carefully everywhere descending (5 page)

“After an hour and a half of nonstop work, I think we've earned a break, don't you?” she says.

My stomach drops, and I look around frantically for a clock.

“An hour and a half? What time is it?” I ask, starting to haphazardly shove my things into my ancient book bag.

“It's 4:22. Why?” Scarlett looks alarmed on my behalf.

“Oh no, oh no!” I say, distressed. “I'm going to miss the late bus!” Both my dad and Jimmy are working this evening, so I wouldn't be able to call either for a ride. I'm almost positive Amber has her cello lesson tonight and won't be free until 6:00 p.m.

“Whoa, calm down. It's okay,” says Scarlett, holding up a pacifying hand. I'm about to snap that it's not okay and to not patronize me, but she continues. “I'll give you a ride.”

I pause midmotion. “Are you sure?”

“Are you kidding? It's the least I could do. I owe you big. Come on.” She gets up and gathers her bag in a single, easy move. I follow her through the hallways to the parking lot, trying to think of something to say for conversation. She checks her phone and types out text responses as she walks.

When we exit, she shoves her phone in her back pocket and surveys the lot as if recalling where she parked.

“This way.” She leads me to a shiny silver Audi, clicking her key to open the doors. It's the nicest car I've ever been in, and I admire it openly, which makes Scarlett pleased.

“So,” she says as we pull onto the road. She turns her music—some rock band I've heard on the radio, but don't know the name of—down but not off. “I think all the work we've done deserves a reward. What's your frozen treat of choice? Ice cream, frozen yogurt, Frosty, Slurpee, gelato, sherbet? On me as a thank-you.”

“Oh, I can't accept that,” I protest. “You're already giving me a ride home.”

“Consider it a deposit to secure your help on the ‘next drafts,'” she says with a slight scowl. “Plus, I'm starving. Come on, Audrey… don't make me eat gelato in front of you. That's just sad.”

“If you insist.” I grow excited. I haven't had ice cream in ages.

“Fine, make me the heavy. I insist. So what'll it be?”

“Well, I've only ever had ice cream and Slurpees, so either is fine.”

The look she gives me is a blend of horrified and tragic.

“That is not fine. That is
unacceptable
. We are living in 2014, where our food is getting more and more outrageous. Did you not know there are places you can go that allow you to put on your own toppings?
That
is the future, and it is now. It's settled,” she says with grim determination. “Gelato bar it is.”

As we drive, chatting about our mutual classes, my excitement fades, and I grow uncomfortable. Her taking me out for ice cream…. It's too much like a date, which makes me feel weird. I'm pretty sure she's not thinking of it that way. But what if she was? Would I like it? Would I want to date Scarlett? Why would she want to date me? How would I know if she was serious? Oh God. How do I get out of this? This is all Amber's fault.

By the time we pull up to the strip mall and pull into a parking spot, I'm feeling pretty tense. I keep running excuses through my head why we should just cut out the ice cream trip, but before I can formulate one that is both a) coherent and b) urgent enough to work immediately, she gets out of the car. I unbuckle and exit as well.

We meet at the rear of the car and she grasps my shoulders and ducks a little to look me in the eyes, startling me.

“Now, there are a couple of things you need to know to make the best decisions in there, Audrey,” she says, nodding her head at the Italian bistro storefront like she's my commanding officer. “First, gelato is very rich, but if your taste buds can handle it, there is no ice cream that is not improved by brownies or Oreos. Next, some rookies fill up on the light stuff—marshmallows or cereal toppings, because they think they'll be satisfied with them since they weigh less, and therefore cost less. Don't be fooled! Know thy topping tastes. Point three: target your toppings for the best flavor combinations. Lemon cake with Rice Krispies Treats is a disaster in your mouth. And above all, never.
Never
opt for gummy bears as your topping. The cold makes them too tough to chew. There are some people, namely star running back Chad Decker, who argue in favor of them and think that gummy bears are a choice worth making. But Chad Decker is a well-known idiot and not to be trusted. Now, soldier, are you ready?”

