by Coco Simon
“The coupons were a terrific idea,” she said. “They have definitely increased my Tuesday business. So if you have any other ideas, I’d love to hear them. But before or after your shift.”
I nodded. “Got it!”
“I want you to know how much I appreciate you, Tamiko,” Mrs. S. said. “It is so sweet that you want to help the business succeed.”
“This business deserves to succeed,” I said. “And besides, the marketing stuff is fun.”
Mrs. S. stood up. “Awesome. Now, Allie is crushing the mix-ins, so feel free to take some photos until it gets busy.”
I took a few steps, and then I turned back to Mrs. S. “So, would you say that I’m sort of your unofficial social media director?”
“Sure,” Mrs. S. replied. “You could say that.”
I walked back into the parlor, grinning like crazy. A few minutes before, I had been sure I was going to get fired. But now I was the unofficial social media director of the trendiest ice cream shop on the coast!
Do I have a business card program on my laptop? I wondered.
Sierra came in, exactly on time, as I was snapping photos of Allie crushing the mix-ins.
“Hola, chicas!” she said. “What’s happening?”
“Tamiko is uploading some photos onto Molly’s new website page!” Allie reported. “And Sierra, the napkins need to be refilled, if you don’t mind, chica.”
“Why would I mind?” Sierra asked.
“Wow, you are extra cheerful today,” I said.
She smiled. “I’m just happy that the Sprinkle Sundays team is still together.”
Allie looked confused. We had never told her that I had almost quit.
Thankfully, a bunch of customers came in at that moment, and I recognized them. It was the dad with the cute little girls who had ordered unicorn sundaes a few weeks before.
“How can I help you?” I asked. “Three unicorn sundaes?”
The girls nodded shyly. I wrote up the order and gave it to Allie.
“Three unicorn sundaes coming right up!” I said.
Then Grumpy Guy came in and gazed at the menu with his beady eyes. I steeled myself. I was not going to let him get to me this time.
“Hi! Can I help you?” I asked.
“I feel like having a sundae, but I don’t know what to get,” he said.
“How about a unicorn sundae?” I suggested. Allie had just handed me one, and I held it up to show him.
He grimaced. “Unicorns are stupid. Dragons are way cooler.”
“Right!” I said, keeping my voice cheerful. “One moment, sir.”
I handed the three unicorn sundaes to the dad and then turned back to Grumpy Guy. “How about a dragon sundae, then?”
He looked interested. “What’s a dragon sundae?”
I thought quickly, going over in my head what topping ingredients the shop had. “It’s . . . it’s Chocolate Mint Chip ice cream with fiery cinnamon candies and chocolate spikes.”
“That sounds good,” he said.
I held up our three serving cups. “Would you like small, medium, or large?”
“Small, please,” he replied.
I wrote down the order on my little green pad.
Then I showed it to Grumpy Guy.
“Is this correct?” I asked him.
He picked it up and scrutinized it, squinting. “Yes,” he said. “You have very neat handwriting.”
“Thank you,” I said. I handed the order to Allie. “One dragon sundae, please.”
Allie had been watching the whole exchange, so she knew what to do. She scooped some green Chocolate Mint Chip ice cream into a cup. She sprinkled on some red cinnamon candies. Then she took a square of the chocolate that we used for the mix-ins, cut it into rough chunks, and stuck them into the ice cream, like dragon spikes. I saw her reach for the sprinkles and stopped her.
“No!” I hissed. “He hates sprinkles!”
Allie nodded and handed me the sundae.
“Here you go, sir,” I said to Grumpy Guy. “One small dragon sundae.”
He studied it carefully. Then he brought it to Sierra and paid for it. She gave him his change.
Clink! I stared in amazement as coins fell into our tip jar.
I couldn’t believe it! Grumpy Guy had given us a tip! Probably a very small tip, but still!
More customers came in after that, and I couldn’t say that the dragon sundae took off the way the unicorn sundae had. But when Grumpy Guy left, I turned to Allie and high-fived her.
“Victory over Grumpy Guy!” I cheered.
“Who? Oh, him?” she said, and then she started cracking up.
“He actually tipped us this time,” Sierra said.
“I know! I saw!” I told her.
We quieted down when a new customer came in.
“Hi,” the customer said. “A friend told me about your ice cream shop, and she said you have the best ice cream around.”
“We do,” I assured her.
“Hmm,” she said. “I’d love to try your Cereal Milk ice cream. That sounds delicious.”
Allie chimed in. “It is,” she said. “Mom got the idea after seeing me and my little brother drinking the milk left over from our cereal.”
“I’ll take a small cup, please,” the woman said. “No, wait, a waffle cone!”
“You got it,” I said, and then I started to scoop the ice cream into her cone.
“I just love ice cream,” the woman went on. “You know, I was just in Manhattan, and I had the most amazing thing. Have you ever had taiyaki?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve had traditional taiyaki, and also taiyaki with ice cream.”
“That’s what I had in Manhattan!” she cried. “It was so good! How genius is that, to top taiyaki with ice cream?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “I know, right! I had some at a festival two weeks ago. It was amazing.”
