XiXi Tian - This Place Is Still Beautiful

The predicted rain on the first day of summer never comes, meaning I can count on two things: my mother spending most of the morning in the garden, and Thom Froggett coming by the Sprinkle Shoppe for a double scoop of Rocky Road in a waffle cone.

My mother is endlessly good at gardening, which is why she spends an unreasonable amount of her free time furiously deadheading her prize-winning golden roses in the backyard. My sister, Margaret, is endlessly good at school, which is why she charged through high school as valedictorian and class president, signed up for a double major in economics and political science with a minor in gender studies at NYU, and is now spending the summer before her sophomore year at a fancy summer internship with a McBain-type consulting firm in Manhattan.

I, on the other hand, am a B student, a second-chair flautist who sometimes still goes right when I should be going left in the drill set for marching band, and I suppose, above average at applying eyeliner with one swipe using the rearview mirror of my car in the mornings.

One thing I am better at than both Mama and Margaret is scooping ice cream (mainly because theyre lactose intolerant, so they never eat ice cream), and thus, I have a summer job at the Sprinkle Shoppe. I am determined to use my unremarkable talent to do something remarkable: catch the attention of a certain Thom Froggett, soccer star and hazel-eyed underwear model look-alike.

Thom and I have been in each others lives peripherally since elementary school because his last name and mine (Flanagan) are close to each other in the alphabet, although always with a certain Justin Frick right in between. So from grades one to eight, we were almost together when we lined up every day. Except instead of chatting up Thom, I endured a slow transition of first-grade Justin flicking spitballs into my hair to eighth-grade Justin trying to convince me to be his girlfriend.

On the other side, Thom was always blissfully oblivious, except for when the barrier of Justin was removed. The few days a year that Justin stayed home sick were the greatest days of my young life. Sadly, waiting for spongy chicken nuggets and plastic, stab-able bags of chocolate milk in the hot lunch line was not the ideal backdrop for a grand romance, and the young love of my formative years went unrequited.

In high school, we didnt have lunch lines anymore and we were in different classes, so we were separated by more than the unfortunately placed Justin Frick. Puberty hit Thom like a freight train, and basically overnight, he shot up a foot in height and learned how to style his dark blond hair so that it swooped gently over his forehead with the blessed curve of an angels wing.

He got a girlfriend at the end of freshman year. And that was that, until they broke up this past January of our junior year, as I found out approximately four days later from my best friend, Violet (whose particular prowesses are Filipino home cooking and finding out about peoples personal lives when social media doesnt give them away).

Violet had told me her plan after school as we shouldered our backpacks and headed out the door. This is it, she said. Your chance.

The way youve delivered this news is a little creepy, I told her, wincing against the sharp midwestern wind as we climbed the hill toward the parking lot. Like Ive been stalking him my entire life.

She shrugs unrepentantly.

I just think that it seems crass to jump on this right after his breakup.

You snooze, you lose. That boy is going to go faster than hotcakes. You dont want to still be formulating your plan when Cheerleader Number Two catches his eye.

They have names, Violet. Besides, I dont want to be a rebound.

Worrying about being a rebound is an abstract concern right now. Its like worrying about whether youll like the weather in Georgia enough to go to college there before youve even applied to any schools. You deal with that problem later.

Fair point, I acknowledged.

We stuffed our snow-dusted selves into Violets tiny Honda Civic and cranked up the heat before continuing our plot.

Look, heres what you should do, she said. I should not have been surprised that Violet already had a plan.

Essentially, it was to work at the Sprinkle Shoppe, because Violet and Thom did have a class together, and he mentioned to her once that he went there for ice cream on summer afternoons, like it was his job, and ordered the same thing, right after his daily run, because it was on his way home. He loves ice cream, Violet said triumphantly, as if she had just invented a new element for the periodic table.

I paused and thought about it. Vi, this is a supremely stupid plan.

No, its not!

Yeah, it is.

Well, she said, turning toward me defensively, feel free to contribute. Do you have a better idea?

I didnt.

Just apply when the time comes, she instructed bossily.

On my first day at the job, the Sprinkle Shoppe greets me with a blast of cold air when I push the door open. The little silver bell over the door tinkles.

Aside from just providing me a paycheck and an opportunity to stake out Thom, I like the place. The building is small and brick in downtown, with an old-timey vibe. The name is in big curving letters, slightly chipped white paint, on a wooden sign that hangs beneath the sharp angle of the eaves in front. I like the heavy silver handle of the door and the cabinets, the checkered black-and-white floor, and the scalloped trim that overhangs the serving counter. It reminds me of one of those wholesome fifties hangouts, where teenage boys in letterman jackets would take girls out on ice cream dates and ask them to go steady.

Audrey is already behind the counter in her apron. Audrey is one of those cheerleaders who Violet was concerned about. She has wavy hair the color of rust and these long golden eyelashes resting on the lightest dusting of freckles, like sprinkles on top of an ice cream cone. Incredibly pretty, except right now shes scowling at me.

Youre late, she says.

I check my phone. No, Im not.

Two minutes by my watch.

I think about saying something rude, like Im sure the Sprinkle Shoppe was totally inundated in those one hundred and twenty seconds of time that I wasnt here, but I decide its not worth the effort. I have to be around her all summer, after all. Sorry.

Whatever.

Audrey has worked here the last four months. For the Sprinkle Shoppe, thats practically forever, because most people just work the short summer months when business ramps up. Its just my luck that she and I have the same shifts, so she gets to tell me what to do.

You, she says, jabbing an ice cream scoop in my direction like a dictator, are going to scoop the ice cream. Ill handle the payments.

No arguments here. Math was never my strong suit.

She hands me the silver scoop. It looks pretty self-explanatory, but then the first customer who comes in asks for a scoop of mint chocolate chip and a scoop of regular chocolate. I dont get as full a scoop of ice cream as I need to for the mint chocolate chip, and I dont pack the scoop of regular chocolate tight enough onto the first, so it tumbles to the ground with a soft splat. This is apparently harder than it looks, and I also apparently oversold my scooping skills.

Audrey has to clean it up. She rolls her eyes so many times in the next two hours that Im afraid shes just going to start looking at me with her eyeballs already fixed toward the ceiling to save time. But by the tenth customer, Ive pretty much gotten the hang of it.