Sunday Sundaes

by Coco Simon

  “I know!” she said as the elevator doors closed.

  Huh? That was weird. How did she know my name? I didn’t have time to think about that, though, as I hustled left, then right, and then to the science room.

  When I finally flung open the door, the class was already in session, and who do you think was sitting right in the front row, center?

  Yup. Blair, in all her glory. Thanks for helping the new girl, I thought.

  She smirked as I sank into the nearest seat.

  Lunchtime can be hard even when you’re at a school with your best friends. If you come at the wrong moment, the line can be so long that your friends are finished by the time you sit down with your food. A bunch of dumb boys might nab the table you like by the window so that you have to sit with the younger kids somewhere. Sometimes the food can be awful. But nothing, nothing is worse than the feeling of standing with a full tray and having absolutely no one to sit with.

  Standing with my iced tea, a steaming bowl of fresh ramen noodles, and a side of kimchi on my tray (the food options were way better here than at my old school), I surveyed the terrain. To my left were the younger kids: noisy, messy, not my speed. To my right were the older kids: cool, quiet, boys sitting with girls. Straight ahead, the kids seemed to be my age—boys still sat with boys, and girls with girls—but the tables were packed. The only possible spot was near Blair and a bunch of her friends, and there was no way I was making that mistake again.

  Way in the back by the garbage bins was a half-empty table: social Siberia. I trudged toward it, not looking up; I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone, especially those girls. I set my tray down on the table and lifted my messenger bag off my shoulder, then sat and pulled out my phone. Never had I missed Tamiko and Sierra more than right then, not even when I’d been at camp for seven weeks.

  I snapped a picture of my lunch tray and sent it to them, captioning it, Jealous? but what I really wanted to do was snap a pic of myself all alone at the table and send it to them with a caption saying, I miss you guys so much, it’s taking all my willpower not to cry my eyes out right now.

  I pressed send and began to eat, awaiting a reply. A minute passed, then two, and then I saw that they’d read it. I waited for a peppy reply, at least from Tamiko, who’s super-quick on her phone, but nothing came. After another minute I felt worse than before. Were they also at lunch? Were they missing me too? Or had they already made a new friend to replace me?

  The food was tasty, and without anyone to talk to, I finished quickly. I still had twenty-five minutes until my next class, and I couldn’t sit there by myself and scroll through my phone the entire time; I’d be a sitting duck, just waiting to be picked on in some new way by the mean girls. So I gathered up my things, dealt with the unfamiliar trash/recycling/compost bins, and ditched my tray.

  Back out in the hall, I didn’t know where else to go, so I decided to head to my usual happy place: the library.

  At least I knew where it was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IRONY

  The Vista Green library was a really beautiful space, and I knew I’d spend a lot of time there. I was looking forward to seeing Mrs. K. again—the only friendly (if somewhat odd) person I’d met so far that day. Back at my old school, Martin Luther King Middle, the librarian had been my favorite teacher, and she was the faculty member in charge of Book Fest, so we’d spent a lot of fun time together, planning and working on the event. Maybe Vista Green had something like Book Fest that I could get involved in; I’d ask Mrs. K.

  The door swung open silently. There were a few students at computers at the desks, and even more spread around the back of the room, which opened out to a garden with lounge chairs. Around the room there were beanbag chairs and a few armchairs, and even a sofa, plus a rack of magazines and newspapers, and then rows and rows of books on the shelves beyond. There was a big desk area to my left, which was obviously Mrs. K.’s, and just to the right of it a massive fish tank was set into the wall. I let out a sigh of happiness. This could be my new happy place.

  Mrs. K. emerged from the stacks and seemed utterly unsurprised to find me standing in front of her again. She strode across the open area to her desk and surveyed me quickly from head to toe.

  “Allie. Allie Shear. A reader. Come. Shelve these books for me, please.” She nudged a cart full of books toward me.

  “I . . . uh . . . okay.” It was so weird how she knew who I was. And how did she know I liked to read? I’d barely said two words to her. Did the school distribute the new kids’ files to every staff member here?

