Rocky Road Ahead

by Coco Simon

  Finally Tamiko arrived with the most perfect, gorgeous-looking unicorn sundae I’d ever seen. Sierra and I even oohed and aahed over it. She presented it to Anita and stepped back, her hands clasped proudly in front of her chest.

  Anita smiled politely and took one or two shots, then put down her camera. She took a deep breath. “Girls. These are beautiful confections, worthy of an Austrian patisserie. They are flawless!”

  We all relaxed and smiled. She got it.

  “But . . .”

  But? There was a “but”?

  “. . . they look too good to eat.”

  We looked at one another in confusion. That didn’t even make sense.

  Maryann stood up and came over. “What Anita means is, well, we can see how hard you’ve worked and how perfect everything is. But ice cream . . . It’s a messy food. It’s for kids, really, and it’s an indulgence. It isn’t something that you eat primly. And your mom’s flavors . . . Molly’s flavors . . . They’re anything but prim and proper! They’re wild and passionate and messy and inventive!”

  “They make us hungry!” said Anita with a laugh.

  My mom joined us. “Thanks!” she said.

  “Can you . . . Could I ask you to do some messy cones?” asked Anita. “Something really yummy and appetizing, with dribbles? A sundae with fudge and marshmallows spilling over the sides, the ice cream half melted? Maybe a bite taken out of it?”

  Maryann added, “We need texture. We want our readers to imagine what the ice cream would taste like. And to convey that, we’ve got to make the photos as authentic as possible. Like our readers are right here. Does that make sense?”

  My friends and I smiled at one another. “I think it does!” I said.

  Quickly we set about making gooey, messy cones, with multiple scoops of our favorite flavors, scoops that dripped and melted down our wrists. Anita had us all loosen our hair and line up behind the counter and take huge bites of cones right at the same time. It was a feast. We were all laughing and having fun.

  And the new unicorn sundae was a triumph! Tamiko put in her favorite flavors—Saint Louis Cake and Banana Pudding—then smothered the scoops with hot fudge and caramel that oozed down the sides of the ice cream. The dish was overflowing and making a sticky puddle on the marble tabletop where it sat. Anita moved around the table like she was photographing a movie star. She had Tamiko hold the light reflector for her while she made commentary like a celebrity photographer on TV. “Wonderful! Delicious! Fabulous!” she said as she shot.

  After they were done, Maryann copied all our names down and showed them to us to make sure she had the spellings correct. Then she gave an embarrassed smile. “I’ve had a lot of amazing tastes of ice cream today, but—well, I’m ready for a scoop of my own now, please.”

  “Absolutely!” said Sierra, rushing to get behind the counter. “What can I make for you?”

  Maryann combined Lime Sorbet with Balsamic Strawberry, and Sierra went to scoop it, saying, “Yay Gourmet!” which made everyone laugh. Anita got into it too and asked for Banana Pudding with hot fudge in a dish, which Tamiko prepared.

  “Don’t forget the sprinkle of happy!” said Tamiko. They each put a pinch of rainbow sprinkles on top and gave the ice cream to the ladies.

  My mom said we helpers should all have our own as well, and soon the six of us were sitting in a cluster of chairs around a table, and we were telling Anita and Maryann our summer plans, with Tamiko mentioning the photo classes and the food writing classes we were thinking of taking. I mentioned M.F.K. Fisher, and Maryann was so excited, saying that Fisher had been a huge inspiration for her and had played a role in her becoming a food writer. Both Anita and Maryann remarked on the music, and we told them all about the Wildflowers and Sierra’s talent. They were super-impressed.

  After a bit the post-lunch crowd began to dribble in, and it meant the tidal wave was coming soon. We cleaned up and began to say our good-byes to Anita and Maryann.

  Maryann shook our hands warmly and said, “I can’t begin to tell you how impressed I am by you young ladies. You are such a good team, and you flow so well—even in a crisis.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Someone wise once told me not to worry about things we couldn’t control. We can’t prevent things from going wrong, but we can control how we react when they do.”

  “That is a very wise person,” said Maryann with a smile.

