew more about them. Trying not to sound interested, I said, “Really?”
“Yep. Heard it’s a mom and her son,” he said.
I gave him a deadpan stare and handed him his Bahama Mama snow cone with such a skimpy amount of syrup it looked pink. He must have noticed because he pushed it back at me. “A little extra, like how you made hers.”
I drenched it with the red syrup and when he asked how much he owed, I added in a dollar.
“Did your prices go up?”
“For the extra syrup. It’s not free.”
Our menu board confirmed the additional costs, but we never enforced it. Until now.
He dug in his pocket and threw the dollar bills on the counter. I hated when people did that, like you weren’t good enough for them to place the money in your hand. Then like a big shot, he dropped a quarter into the tip jar.
I watched him leave to see if I could spot Twig’s hiding place, but he left the square and slipped around the corner.
The afternoon dragged, with hardly any customers. I was disappointed because I wanted to learn more about the Toscanis. A train passed by with its ka-nunk, ka-nunk, ka-nunk. Not a single car traveling down 287 stopped at the stand. We didn’t get that many out-of-towners anyway. Most of them stopped at Allsup’s. To make time pass, I wiped down all the syrup bottles, turned the radio up, and sang “Survivor” with Destiny’s Child. The radio played the song so often I was sick of it, but I sang anyway, adding in a side shuffle with shoulder action.
Then a tap, tap, tap interrupted me.
I swung around. The bottle slipped from my hands and broke on the asphalt.
“Sorry,” the guy at the counter said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He appeared to be about my age. His dark hair was cut close to his head, except for a tiny braid touching the back of his collar.
“You didn’t.” I glanced down. Blueberry syrup spread at my feet. “How long were you standing there?”
“Not long.” He grinned. He’d heard.
“Nice song,” he said.
My face burned.
“What flavor broke?” His voice was different—raspy, with no Panhandle twang.
“Blueberry.” I started to pick up the pieces. It was a clean break, three pieces in a puddle of dark purple. Carefully, I picked up the glass and dropped it in the garbage can, and wiped off my hands with a wet rag. “What can I get you? We have everything except Cotton Candy today.”
“And Blueberry,” he added.
“What?” I looked down at the purple splatters on my shirt. My face was a furnace running full blast.
“Right. We’re out of Cotton Candy and Blueberry.” My voice came out deep and formal. “We have some new flavors, too. Honey Pickle Juice and Burnt Marshmallow.”
He scowled. “I’ll pass on those.”
I glanced around for his car, but he was too young to drive. Where had he come from?
He leaned over the counter and read the new board silently.
“What is a Bahama Mama?” He had an unusual accent.
That stupid tickle in my throat showed up, and after four er-ums, I began to explain in a high-pitched voice I didn’t recognize. Instead of just listing the ingredients, I told him the entire story of our business, how there used to be a snow cone stand here owned by Wylie Womack, known for its Bahama Mama snow cones, how my family bought a stand since my parents were teachers and it was our whole family’s side business now.
I couldn’t stop talking.
He smiled, and when I finally shut up, he said, “I’ll have the house special.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The Bahama Mama?” he said slowly.
“Oh, of course.”
“Make it a large.”
“You bet.”
While I waited for the ice to drop into the cup, he remained quiet and gazed around, past the square, looking toward the highway.
I poured the regular amount of syrup. Then I added a little more.
“What’s down the road?” He tilted his head west.
“Amarillo,” I said, handing him his snow cone.
“Nowhere, huh?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. To us, Amarillo was the big city.
He paid me, but before he walked away, he asked, “Is your little sister Mayzee?”
“Yes.” I knew exactly where he came from.
He punched his spoon through the ice. “She said you owe her a dollar.”
CHAPTER 15
The Toscanis had been in Antler two days, and that was all Antler wanted to talk about. People asked the same things that most everyone else wanted to know:
Why did their license plate say Vermont and not New York?
Would Mrs. Toscani’s husband be joining them?
And then what everyone wanted to know most:
Why did they move to Antler?
According to Mom, Maria Toscani seemed surprised when she gave her a cake a couple of hours after they moved in. Mom also shared her Tara’s Rules of Antler Survival. She told Mrs. Toscani about Peggy Cartwright’s gym barn and the Bronze Baby Tanning Salon on the square. She advised her to skip Bambi’s Cut and Curl and make her hair appointments in Amarillo or she’d have a bad hair day that would last an entire season. She told her that the Wag-a-Bag grocery store had the best peaches brought in from Hedley, but she’d have to forget about finding a decent avocado there.
Mom said she asked Mrs. Toscani about the Vermont license plate, since we thought they were moving here from New York. Mrs. Toscani told her that her cousin from Bennington sold his car to her.
“What’s her son’s name?” I asked.
“I don’t think she told me,” Mom said. “She was a little preoccupied because the moving van had arrived.”
After riding to the post office to mail a bill for Dad, I stopped by the Bowl-a-Rama Café for a vanilla shake.
