Stay Sweet(20)
Tuesday . . . is tomorrow.
She takes a photo of the article and texts it to Cate, who’s well into her shift at JumpZone. Amelia’s phone rings a minute later.
Cate says, her voice competing with the screams of children in the background, “Well, clearly Molly lost her mind there at the end.”
“Do you think?” Amelia is less sure. Remembering the note Molly left for her in the office, the state of the stand, she appeared completely on top of things.
“Why else would she hand over her business to a boy?”
“Who knows. But this could mean we have our jobs back! Right?”
“Unless Grady plans to use the stand as a satellite fraternity house. Invite his bros down to Sand Lake for the summer.” Cate chuckles at the thought of this. “They could change the motto to Ice Cream So Sweet, You Won’t Cheat on Your Girlfriend.”
It’s been hard enough for Amelia to come to terms with Meade Creamery closing for good. Her heart squeezes at the thought of the stand running without her or the other girls. “The article says his friends went to Europe. It’s got to be us.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m just surprised you sound so excited about it.”
“Why?”
“Because sure, we’re likely getting our jobs back, but in what capacity? Are you still going to be Head Girl?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Here’s what you should do. Tell Grady Meade that the only way you’re coming back to work is if you’re still the Head Girl. Nothing less.”
Amelia blinks. It’s easy to imagine Cate doing that. But could she?
Wistfully, Cate says, “I wish I could go meet him with you, but another birthday party just came in.”
“I wish you could too.”
“Just remember that you have the power! If Grady wants to open for business tomorrow, then he needs us more than we need him.”
Amelia nods to herself. “Yes. Totally true.”
“So quit thinking of this as some job interview where you need to prove that you should be Head Girl. Amelia, you already got the job! Think of this as Grady’s chance to impress you. Feel him out, see if you think he’ll be a good boss. If not, then I say forget it. Because it’ll suck way worse to be a part of the downfall of Meade Creamery than it will be to walk away.”
*
Normally, Amelia would roll out of bed and put on a pair of cutoffs and a tank top to run over to the stand when she wasn’t officially working, but she decides she should look more presentable. She showers and opts for a floral romper and her tan leather sandals.
Before heading over, Amelia takes the stand key from her jewelry box and slips it into her white saddlebag. For a second or two, her eyes linger on the flower pin.
She kisses it for luck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AMELIA DOESN’T EXPECT TO FIND the ice cream stand ready for opening day, because how would Grady know all the things he’d need to do? But as she climbs off her bike, it makes her uncomfortable to see Meade Creamery so not ready. The lawn hasn’t been cut. There are dandelions growing out of every crack in the blacktop. The picnic tables are missing, the trash cans too. Cate is right. Grady does need them more than they need Grady . . . at least in the short term. But the idea of walking away from Meade Creamery, watching Grady stumble from afar as he tries his best on his own, makes her feel even worse.
She pulls the weeds she passes and flings them toward the woods and then crouches down to look at the pile of things people have been leaving in honor of Molly Meade. Flowers—some bought, some clipped from gardens. Handwritten notes and condolence cards. The impromptu shrine cloaks her in a velvety warmth. She picks up a crayon drawing, obviously made by a child, of a frowning ice cream cone crying two streams of blue tears.
“That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Amelia looks up. Grady is standing behind her, an empty cardboard box in his hands. When their eyes meet, he seems the littlest bit confused.
“It’s Amelia,” she says, reintroducing herself as she rises to her feet. “Amelia Van Hagen.”
“I remember your name, Amelia. It’s just”—he momentarily trails off, his eyes trying to untangle something about her, as if she’d been wearing a disguise at the funeral—“my little cousin always wears her hair braided, the same way yours was yesterday. You . . . look older with it down.”
Amelia touches her hair, threading some of it behind her ear. It’s still damp from her shower.
He stares at her for a beat too long, and then he clears his throat awkwardly. “Let me grab the last of this stuff.” He bends down and begins putting the items into the box, equally careful with each object: a bunch of flowers, a photograph. He picks up a teddy bear and pats away some dirt from its fur. “This is already my third box. People keep coming.”
Amelia is touched that so many have shown up for the stand and for Molly in this way, especially after the somewhat anemic turnout at her memorial service. Molly was clearly beloved. Amelia bends to pick up a photograph. It’s of a family of five lined up in front of the ice cream stand, big to little, with each one holding a corresponding serving of ice cream. The dad has a waffle cone with three scoops, the tallest thing on the menu; the toddler has a kid’s cup. “This place means a lot to a lot of people,” Amelia says, passing it to Grady.