  Anita hugged us all, and she and Tamiko exchanged contact information. It seemed like Tamiko was really interested in food photography after today. Maybe she’d just enjoyed making a mess in the shop for a change.

  My mom took the ladies outside to say good-bye and so Anita could get some shots of her in front of the store, and my friends and I took a minute to do a silent scream of happiness.

  “It went so well, you guys!” I said in a quiet, happy voice. “Thank you so much! I’m so psyched!”

  “It was all thanks to your organizing,” said Sierra kindly.

  “You mean my control-freaking?”

  “You’re not a control freak,” said Tamiko. “You’re detail-oriented.”

  I laughed. “That makes it sound better. Seriously, though, we couldn’t have done it without you guys. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it without you guys.”

  “Thanks for having us. It was fun!” said Tamiko.

  “Yeah, I really enjoyed it,” Sierra added.

  My mom came in a little bit later, and we were on a roll with the afternoon rush. She gave us each a hug and tucked some extra cash into our pockets as a thank-you, and for the time we’d put in at the beginning of the day.

  “We had a great time, Mrs. S.,” said Tamiko between customers.

  “I would have been bummed if we’d missed it,” agreed Sierra.

  “You girls were so impressive!” crowed my mom. “I can’t thank you all enough. I’m going to go sit down in the back with a cup of coffee for a minute. Then I’ll let you all go home a little early.”

  “We want to stay,” said Tamiko.

  “Yeah,” agreed Sierra.

  I shrugged. “Me too.”

  My mom laughed. “Okay! I’ll see you in a little bit, then.”

  As the late-afternoon rush died down into the pre-dinner lull, my friends and I did our usual Sunday evening routine. We refilled the toppings from buckets in the fridge, in the freezer, and on the shelves. We wiped down all the tables and counters. Tamiko restocked the cups, straws, cones, and dishes. I cleaned the (yuck) bathroom.

  After Sierra’s parents came to pick up Tamiko and Sierra and drive them home, my mom came out to chat with me. It was quiet in the store, and I was going to leave soon.

  “Allie, I hadn’t heard that idea about the food writing camp this summer. I think it sounds wonderful!”

  “Oh, yeah, well, I took your advice. I went to Mrs. K., and she gave me a ton of info about lots of programs and jobs and internships I could do in town. I think the food writing sounds cool, if you’re okay with it.”

  “I’ll talk to your dad, but I think it would be perfect for you. And fun if Tamiko’s taking photography there as well!”

  I nodded. My summer was coming together. One less thing for me to worry about.

  “Okay, run on home now. Relieve Dad from Tanner’s video games, please, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” I went over and gave my mom a giant hug. “It was a great day, mom.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered into my hair.

  “I’m so proud of you, Mom. You’ve created something really cool here. I’m happy that the world is noticing.”

  She squeezed me tighter. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EXTRA, EXTRA!

  It was a week later when my mom texted me at school, two words: It’s out.

  I knew what she meant and quickly typed back, Can’t wait!

  The Yay Gourmet article about Molly’s had been posted, and my mom and I had agreed to read it together. I raced to the store after schoo
l and barreled in the door.

  “I’m here, I’m here. You didn’t cheat, did you?”

  My mother shook her head. “Nope. I promised I’d wait.”

  I squealed and rubbed my hands together. “Let’s do it!”

  We sat at a table, and my mom opened the Yay Gourmet home page in her browser, and there it was, at the top of the site:

  Molly’s Ice Cream

  Gooey and Old-Fashioned, Just Like Grandma Used to Make

  Tart Balsamic Strawberry, rich and creamy Banana Pudding, sour Lime Sorbet, chunky and chocolaty Rockin’ Rocky Road . . . These are just a few of the excellent and innovative flavors that the ice cream alchemist Meg Shear has crafted at Molly’s, her fresh and stylish ice cream parlor where everything old is new again. Or is everything new old again? No matter! The ice cream is captivating.

  With top-of-the-line ingredients; a traditional hand-churning process that creates dense, almost chewy cream bases; and flavors that only a mad scientist or a very brilliant five-year-old could create (Gingerbread House or Cereal Milk, anyone?), Molly’s delivers a consistently scrumptious product.