Inside, Ferris was wiping down a table. “Have you met the Toscanis yet?”
“Sort of,” I told him. “The son came by our stand, I think.” I didn’t know why I was acting like he could have been someone else, but we really hadn’t officially met.
“They ordered hamburgers earlier,” he said.
“Two with everything,” Mr. Pham added, “including mayonnaise.”
It was kind of a sin to eat hamburgers with mayo in Texas. Mustard was perfectly fine, but you didn’t want to ruin the taste of good beef with the greasy stuff. I didn’t even know what mayonnaise was until I was five and Mom made egg salad from all the leftover Easter eggs.
Ferris limped to the kitchen and wrung out the dishcloth at the sink. “Yep, I guess it’s just
the boy and his mama. Seems like a nice kid, but it was all I could do to not grab the scissors and cut off that itty-bitty braid.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
Ferris studied me a long second, and his mouth spread into a giant toothy grin. “Now, why would you want to know that?”
All at once, I felt like my feet were on fire, and the heat spread up my body and didn’t stop until it reached the tip of my head.
“Rylee, it’s refreshing to see a girl blush these days.” Ferris winked.
“His name is Joe,” Mr. Pham shouted from the kitchen. I was so thankful no other customers were there.
“That’s right,” Ferris said. “Joe Toscani. Does that sound sweet to your ears, Rylee?”
“Don’t listen to Ferris.” Mr. Pham placed the milkshake on the counter. “He makes trouble.”
* * *
When I reached the snow cone stand, Mom was waiting on Miss Earline and her niece. After they left, she told me to ask our new neighbors over for dinner the next night.
“Don’t you want to ask them?” I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Joe again anytime soon. Maybe I’d feel differently in a few weeks when he forgot about my song-and-dance routine.
“I’ve met them,” Mom said. “Now, go over and introduce yourself and ask them to come for lasagna tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” I muttered. At least dinner was going to be lasagna. Hard to mess up a frozen meal. Mom’s desserts could win first place in any baking contest, but one taste of her plain ol’ cooking would cause a mouse to return every crumb and choose to starve. Her roast beef was tough as jerky, and her watery mashed potatoes dripped off the fork.
When I started to leave, Mom said, “The son is cute. I think he might be about your age.”
My stomach hurt, replaying the whole Destiny’s Child/blueberry syrup incident. Plus I suspected Mayzee told him why I owed her a dollar. But I followed Mom’s orders and pedaled slowly toward Miss Myrtie Mae’s house.
A couple of empty boxes were on the corner of their lawn. I guess they didn’t know about the dumpster in the alley behind their house yet.
By the time I reached the door, it opened without me having a chance to knock or ring the doorbell. Joe walked out and almost bumped into me.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello, again.”
“Hi,” I said.
Joe stepped back and pushed the door open wider. Stacks of moving boxes were behind him. “Did you get blueberry syrup back in?”
“What? Oh, no. That’s not why I’m here. My mom wanted me to come over and ask you and your mom to dinner tomorrow night.”
He leaned against the doorway. “Who’s asking?”
“My mom.”
“But you’re asking.” He smirked.
“I’m asking technically, but my mom asked me to ask you.”
“So who’s asking?”
I looked at him, confused.
“My mom is Tara Wilson.”
“But who’s asking?”
I froze.
“I’m Joe,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I get it now. I’m Rylee. Rylee Wilson.” I held out my hand for a shake.
Instead, he slapped my hand like he was giving me a sideways five. Then he turned, facing the giant foyer. “Mom, Rylee Wilson is at the door for you.”
“Who?” she yelled from the back of the house.
He faced me again. “Is your mom a good cook?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Wow, what a way to welcome us to Nowhere, Texas. Invite us over for a bad meal.”
“She’s a good baker. She made the carrot cake.”
“That is good. Actually, great. Her dinner couldn’t be all that bad.”
At least she hadn’t messed up heating frozen lasagna. Well, once she did leave a pan of it in the oven too long because she got caught up watching the Oscars. The noodles were a bit rubbery, but edible.
Joe’s mom was at the door now. Her dark hair was twisted in a messy bun, and even with no makeup, she was pretty. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi. My mom is Tara Wilson. I think you met her a couple of days ago.”
“And you are?” Joe reminded me.
“I’m sorry. I’m Rylee. Rylee Wilson.” I held out my hand, and we shook.
“Nice to meet you, Rylee. I’m Maria Toscani. That was thoughtful of your mom to bring over a cake. It was delicious.”
“Tara’s mom wants us to come over for dinner tomorrow night,” Joe told her, “but Rylee says her mom’s a bad cook.”
Mrs. Toscani laughed. “That couldn’t be true.”
My face felt hot. I didn’t know what to say next.
“Please tell your mom we’d love to come,” Mrs. Toscani said. “Can we bring anything?”