She frowned. “Oh, you got it at a festival. I was hoping someplace around here was selling it.”
“Not yet,” I replied, and handed the cone to her. “Please pay at the register,” I said.
When the woman left, I turned to Allie. “Maybe we shouldn’t give up on the taiyaki idea,” I said. “We could do it one day a week. Taiyaki Tuesdays. Or even Taiyaki Sundays, and I could work the machine.”
“That might work,” Allie admitted.
I wanted to run into the back and talk to Mrs. S., but I remembered my promise to her. Then I promised myself that I would come up with a proposal—a real one this time, with Kai’s help. I was not giving up on the taiyaki!
Four more customers came in—and I knew them. They were all in eighth grade at MLK. Ewan Kim, Jake DeStefano, Connor Jackson, and Sean Hunter. Sierra shot me a look when they came in, and her eyes widened. They were some of the most popular boys at MLK, and I already knew that Sierra thought that Jake was “seriously cute.”
Ewan spoke first. “Hey, um, you’re Tamiko, right? From art class?” he asked.
“Um, yeah,” I said, and I felt myself blush. Why was I blushing?
“Okay, so can I please get a vanilla cone? With rainbow sprinkles?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, and I made it for him. I put the sprinkles on, and then I said, automatically, “Here’s your sprinkle of happy!”
Jake and Connor started to laugh obnoxiously loudly. My face was burning. Why had I said that in front of these boys? Whhhyyyy?
But Ewan was smiling at me. “Thanks,” he said.
I nodded to Sierra. “You pay there.”
The other boys were still laughing when I took their orders. Connor and Sean wanted milkshakes, and Jake asked for extra sprinkles on his cone. When I handed it to him, I made sure not to say the sprinkles line.
“Aw, come on. Where’s my sprinkle of happy?” he asked. “I asked for extra sprinkles. I thought I’d get an extra-big sprinkle of happy!”
I ignored him and turned to help the customers who had just walked in
. Then I heard a commotion over by the register and turned my head to see what was going on.
Connor had grabbed the tub of rainbow sprinkles from behind the counter. He stuck his hand into it and threw some at Jake!
“Here’s your sprinkle of happy!” Connor said.
“Guys, no!” Sierra cried.
They ignored her. Jake dipped his hand into the tub and tossed some sprinkles at Connor.
I marched away from my customers. “Hey, cut that out! That is not cool!”
But the boys were out of control. Ewan and Sean grabbed sprinkles too, and they were all throwing them at one another! Then Connor dumped the whole tub of sprinkles onto Jake’s head!
I’d had it.
“Stop that right now!” I yelled, and the boys did stop, stunned at how loud I was. “Do you know how much those sprinkles cost?” I asked.
Sierra joined in. “You think you’re funny, but every penny counts at a small business!” she shouted. “Not to mention that now we have to stop serving our customers so that we can clean up your big mess! You’re being rude to our other customers.”
The customers waiting in line applauded Sierra for that. Jake, Connor, and Sean all ran out, like jerks. Ewan started to follow them, but then he stopped.
“I can help you clean up,” he said. He didn’t look any of us in the eyes.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll get the broom and dustpan.”
“I’ll refill the sprinkles,” Allie said.
I quickly returned with the broom and dustpan, and Ewan got to work sweeping the sprinkles off the floor. Sierra wiped down the countertops. I got back to taking orders and delivered them to Allie when she came back in with more sprinkles.
“Mom says thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, it was those jerks,” I said, and then I realized that Ewan was still there. He had finished sweeping up the sprinkles, and then he left without a word. But then Sierra noticed something.
“There’s ten bucks next to the register,” she said. “I think Ewan left it.”
“Well, maybe he’s not such a jerk,” I muttered. “But the other three are.”
The rest of the customers told us we’d done a good job handling things, and they all asked for a sprinkle of happy, probably just to make us feel better.
Then the last customers left, and Allie walked over to Sierra and then to me and gave us each a hug.
“What was that for?” I asked.
“For being such good friends, and for standing up for the shop,” she said. “I’m sorry I was being so uptight about the shop, but I want you to know that it means a lot that you care about Molly’s too. I am so lucky to have my BFFs working with me!”
“And we’re lucky to be working here,” I said. “Sprinkle Sundays selfie!”
Allie, Sierra, and I got together, and I took the picture. Then I posted it on SuperSnap with a caption.
Sprinkle Sundays sisters!
And of course I tagged #Mollys #Bayville #BestIceCreamEver.
I posted it to the page and smiled when I looked at the shot. The three of us together seemed just right—the perfect Sunday combination.
DON’T MISS BOOK 3:
THE PURR-FECT SCOOP
I knew it had to be here somewhere! I just had to find it. I tied my long, brown hair into a ponytail to get it out of my way, and then I began searching slowly but surely, room by room, throughout the house.
My first stop was our clean but messy bright yellow kitchen, where I circled the cluttered table, sifted carefully through the pile of newspapers and magazines for recycling, roamed around the packed countertops (small appliances, jars and bins, piles of mail) and the jumbly kitchen island and even into the little closet with the washer and dryer, but no luck. My abuela—my mom’s mom—is from Cuba and is super-religious; she always tells us to say a prayer to Saint Anthony when we lose something.