  Mrs. K. paused for a brief moment, tiny hands on tiny hips, and looked me in the eye. “You do know the Dewey decimal system, don’t you?”

  “Yes!” My brain suddenly sprang to life. I ditched my messenger back next to her desk and pushed the cart toward the bookshelves, grateful to have a place to be and something to do for the next twenty-two minutes.

  I felt happy and safe as I shelved the books, confidently locating their homes, and saying hi to my favorite books as I passed them. It was like seeing old friends. Plus, I spotted lots of appealing new books as I worked. Okay, I thought. So I won’t have any human friends here, if today was any indication. At least I can have books as friends.

  Pretty soon the cart was empty and I had a few minutes left to get to my next class. I finally felt like myself as I wheeled the cart back to the front of the library and Mrs. K.’s desk, only to find my messenger bag splayed open on the floor and Anne of Green Gables lying out in the open on the sage carpet. Worse, Blair was standing over it, snickering.

  My jaw dropped and my face flushed with heat as I tried to think of what to do or say. But suddenly Mrs. K. was there, taking the cart from me and giving a withering stare to the mean girls.

  “Blair! Maria! Palmer! Don’t just stand there. If you knock something over, you must pick it right up!”

  Shockingly, they did just as she’d said, putting the book and my phone back into the bag and handing my bag to me sheepishly.

  “Sorry,” whispered Maria, with the long white-blond hair. She didn’t look sorry, though.

  I glanced around, and I could see all the kids in the area watching us. I nodded.

  Mrs. K. continued. “Excellent choice of reading material, Allie. Nothing like a classic, and right on trend. I suppose you’ve seen all the film adaptations of the Anne series, including the latest, which is very stylish and, I must say, quite well done, though really for teens, not middle schoolers. You must have quite sophisticated taste. Okay. Now, girls, don’t let me see you hanging around here again with nothing to do, or I’ll put you to work. Now, Allie, where to next, you? Upstairs? Hmmm?”

  The girls scuttled off while Mrs. K. yammered on, but I was still standing there in shock at how quickly she’d defused the situation and sent the mean girls packing. I let her give me directions to my math room, and then I stumbled out the door like a zombie from Tanner’s new favorite show, The Walking Zombie Toads (which is totally gross and inappropriate, as usual).

  On the stairs I had a bit of a delayed reaction to the bag incident, and I felt tears well. Why were these girls so mean? But just as quickly I channeled Anne Shirley and made myself focus on the limitless possibilities of Mrs. K. and the library.

  Mrs. K. was a little odd, but at least she seemed to know me, and she had already helped me twice today. Plus she obviously loved books, and her library was awesome.

  I survived the first day and lived to tell the tale. It wasn’t a good day, but I guess it wasn’t a total disaster. At home Tanner was filled with rambling stories of his new school and how he had two best friends, and the teacher had said he was so smart, and their classroom had a pet guinea pig. My mom beamed in satisfaction at him. But whenever she looked at me, her face would cloud over. I was always the happy student in the family, and Tanner was always fighting against school. It was pretty funny to see him as the happy student now, and me as the miserable one. My old English teacher, Mr.
Campbell, would have called that “ironic.”

  Finally my mom interrupted Tanner’s story of the ketchup at lunch, saying, “Hey! Do you guys want to come see the progress we’ve made on the store?”

  “Like, now?” asked Tanner.

  Usually we went to buy the rest of our school supplies on the first day of school. I guess everything was changing.

  “Sure,” I said, though all I really wanted to do was go lie on my new bed with Diana and lose myself in a good book. I couldn’t face calling Tamiko or Sierra yet to see how their first day had gone, and I really didn’t want to tell them about mine.

  We walked to the store—it was only five blocks from our new house, and close enough to the beach for us to hear seagulls and feel a cool breeze. My mood lifted as the temperature dropped a little, and soon we reached the store.

  The last time I had seen the store, it had been just an empty white box. “Okay, are you ready? Close your eyes,” my mom instructed as we rounded the corner. She reached for our hands, and though I felt stupid walking down the street with my eyes closed, my hand in my mom’s, I let her lead me. She brought us to the front of the store and then said, “Open!”