  “OMG, Mom! This is amazing!” I cried, looking up from the screen.

  The article continued on to rave about the store’s decor (“an immaculate retro vibe reminiscent of Walt Disney World’s Confectionery on Main Street, USA”) and the “vibrant young ice-creamistas who scoop and serve, offering a ‘sprinkle of happy’ on top of each order.”

  “That’s us, Mom!” I said, feeling goose bumps of excitement. I read on, scrolling through the photos of oozing cones and dribbly sundaes. There was a pretty photo of my mom outside the store, shot from a cool low angle; a cute little snap of Tanner (wiping his mouth on his sleeve!); and then, at the very end, a wide and big shot of me and my besties, eating our messy cones behind the counter in our headbands, and laughing.

  “Oh, Allie, what a beautiful photo that is of you three. I’ll have to see if I can get Anita to send me a copy to frame for everyone’s parents.”

  “Mom! Look at the caption! It has our names!”

  “ ‘A sprinkle of happy,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘Tamiko Sato, Allie Shear, and Sierra Perez enjoy a rare break from serving the masses.’ ”

  “Mom. Do you realize? Maryann got it all right!”

  My mom smiled. “You’re right!”

  “Even our names!”

  “She was a very nice lady.”

  I sighed happily. “Let’s read it again!” I said.

  We scrolled to the beginning and read it three more times, admiring the photos each time and noticing new details.

  “It’s great writing, don’t you think?” said my mom.

  I agreed. “She’s not M.F.K. Fisher, but she’s close!”

  “Hey, that reminds me, we’ve got to get to the library this weekend and check out some food writing, okay? Saturday?”

  I nodded. “Great.”

  Then my mom wanted to write a thank-you e-mail to Maryann right away. It was quiet, so I sent the article to my BFFs.

  The door jingled, and a nice-looking man came in wearing a suit.

  “Hello. Welcome to Molly’s,” I said.

  “Hi! I’m looking for Meg Shear. Is she available, please?”

  “Can I tell her who’s asking?”

  “Sure. I’m Jim Nichols from the Daily Chronicle We’d like to do a story for our food section.” He handed me his business card.

  My jaw wanted to drop, but I stayed composed. “Certainly. I’ll be right back. Can I get you a scoop while you wait?”

  He grinned like a kid. “Well, since you asked, I’d love to try the Cereal Milk. I’ve heard so much about it.”

  “Sure! Would you like a cup or a cone? Any toppings?”

  I prepared his order and handed it to him.

  “On the house,” I said.

  “No, no. Journalists can’t accept free things! We have to pay, or people won’t think we’re impartial!” he said with a wink.

  “Oh, right!” I got it. I rang him up and went to get my mom.

  She was staring dreamily at the computer with the ghost of a smile on her face. I quickly whisper-explained who was out front, and she sat up straight and finger-combed her hair behind her ears.

  “He’s fun too, for a grown-up,” I added quietly. “And nice. Really nice.”

  “Allie, just remember, they won’t all be as nice as Maryann and Anita. It’s just . . . statistically unlikely. We were lucky for our first big article, but we might not be so lucky again. You can’t take it personally. It’s just business.” She stood and smoothed down her apron.

  I nodded.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Like a million bucks!” I said.

  She laughed and gave me a squeeze.

  While my mom and Jim Nichols chatted, I grabbed my phone and copied the Yay Gourmet story link. I pasted it into a text message and then hesitated before typing in a contact. It was to Colin. My thumb hovered over the send button. Was it bragging if I sent it to him? Was I being pushy, referencing the story idea he had killed at the newspaper meeting? Maybe Molly’s hadn’t come off as well as I’d thought and he’d think the article was boring!

  Oh, whatever. He was my friend. He’d love it! I pressed send, and then spotted the replies from my besties.

  AHHH! YAAAY . . . GOURMET! <3 <3 <3, said Sierra.

  Sprinkle Sundays sisters forever! #famous, texted Tamiko.

  Then there was a reply from Colin: Amazing! You crushed it! We need to celebrate!

