The Meltdown

The AC’s blasting, but the shop feels hotter than usual. Stuffy, even. There’s a little boy in the corner doing his best to eat a double-scooped waffle cone as rivulets of Crazy Cotton Candy roll down his arm. As I watch each pink drip splatter on the floor—for me to mop up later, of course—all I can think about is how much I’d rather be floating down the lazy river.

But nope. I’m stuck solo at the Scoop Shop while my mom is three towns over, stocking up on tubs of hot fudge and vats of sprinkles. 

The bell over the door chimes as a customer walks in, letting in another gust of steamy air. I drag myself over to the register and try not to grimace. “Can I help you?”

A girl with long red hair orders a shop favorite, the Bonkers for Banana Split.

Grumbling under my breath, I slice a banana down the middle and place it in a plastic dish. I plunge my scooper into the vat of Very Vanilla and plop two scoops down with a little more force than necessary. I toss on some nuts and add a handful of chocolate chips and a cherry to give it a face. I don’t realize until I hand it over that it’s frowning.

The girl’s brows lift as she eyes my handiwork. She happily takes a bite, but her face immediately screws up, as if she’s tasted something rotten. She tosses the ice cream in the trash, her frown matching the banana split’s as she storms out of the shop.

Clearly, the heat must be affecting her taste buds. Our ice cream is delicious. 

I shrug and go back to thinking about all the fun I’m missing. If I weren’t stuck slinging scoops, I’d be sunning by the wave pool and maybe trying out the new diving board.

But today is a pistachio day.

The bell over the door chimes again, and a small old man walks in. His shoulders are stooped, and his skin is creased. He shuffles over to the counter.

“One scoop of Cookies and Cream, please.”

I almost tell him not to bother, that something’s gone awry with our flavors today. But there’s something soft in his expression that stops me, and I give him an extra-generous scoop.

He thanks me and takes a seat by the window. I wait for him to take a bite, to cringe at the flavor, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, staring out the window, his ice cream melting in the warm sunshine.

“My wife and I used to come in every Sunday,” he says when he catches me staring. “Cookies and Cream was her favorite flavor.”

His breath catches as he smiles sadly at the lone scoop, and it occurs to me that there are far worse things that I could be doing than helping out in the family scoop shop.

“She was always laughing, always chasing joy. She had a way of sweetening things, you know?” He lifts his spoon, his eyes misty with memory. “I come here so I can taste her smile.”

It hits me then. If my scrunched-up face and bad attitude were flavors, they’d probably be today’s specials.

My cheeks redden. The problem isn’t the ice cream. 

It’s me.

I eye the pistachio sitting in the cooler, still that hideous green. Kind of like I’ve been all day. It’s not that bad. Not really.

And missing one day at the water park with my friends? That’s not so bad either. 

“Wait!” I call out to the old man before he can take a bite. I reach for my scooper, quickly rinsing it in the sink. I take a deep breath and start over, scooping out a fresh serving of Cookies and Cream. I deliver it to the old man. “Here, try this. It’s from a new and improved batch.”

I wait as the old man dips his spoon into the ice cream, lifts it to his lips, and takes a bite.

“Well? How does it taste?”

He beams. “Like a smile.”