  I opened my eyes and gasped. It was beautiful!

  Outside hung a pale-blue-and-cream striped awning, and the big plate-glass window said MOLLY’S ICE CREAM in fat and swoopy gold lettering. Molly was the name of my mom’s grandmother, who’d taught my mom how to make ice cream.

  “Wow!” I said. “Does Grandma know?”

  “Uh-huh,” said my mom, grinning. “Now go in!”

  Inside there was a tall, white-painted wooden counter to my left for the cash register, with a built-in organizer on the side for, I guessed, spoons and straws and things like that. Behind the counter hung a white painted sign that said MENU in fancy black script. There were slots where flavor names could slide in, and lists of drinks, some I’d never even heard of. (I knew what a root beer float was, but an egg cream? A lime rickey?)

  Straight ahead were two long freezers with curved glass case tops and enough bins for twelve ice cream flavors. To the right of that were little buckets set into the counter for toppings, with a slab of marble behind it for creating mix-ins.

  Behind the freezers was a wall of open shelves, and above that were vintage metal letters with light bulbs in them that spelled out ICE CREAM, like from an old-fashioned carnival. A counter ran along the back with electrical outlets in it (for milkshake blenders and hot fudge warmers?), and at the far right was a tall glass freezer with a door that swung open.

  The store’s floor was laid in tiny black and white square tiles with flecks of gold in them, and the wall to the far right was a giant mirror; past that was a little hall with a bathroom and a closet. Up in front was a high counter with stools looking out the window, and three white-marble-topped tables with fancy curved wire chairs around them. The puffy chair cushions were done in plastic fabric that was the same as the awning outside: blue and cream stripes.

  The light fixtures hung from the ceiling at all different heights, and above the register was a cluster of individual light bulbs hanging from cords; the bulbs had been fitted with ceramic cones above them so that it looked like a cluster of ice cream cones hanging upside down.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Wow, Mom! This is awesome! It’s like one of those makeover shows on TV, where they do everything really fast!”

  “Where’s all the candy and ice cream?” asked Tanner, looking around anxiously.

  My mom laughed. “Excellent question. I have a big shipment coming in tomorrow, and then I have some ice cream in deep freeze storage at the industrial kitchen where I rent space. There’s actually a little kitchen in the back here, where I can hand-make small batches of ice cream, and also bake the mix-ins, like marshmallow treats and pie. I’ll probably have one or two fresh flavors of the day at any time, and then make the standard flavors in big batches at the industrial kitchen and bring them in as needed.”

  I was really impressed. It seemed like she’d been working on this for years, not just months. Maybe she had, if only in her imagination. I looked at my mom closely; she was like a different person in here—confident, upbeat, happy! It was kind of hard to believe she used to sit behind a desk looking at numbers all day and now she was going to scoop ice cream. I reached over and gave her a sideways hug.

  “I’m so happy for you, Mama,” I said, using my baby name for her.

  She put her arms around me and Tanner (Tanner tried to squirm out, of course) and sighed happily, saying, “It’s going to be better than great.” Then she kissed each of us on our heads and gave one more squeeze before releasing us.

  I glanced out the window and saw a group of girls about my age walking by. I didn’t want to know if any of them were the mean girls.

  Quickly I turned back toward my mom.

  “Yes. We’re going to be better than great,” I agreed. But I crossed my fingers for courage as I said it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BOOK CLUB

  Tamiko, Sierra, and I had a lot to say that first evening after school. My heart pinched as we video-chatted—they were together after carpooling home—and I missed them so much. Tamiko was wearing one of her usual eclectic outfits: a painted T-shirt with a bedazzled vest and a high ponytail sprouting out of the top of her head. Sierra looked soft and pretty in a loose-fitting romper. They were full of funny stories about kids we knew. Like, Jim Beatty had grown a mustache over the summer (it didn’t look intentional), Lori Chambers had grown nearly a foot taller, and Jamie Hansen was dating a high schooler who might or might not ride a motorcycle. There was a new head lunch lady, and the food might have gotten marginally better.