  I grinned, and my heart leapt a little as I sent back a text with a smiley face emoji and Thanks!

  My phone buzzed again. It was the besties, still going.

  Seriously, we look like models. Tamiko Sato is now available for professional photo shoots!

  Don’t get carried away, Tamiko :D, Sierra texted.

  It’s not my fault I’m so beautiful, OK?

  I laughed. As fun as it was trying to decide if I had a crush on Colin or not, everything always came back to me and my best friends. We were always there for one another, and we always would be, through crushes, spilled sundaes, bad rock band lyrics, French food, and more.

  Friendship: so old-fashioned that it’s new again.

  #SprinkleSundaysSisters

  Keep reading for a preview of

  Banana Splits

  by

  Coco Simon

  “I need another Bird’s Nest Sundae with strawberry ice cream, please!” I called to Allie.

  “Bird’s Nest Sundae, coming right up!” Allie replied.

  I watched my friend make the sundae: one scoop of chocolate ice cream, topped with shredded coconut, jelly beans, and one of those marshmallow birds. The result looked like a bird sitting on its eggs in a nest, and I absolutely loved it. It was my latest sundae creation, and it was probably one of my favorites yet.

  The customers loved it too. I’d been counting sales of the new sundae ever since I’d started taking orders at twelve forty-five, and in just two hours we’d sold thirteen of them!

  Allie handed me the sundae, which I finished off with a Molly’s Ice Cream trademark: a shower of sprinkles.

  “Here’s your sprinkle of happy,” I said, with my best salesgirl smile, handing the sundae to the woman who had ordered it. The little girl next to her began to jump up and down in excitement.

  “Ice cream! Ice cream!” she shouted.

  “Calm down, Sophie,” her mom said patiently. “I just need to pay, and then we’ll sit down.”

  I laughed. “It’s okay. We all feel that way about ice cream,” I told her, and the woman gave me a grateful smile and made her way to pay my friend Sierra at the register.

  I spun around to Allie. “Thirteen in two hours!” I bragged.

  “I was counting too. That might be a record,” she said. Then she scrunched up her freckly nose in that way she does when she’s thinking. “I wonder if it is a record. Why haven’t we ever thought about keeping stats o
n this kind of thing?”

  “We could, if we input flavors into the computer system,” Sierra chimed in, tapping the register. “Right now it only keeps track of small sundae, medium sundae, small cone, like that.”

  “This sounds like a job for Sierra Perez, math genius,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows.

  “That might be beyond my genius capabilities,” Sierra answered. “But I’ll talk to your mom about it, Allie.”

  “Awesome!” Allie replied.

  Allie’s mom, Mrs. S., owns Molly’s Ice Cream, which is named after her grandmother. Allie, Sierra, and I have been besties since we were tiny, and we work together in the shop every Sunday afternoon. I’m glad we do, because Allie’s parents got divorced last summer and now Allie goes to a different school from Sierra and me. Most weeks, our Sprinkle Sundays are the only day we’re all together in the same place.

  I gazed around at the shop. Three teenage girls were sitting on stools at the high counter that faces the window. A dad and his two little boys were eating ice cream cones at one of the small round tables, and at the table next to them, Sophie was digging into her Bird’s Nest Sundae while her mom watched.

  I wiped my hands on my apron. “I’m going to take a few photos for the website while it’s quiet,” I announced.

  “Great. I’ll refill the toppings,” Allie said.

  “I’ll help!” Sierra quickly offered.

  A few months ago Allie might have been upset that I was taking pictures instead of helping with the toppings. But ever since her mom made me the unofficial social media director of the shop, she doesn’t mind as much. I make all the updates to the Molly’s Ice Cream website. I upload photos to the shop’s social media accounts, and I respond to any messages or comments people post. I don’t mind doing it, because Mrs. S. is so busy making the ice cream and keeping the shop running seven days a week that it would never get done. Also it’s a lot of fun!

  I walked up to Sophie and her mom. “Would you mind if I took a photo of your daughter with the sundae and post it on our website?” I asked. “We’ll identify her by first name only.”