I'm torn between laughing and being bewildered.

“Well, that was a good orientation, except for the fact that it told me nothing,” I say with a smile.

Scarlett sighs like I've disappointed her and drops her arms. I'm both grateful and bereft at the loss of her hands. She heads toward the entrance. I follow.

“You get to pick your flavor and size of gelato, and then there's a huge toppings bar where you get to add on whatever you want,” she explains. She holds the door open. “Then they weigh it, and you pay per ounce.”

“I think I can handle that,” I say, stepping inside. There are a number of people with kids in the gelato place. The kids are jabbering and vibrating excitedly—at the start of a sugar high.

“Another pro-tip: avoid the fruit flavors.” Scarlett makes a face. I like strawberry ice cream and tell her so. “Different strokes. But remember that the gelato is the base of your dish. Picking an extreme flavor will limit your topping options. Hey, do you think I can write about this for my final persuasive essay? I've got opinions.”

“It may not be as heavy-hitting as Mr. Welsh hopes for,” I say. “Death penalty, censorship, gay marriage, and gelato bar? You know, I take it back. I think it's a logical next step from your other topics.”

We line up, and I crane my neck to see my options. There are two rows of shiny gelato ice cream in displays on either side of the register.

“Go take a look at the flavors,” says Scarlett, pulling out her phone again. “I get the same thing every time. Hazelnut. I'll hold our spot.”

I take in the colorful lines of ice cream. They're in rectangle tubs and have identifying foods on top: whole strawberries, drizzles of chocolate or caramel, nuts of all families, sliced kiwis…. I spend a blissful minute narrowing them down to three and then debating if I want cake, coconut, or straight chocolate. By the time Scarlett is up at the register, I've landed on coconut. On my one scoop I put brownie bits, walnut pieces, sliced bananas, and bits of cheesecake. I drizzle a little caramel and hot fudge over top. Scarlett gets two scoops of hazelnut and loads it up with practically everything but fruit and gummy bears. A couple of marshmallows fall off when she sets it to be weighed.

“Thank you for this,” I say as she pulls out her wallet from her front left pocket.

“Pshaw. Like I said, I need to be thanking you.” She pays with the confidence of someone who never has to mentally balance a checkbook.

We get a small table by the window, and I'm chilled before I even start eating. It's delicious. The gelato is denser and richer than any ice cream I've ever had.

“So. What are you thinking?” asks Scarlett.

“I'm wondering about the social politics of us hanging out,” I respond. “And what people will say.”

“Really? Well, there's an answer I wasn't expecting,” she says.

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno. The mechanics of quantum physics or something else not remotely connected to the here and now. Not something about the likes of us lowly beings who inhabit your sphere. You never seem like you have time for the rest of us.”

“No, I don't!”

She gives me an unimpressed look and starts ticking off points on her fingers. “You never accept invitations to hang out with people. You never go to any ball games, or
any
school events—athletic, musical, whatever. You don't talk to people at school, except the teachers. You walk around with that scary, serious, don't-talk-to-me-I'm-thinking expression. There was a rumor going around that you were a robot before you started hanging out with Amber Ederlee and showing human emotion.”

“That's a terrible thing to say. All of it.”

“Is it?” She resumes eating her gooey mound of ice cream. “You have to admit you have some rather bionic tendencies. But here: what do you like to do for fun?”

“For fun? I like to watch TV.”

“Yeah? What else? What hobbies do you have?”

“Hobbies?” I'm staring at her blankly, and she starts to look concerned.

“This wasn't meant to be a stumper. I just wanted to get to know you as a person and disprove the whole robot thing once and for all. So, the weekend's coming up, right? So pretend it's Saturday morning. You wake up and…. What? What do you usually do on Saturday and Sunday when you don't have to worry about school?”

I
always
have to worry about school.