  I told them about the food at Vista Green, and how new and pretty the school was, and about kooky Mrs. K. If they noticed that I didn’t mention any kids, they didn’t let on, luckily. I tried to stay upbeat because I knew if I started to complain, I’d end up in tears, and I didn’t want to go there just yet.

  “We miss you, Allie Shear!” said Tamiko. “When are we going to see you?”

  I sighed. “Maybe after school one day? Could we get together?”

  Tamiko nodded. “I bet I could have my mom bring us over to your house one day this week.”

  My heart soared. “That would be so amazing.”

  As we were getting ready to hang up, Sierra smacked her forehead and said, “Oh, Allie, by the way, I’m going to need your help! Mrs. Olson was desperate for someone to help with Book Fest since you left, so I volunteered. I have no idea what I’m doing!”

  My heart sank. Not only had my best friend taken over my old, beloved job, but she didn’t even like to read! Plus she was always totally disorganized and overcommitted! Book Fest was in trouble, and there was not much I could do about it except grit my teeth and say, “Happy to help, anytime.”

  My second day of school was a little better than my first. For one thing, Tamiko and Sierra had texted our group chat to say they could come over after school. Knowing I was seeing my friends kept a little flame of happiness burning in my heart all day. For another thing, I knew my way around the building a little better, so I didn’t feel like a total alien. And finally, I didn’t waste any time at lunch but quickly ate my bánh mì sandwich and ran straight down to the library. Mrs. K. was at her desk and said, “Yes. Good. Okay. Mmm-hmm. Here they are, all ready for you,” as I walked in.

  I always felt like Mrs. K. was mid-conversation with me whenever I saw her—like we’d already established something, but I was never sure what. Being with Mrs. K. was like reading a book that took place entirely in the present, and you had to figure out the backstory as you went along—confusing but also kind of intriguing.

  Today she handed me a stack of flyers to deliver to every teacher around the school, not really asking me to do it but proceeding as if I’d already agreed to whatever it was. I had to laugh a little, she was so funny with her run-on monologues and her chic outfits. (Today: a cara
mel-colored wrap dress with caramel-colored slingbacks—click, click, click—and a chunky necklace of smooth wooden links.) I scooped up the pile of flyers from her and began walking, classroom to classroom, to hand them to the teachers or leave them on their desks.

  I wasn’t sure if I should look at the flyers or not, since they were for the teachers, but after a few empty classrooms (all the teachers were at lunch), I decided that Mrs. K. wouldn’t have given them to me to distribute if they’d been private. So I ducked into an alcove to read what the flyer said. It was a questionnaire, and Mrs. K. was looking for teachers to each fill one in and return it.

  The questions were:

  • Would you prefer an author visit or a book fair?

  • Would you participate in an all-school read?

  • Would you prefer that we emphasize fiction or nonfiction?

  • Do the kids in your classes read independently? Do you?

  My heart leapt at the words “book” and “fair” in the same sentence. Book Fest had been my absolute favorite thing at my old school. It was a three-day-long book fair with piles of books for sale on tables, where kids could stock up on their independent reading books for the year or learn about new books that their favorite authors had written. Sometimes authors or artists would come talk to us about writing or about the characters in the books. It would take over our lunchroom for the three days it ran, and we’d get to bring brown-bag lunches and eat at our desks. Each grade would get a shopping slot, and when it was our turn, we’d swarm the tables and make the tough decisions on how to spend the money we’d brought. Sometimes authors came and signed their books after we bought them. Best of all, we were allowed a free half hour of reading in our classroom every day during Book Fest.

  My favorite times were once, in fifth grade, when my mom gave me the money to buy the Anne of Green Gables boxed set of beautiful flowered hardcovers and put it away for my birthday. The other was when I met a real live author of some books I’d read and she signed a book for me. She told me I could be an author too, but not in that kind of way adults sometimes do. She said it like I could really do it.