Authors: Rose Kent
She nodded. “Serious as a snakebite.”
“What do you know about running an ice cream business, Ma?” I moved my piece six spaces.
Or any business
, I thought. Not that I wanted to keep rehashing mistakes, but facts were facts: she’d only sold one set of steak knives from her cutlery franchise—and that was to Juanita’s grandparents. Cats in the Cradle lasted a month, and we almost got slapped with a lawsuit. The only jobs Ma ever kept were farmhand at her parents’ horse ranch when she was a teenager, and more recently, at Albertsons in the deli. She was good at slicing meat:
friendly, efficient, and—as she liked to brag—one of the few workers who hadn’t cut off a finger. Kids liked how she always gave out free samples too.
With no horse ranches in downtown Schenectady, my vote was for her to apply at the grocery store.
“Ice cream isn’t rocket science, Tess. And thanks to the
Inside Scoop
here, I’m learning a lot,” she said as she passed a thick magazine my way. “Check this out. I just read that the profit on a single-scoop cone is a whopping hundred and fifty percent!”
I picked up the dice and rolled a one and a three. Not my best roll, but it still enabled me to bump Ma’s piece off the board. Drats. Ma came up with doubles and got her piece back.
I glanced at the
Inside Scoop
. It had an ice cream sundae on the cover, piled high with whipped cream, nuts, and hot fudge.
Who would actually buy this magazine?
I wondered, noting the price was pretty steep, the same as
Vogue
.
“It’s not a magazine. It’s a training manual,” Ma said, as if she read my mind. “For folks serious about scooping their way to financial freedom.”
Ma pointed to the middle of a section listing guiding principles for achieving success in a retail ice cream business, and she started reading business suggestions. Dairy Dips they were called, and they sure sounded dippy to me.
“‘Number Forty-two: Go beyond vanilla. Reach out to your customers with dramatic flavors and attention-grabbing novelty items. Remember that ice cream is indulgent entertainment for the masses. Number Forty-three: Humor the
calorie counters with some lighter varieties, but weigh heavy on the good stuff. Americans gladly dump their diets at the door of an ice cream shop.’”
Then she pulled out a brochure from the Schenectady Chamber of Commerce with instructions for new business owners. “Says here this city is all but bribing ladies to throw their hats in the business ring. They’re offering tax breaks for women only.”
But not for business owners with Shooting Stars
, I thought as fear clawed at my throat.
Especially those bursting with drive and determination one day, and crashed in bed the next
.
“No more,” Jordan signed to me, holding the empty Play-Doh can. Dozens of bright, funky animals were gathered at his feet.
“Sorry,” I signed.
He pouted, and then shuffled into the family room, scuffing his footie pajamas along the way. A few minutes later he returned and threw the TV remote on the backgammon board. Pieces fell to the floor.
“Jordan!” Ma yelled and I signed.
He was trying to sign “Not working,” but he was doing it wrong. Gently I formed his hand in the A shape and thrust it forward from his chin for “not.” Then I moved his S hand up and down on top of his fisted left hand for “working.”
Ma and I followed him to the family room. The remote control wasn’t working. I kept pressing buttons, but nothing helped.
The same question whirled around in my head like a
Hula-Hoop. What was Ma going to buy the business with? I’d peeked at her checkbook on the counter after she’d returned from grocery shopping the other day. There wasn’t enough to fix the car heater. But she spewed on with her business plans. How the shop was located in the heart of bustling Schenectady, at the corner of State and Lafayette streets, between a shoe-repair place and a pizzeria, with a bus stop right out front.
“The owner, Jerry Breyers—no relation to that grocery-store brand,” she quickly pointed out, “gave me the full shop tour. Place was built in 1926, and it’s got a charming old-fashioned marble counter and backsplash, and brass light fixtures like the drugstores had back then. You’re going to love it, Tess. With your style and decorator know-how, we can turn this place into the talk of the town!”
Ma said the shop had been turning a decent profit for the past twelve years—in spite of a downtown business slump running longer than the Mohawk River—but Jerry’s arthritis was flaring up so bad this snowy winter, he’d decided to pack it in and move to North Carolina.
“He calls his shop Van Curler Creamery after the city’s founder, but I’ve got another name picked out,” she said, grinning.
“What? Tell me,” I said, my arms crossed over my sweater.