I wanted to ask, Could you leave your son at home? Instead I said, “No thank you. Mom has it all taken care of.”
CHAPTER 16
Lasagna Night turned into Meatloaf Night because Mom said it would be awful to serve our new neighbors a warmed frozen meal the first time she asked them over.
“Not so awful,” I told her.
“They’ll think I don’t know how to cook.” She tied on her apron that read SHRIMP, Dad’s pet name for her.
“Your dad is going to grill endive, but why don’t you make a salad?” Mom asked me. “You can never have too many vegetables.”
“Okay, but are you sure you don’t want to serve lasagna?” I asked. “It would be easier.”
“Oh, I can do this in my sleep.” She pulled the ground beef from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave, disregarding the defrost button and pressing the cook time on seven minutes. How could someone who measured every speck of flour and sugar when she baked a cake be so careless about cooking meat?
The last time we ate her meatloaf, Aunt Scarlett was visiting. She sawed her crisp dinner into tiny bites, using a butter knife. Instead of eating, she scooted the pieces around her plate and drank four glasses of water during the meal.
Even though I remembered Mr. Pham telling me about their hamburger order, I asked, “What if the Toscanis are vegetarians?”
“Rylee, they’re Italian.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
She looked at me like I said Neil Armstrong didn’t walk on the moon. “Veal Parmesan? Spaghetti and meatballs? Pepperoni pizza?”
“They’re Italian American, Mom. Anyway that doesn’t mean they always eat Italian food or meat.”
“Rylee, you’re acting as if you don’t like my meatloaf.”
“Oh, Mom!” Saying that had gotten me out of a lot of sticky conversations with her.
“Can I put cheddar in the salad?” I asked.
“Sure.” Mom checked on the ground beef, stabbing a fork through it. Part of the meat was cooked, but when she discovered that it wasn’t thawed all the way, she zapped it on high for two more minutes.
I rinsed the lettuce and put it in the spinner to dry. Then I gathered the tomatoes, carrots, and olives.
The microwave stopped buzzing, and Mom pulled out the meat. It was as gray as an old barn owl. She dumped it into the glass bowl and cracked two eggs.
“Oops,” she said. She’d accidentally dropped half of a shell into the meatloaf. Squinting, she used a spoon to try and scoop up the shell bits. She gave up, resting the spoon in the sink. “Oh, well. Good fiber.”
* * *
By six o’clock, the smell of burnt onions overwhelmed the house. At 6:01, the doorbell rang. At 6:02, the Toscanis’ wrinkled noses had clearly picked up the kitchen catastrophe.
Maria Toscani wore a navy sundress with a wide ivory belt emphasizing her tiny waist. She had the same coloring as Joe—olive skin, thick dark hair, and brown eyes. I checked out Joe’s eyes. He had the longest eyelashes.
Mom, Mayzee, and I were greeting them at the door when Uncle Cal showed up. He immediately noticed Maria and pulled off his baseball cap, running his fingers through the small amount o
f hair he had remaining.
“Cal,” Mom said, “this is Maria Toscani and her son. Our new neighbors.”
He nodded, and his cheeks turned a little pink. Uncle Cal and I could have had a blushing contest.
Maria smiled, offering her hand. “Nice to meet you, Cal.”
Uncle Cal held Maria’s hand and stared at it like he wanted to plant a kiss on her fingers. When he was still holding it a moment later, Maria pulled her hand back.
“Oh,” Uncle Cal said like he’d just realized she’d only wanted to shake. Then he held out his hand to Joe, who turned away and moseyed over to the living area.
Dad entered from the back door. “Hello! I’m glad you could make it. I’m Toby.”
Maria held her hand out to Dad. He wasn’t like Uncle Cal. He knew what to do and shook.
“Maria Toscani. Thanks for having us over. That’s my son, Joe.”
Dad crossed the room where Joe was standing directly in front of the Zachary photograph. Joe reluctantly took Dad’s outstretched hand, but dropped it quickly.
Dad raised his eyebrows, then said, “I’m grilling endive outside, Joe—you want to join me? Cal?”
Uncle Cal went, but Joe said, “I’ll stay here.”
“Thank you for asking him,” Maria quickly added.
Mom invited Maria to follow her into the kitchen while she finished up. That left me alone with Joe, because Mayzee had disappeared for some reason. The only time I desperately needed her to bug me, and she’d deserted ship.
Joe pulled the Zachary picture away from the corner and peeked on the other side.
“You can flip it around and look at it, if you want,” I told him.
He did, studying it for a long while. He was clearly interested, so interested that it made me remember how Twig had seemed bored when I told her about Zachary.
Finally Joe spoke. “My uncle’s a big guy, too. Are you related to this guy?”
“Zachary Beaver? No, he’s an old friend of my dad and Uncle Cal’s.” I explained how Miss Myrtie Mae left him the photo in her will.
“Did he live in Nowhere, Texas, too?”
The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas Page 6