I felt a little silly asking a dead saint for help finding a comic book, but I was desperate. I’d borrowed it from my friend Cecelia, and I had to give it back to her at our Comic Book Club meeting after school on Monday. That only gave me two days to find it.
My abuela says the key to finding things, besides saying the little prayer, is that you have to really look, even in places you think you’ve already checked or places where you couldn’t even imagine the thing being.
I went all through the living/dining room area, lifting sofa cushions, flipping through all the colorful needlepoint throw pillows my dad had made, peeking behind the bright watercolors of birds that my mom did for fun, looking underneath the box lid of the half-done jigsaw puzzle on the dining room table—nothing! I wandered into my parents’ home office, but it was so immaculate, I could see at a glance that it wasn’t on either of their back-to-back desktops or the low chest that held copies of their research, their patients’ files, and more. The only place my parents were neat was in their offices, both here and at work. I couldn’t really criticize them for messiness, though; I was messy and disorganized too. I think we all always thought we’d get back to a project, or find some time to clean up later, or organize our things, and then we would get busy and never did.
Upstairs, I went into their bedroom, where their bed was still unmade and clothing was strewn on chairbacks and across the small love seat by the window. A large oil painting of Cuban storefronts, painted by my dad’s dad, hung proudly above my mom’s dresser. She loved that picture but my dad didn’t. Their families both emigrated to America when they were babies, in 1973, and while my mom was dying to go back for a visit, my dad said he never would. He didn’t even like to talk about Cuba.
I sighed. Nothing in their room, nothing in their bathroom—thank goodness, because all their towels were damp and heaped in a pile; if the comic were there, it would surely have been ruined. I knew it wasn’t in my room, because that’s what had started this whole search. That only left one more possibility: my twin sister Isabel’s room.
Unfortunately, that room was currently off-limits to me.
Isa’s door was closed tightly, something she’d taken to doing since school had started this year. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was locked, even. She’d left earlier this afternoon, but I wasn’t sure when she was due to return, and I dared not enter without her permission or I’d face her wrath.
I stood on the landing outside her door, my arms folded, my foot tapping in place as I thought. Finally I decided: Saint Anthony would want me to look. I was sure of it!
I put my hand on her doorknob.
Did I dare open the door?
Slowly, slowly, I turned the handle, my senses aflame for any sign of her return. The door was not locked, it turned out, and the handle turned easily.
The door began to open, and my eyes strained for a glimpse of a room I hadn’t seen inside in more than six weeks. And then . . . BANG! The back door slammed downstairs!
I pulled Isabel’s door closed, released the handle, and scurried back to my room, where I flung myself onto my bed, trying to look natural.
“Hello?” I called. I assumed it was Isa because my parents had returned to their clinic after our big Saturday lunch as usual.
There was no reply, only the sound of firm footsteps stomping across the floor below and then heading up the stairs.
“Isa?” I called.
Suddenly she was at my door. “Were you just in my room?” she demanded.
“What? Me? No! Seriously? Jeez!” How on earth did she know?
Isabel was carrying a big brown box. It had holes cut all round it, and something inside it was making noise.
“What’s in the box?” I asked.
She hesitated and then turned on her heel and went to her room without answering me.
I waited a second, and then, intrigued, I stood to follow her. She opened her door, flipped on the lights with her elbow, and crossed the room to her desk. I was right behind her, and it surprised me that she didn’t slam the door in my face as she usually would h
ave. I stayed in the doorway anyway, just to be safe.
Isabel and I are technically identical twins, but no one mixes us up anymore. When we were little, our mom would dress us in similar (never identical) outfits. I always had everything in pink and Isa in purple, even our bedrooms. If I got a doll with a red dress, Isa would get the exact same one but in a blue dress. All through last year we were really identical. But over the past few months, especially since school started a few weeks ago, we grew to be very different. Now we’re not as close as we used to be.
Isabel has changed her style—from preppy-cute to wearing all-black clothes and changing her hairstyle constantly: dyeing it blue, putting it in cornrows, and now her recent rocker chick mullet. Meanwhile, my hair is still long and brown and wavy, and I wear bright and flowing clothes, kind of hippy-ish. You’d have to look pretty carefully to see that we’re twins, even though we’re technically identical.
Isabel placed the box carefully on her desk, turned on her gooseneck lamp, and peeked inside the flaps of the box’s lid.
“What is it?” I repeated.
Isabel turned and looked at me, considering me for a minute. Then with a little smile on her face she said, “Come see.”
I crossed the room, swiveling my head from side to side to look at all the redecorating she’d done in the past few weeks. Unlike my room and the rest of the house, Isa’s room was neat as a pin. But she’d covered her purple walls completely with rock band posters and things cut out of magazines: race cars, futuristic skyscrapers, weird artwork, and more. My eyes were like pinwheels during the quick journey to her desk.
I peered over her shoulder, not knowing what to expect. When I spied the box’s contents, I gasped and reared back.
“Whoa!” I said. “That’s a snake!”
Isabel smiled wider and reached her hands into the box.