“Not so fast. I didn’t announce you’d be a Tess till you made your appearance, and the same goes for my business baby. But don’t you fret. It’s the perfect name.”
Finally, after fiddling with the remote buttons fifty different ways, I tried changing the batteries. That did the trick. I gave
the remote back to Jordan, with closed captions turned on. He smiled and plopped down to watch a cartoon.
Ma and I went back to the kitchen. I rubbed my cold hands together and suddenly felt like a temperamental ox.
“Once the business is mine, I’m getting our old sewing machine repaired,” Ma said. “I was hoping you’d make curtains for the front display window. Nobody’s better at prettying up a room than you, and this shop is just asking for a cutesy old-time café look.”
If there was a shred of good news in all this, it was hearing Ma was getting the sewing machine fixed. It sat in the hall closet broken, just like it had been back in San Antonio for six months. I missed being able to make clothes and accessories.
I reached for the dice and looked up at Ma. “What does that training manual say about an ice cream shop’s chance of making it in the snowbelt? Nobody eats as much ice cream as we do, Ma, especially not when the weather is colder than ice cream.”
“The
Inside Scoop
says there are plenty of four-season consumers around here,” Ma answered. “It all comes down to the ‘razzle-dazzle factor’: making our shop an entertaining experience for everyone who walks through the door. And we’ll offer prepacked products too, so folks can grab and go when they’re freezing their patooties off.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
“Nothing’s simple, Tess. It’ll take a lot of elbow grease. And the
Inside Scoop
says we gotta stay ahead of the trends. That’s how those fellas Ben and Jerry got rich, right?”
Ma quoted the
Inside Scoop
like it was the Bible. I imagined a chorus of ice cream shop owners kneeling before the hot-fudge dispenser, their hands clutching scoopers and their hearts filled with the divine Spirit of Frozen Creamy Sweetness.
I heard Jordan giggling as he watched TV. Peanut butter is his all-time favorite flavor. It’s hard to find, but Ma knew exactly where to get it back in San Antonio—at a drive-in stand ten miles north of the city. Once when Pop was still with us, and Jordan was a toddler and teething, we’d been out running errands when we passed the stand. I remember Ma shouting, “Pull over!” Rain was pouring fast and furious, the way it does in southwest Texas in late spring, and Pop was yelling that Ma spoiled us, and for God’s sake who needs ice cream during a monsoon?
But she insisted, saying ice cream would ease Jordan’s gums. So Pop pulled over, and Ma dashed out. She tripped on a tree root coming back to the car, but she held on to those plastic cups piled high with whipped cream and the works.
Ma started humming a country song as we finished up the backgammon game. I was one turn away from victory when she rolled double sixes. That moved her last four pieces off the board to beat me.
Grrrr
. I hate losing at board games, especially to Ma, who doesn’t take them seriously. Pop used to say that God looks out for kids and drunks, but I think he gives Ma special breaks too.
“Where are you going to find money to buy this shop?” I asked.
“Got it figured out,” she said, arranging her pieces for a new game.
Ma didn’t offer more details, and I didn’t ask, even though I’d figured it out too. She’d be digging into the Ditch Fund—the last bit of money we had standing between us and being homeless on the cold streets of Schenectady.
Just as I rolled the dice to start the next game, Jordan leaped onto a stool and, standing, started swinging his arms across his body. Both hands were shaped in a Y. “Party!” he signed.
Party
, our code word for ice cream. Back and forth his arms swung with urgency. “Party! Party!”
“Careful,” I signed, holding his legs steady as the stool wobbled.
Ma laughed at Jordan’s excitement and glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s five-thirty, close to suppertime, though that never stopped us from having a party before. Let’s git to it.”
With that, I pulled down our special red heart-shaped bowls and matching red spoons from the top shelf. Ma put on her cherry-print apron and warmed the fudge sauce while Jordan took out as many candies, nuts, sprinkles, sauces, crumbled cookies, pretzels, cereals, fruits, and mini marshmallows as he could find in the pantry to pour into custard cups.
Within minutes the counter was transformed into an ice cream smorgasbord, with oodles of tempting toppings just begging to be had. Jordan started first, scooping ice cream, spooning candy and nuts, ladling toppings, and squirting whipped cream like he was a culinary artist.
“Don’t forget a cherry on top!” Ma said like she always says just before we dig in, holding the maraschino-cherry jar up.