“Weekends… I volunteer sometimes. I jog. Sometimes I play chess. I like to read. And watch TV. Or movies, when they're on TV. Or I babysit for the McCullums or the Uzuns.” I would prefer a steady part-time job, but nobody within walking distance has been hiring.

“Okay.” She drops her plastic spoon into her Styrofoam bowl. “Don't take this the wrong way, but that all is
incredibly
depressing.”

“It is not!”

“I think I know the problem.” She steeples her fingers and regards me over the tops with a scientific air. “It's not that you don't like to have fun. It's that you don't know
how
. What you need is a fun guru to guide you down the path of entertainment. A merriment Sherpa. And it just so happens that I am your gal.”

“You are, are you?” I'm this odd combination of offended and charmed. My ice cream is half-melted, and I scoop up some as an afterthought. “And how are you going to do that?”

“Well, let's narrow down your choices. I'll throw out things and you rank them on a scale of one to five—one low, five high—of how fun you think they sound. Ready?”

I nod.

“Go-karts.”

“Four.”

“Knitting.”

“One.”

“Scrapbooking.”

“One.”

“Mountain climbing.”

“Two.”

“Flying a plane.”

“Five.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously! You get to soar through the air, completely in control. It's like a dream.”

“Like a nightmare, you mean. I hate flying.
Hate
it. Okay, you seem to have a thing for speed. So…. NASCAR fan.”

“Two.”

“Why?”

“You're just watching, not doing it. Not very exciting.”

“NASCAR driver.”

“Four.”

“Playing sports.”

“Mmm, two. I don't like competitive sports. Cross-country wouldn't be bad, though.”

“Science lab experiments.”

“Uh…. Two if I have to use the school's lab, four if I had a university-level one.”

“Fair enough. Musical instrument of your choice.”

“Hmm…. It would be a nice skill to have, but interest level…. One-point-five.”

“You can't distort the scale like that! You're endangering the integrity of the experiment!”

“Sorry,” I say, laughing. “But if the experiment is to help me find hobbies, I think it's inherently flawed to begin with. There's no way I'm picking up flight lessons.”

“Why not?” she challenges. “You could be the next Amelia Earhart. Without the whole ‘disappearing and never to be seen again' thing.”

“It's just not in my options right now,” I say, because I don't want to say I can't afford anything dealing with aviation beyond a model airplane at the dollar store.

Scarlett's bright eyes narrow, and she opens her mouth to argue, and that's when the guy at the table next to ours gets up and punches his companion in the face.

 

 

I
DON
'
T
shriek, but I do have to forcibly tamp down on the instinct to. Instead I brace myself against the table with one hand and grab my bag at my feet, ready to bolt. There are surprised noises coming from all around, including Scarlett, who is on her feet.

“I can't believe you're sleeping with her!” repeatedly screams the man who slugged the dazed guy currently sprawled on the floor. Blood is pouring from the fallen man's nose and he's trying to stem the flow, almost absently.

“Mitchell…,” he pleads, but his companion won't be placated. Instead he grabs their small, stylish table and upends it. It crashes to the ground, spilling the contents. Ice cream splatters and a soda sprays open, the fizzing drink spewing all over the shoes of the terrified mother next to the counter, holding her crying toddler with a hand on the back of his head. The employees behind the counter, all about my age, are all standing in stupid shock, unprepared for the violent confrontation in the middle of their shift.

The man—Mitchell—turns our way and starts stalking toward us. I drop my bag and bolt up, ready to retreat. He's two steps away and suddenly Scarlett is in front of me, her shoulders and head obstructing my view.

“Calm down,” Scarlett says, holding out her hand in the same way she had to me earlier. “Calm down. You're upsetting people.”

“I'm
upsetting
people? Do you know what I just found out?” The man looks almost deranged. His face is bright red, going on purple, and veins are popping out of his forehead. “I just found out my whole life is a lie. Don't you
dare
talk to me about who's upsetting who, you little twit.”

“I understand why you're angry,” Scarlett continues firmly. “But you need to take this outside.”