Jordan read Ma’s lips that time perfectly. Next thing he did was stick his finger deep in the jar and pull out a cherry by its stem. Then he tossed it way high, wiggled his hips, and maneuvered his bowl to catch it centered on his whipped-cream-covered sundae. He quickly set his bowl down on the counter, then signed, “I did it. Jordan is the MAN!” That set off a laugh attack in both Ma and me.
I didn’t admit it out loud, but I had to agree with Ma. Ice cream does warm the heart, no matter what the weather.
The first person I saw when I walked into school on Monday was Kim, the tiny freckle-faced girl I’d met at the bake sale. Only now she was wearing a pirate bandanna and an eye patch.
“I’m not weird. Today’s Hilarious Hat Day,” she said when she caught me staring.
“Ahoy, mate,” I said, and we both laughed.
I wished I had something covering my head for another reason. The Mohawk Valley Village had a power outage that morning, and I hadn’t been able to blow-dry my hair. I was wearing my favorite shirt—a magenta henley with pretty silver buttons I’d added myself—but my stringy hair was matted to my head, and my big ears stuck out like Frisbees.
At the lockers kids paraded by wearing all kinds of freaky hats. I saw a sparkly chicken that clucked, a chef hat, a killer shark, a beanie with a propeller, and an Abraham Lincoln tall hat on a kid with
stilts
.
I ran into Gabby in the bathroom before homeroom. “Festive!” I said, giggling at the plastic fruit bowl piled high on her head.
She was sticking bobby pins into her hair to keep a red apple from drooping. “My father wore this for his law firm’s Halloween party last year. It’s called ‘Got Fruit?’” Then she reached into her backpack and handed me a baseball cap with a pink flamingo on top. “Here you go. Luckily I brought a spare.”
“No thanks,” I said, smiling. “I’ll pass.” It’s rough enough being the new kid. I couldn’t stand everybody looking at the new kid with a freaky bird hat.
She grinned. “There’s that workaholic ox again, not taking time to play.”
“You don’t really believe all that Chinese astrology stuff, do you? I mean, you’re not Chinese.”
Gabby’s face tightened. “I bet you like pizza, but you’re not Italian, are you?”
I shook my head.
“We can’t stick each other in categories, you know. Chinese astrology helps me understand my life patterns.”
“I guess you’re right. Sorry,” I said sheepishly.
She pushed back a banana that had flopped between her eyes. “I mean it about thinking you’re right for peer mediation. Chinese astrology suggests the ox is no bull in a china shop. She is dependable and steadfast, and we need more of that since most of our classmates are tigers. And besides, everyone knows you don’t mess with Texans, which could help when mediations turn rocky.”
I laughed.
“C’mon, Tess. Peer mediation is a blast! Where else in school do teachers let kids call the shots? We meet on Wednesdays. And our teacher-rep brings homemade chocolate chip cookies. Say you’ll come.”
Cookies sounded good, and hanging around with Gabby was appealing. You never knew what she would say or do. But I wasn’t so sure about peer mediation. I could use my own live-in mediator at the apartment to deal with Ma.
I looked at Gabby. “Aren’t you forgetting something? I was the kid who tossed a pear at Pete Chutkin.”
She adjusted a wobbly banana by her ear. “That’s
exactly
why we need you. You get it, you understand disputants.”
“Disputants?”
“Kids who have issues with each other.”
“I’ll think about it. See ya,” I said, and I waved goodbye.
In the hallway, Pete Chutkin was leaning against the fire extinguisher. He wore a speckled jester’s hat with jingle bells.
I pretended not to notice him, but he came right up to me.
“Hey, Tess. Did you know that I met your family at Walmart?” he asked, walking beside me.
“No,” I said, coolly thinking he was
my
disputant. Of all the people for Ma and Jordan to meet!
“Your mother was wearing a ‘Find Yourself in San Antonio’ sweatshirt, so I told her about the awesome Alamo clay model I built last year. She told me about you, and I said we’d sorta ‘met’ already.”
I rolled my eyes. “We sure did.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her you threw a pear at me.” Suddenly he pulled his jester’s hat off and stuck it on my head.
“Get away!” I swatted the hat, and it flew across the hall.
Not again
, I thought. Not another trip to the assistant principal’s office. Mr. Godfrey would give me detention for sure this time.