Stay Sweet(4)
Cate must have realized what was going on while Amelia was talking to Heather, because she came sprinting over and wrapped Amelia in a big, bouncing congratulatory hug.
Amelia still doesn’t know how long it took Cate to come to terms with not getting the Head Girl pin, but it pains Amelia to think of Cate hurting over it, even if only for a millisecond. And yet Amelia finds Cate’s excitement for her right now only slightly less excruciating, as Cate leans forward, her chin in her hands, waiting.
“How about I wear it on opening day? That way, it won’t get messed up,” Amelia says, hesitating.
With a groan, Cate rises to her feet and takes the pin from Amelia’s hand. “You’re not officially the queen until you put on the crown.” Amelia averts her eyes as Cate examines the pin for a second before she feels a tug on her collar. “There,” Cate says, pleased. “Now it’s official.”
Amelia starts to protest, “It should be you,” the way she has countless times since getting the pin. Cate’s usually good about letting her get this perceived injustice off her chest, and Amelia always feels better afterward. Like she has voiced a truth that, deep down, they both know.
This time, however, Cate shushes her. “Not today, Amelia.” And she guides Amelia back to the mirror. “What do you think?”
Amelia glances over her shoulder at Cate. For the rest of Amelia’s life, she knows she will never find a friend better than Cate Kopernick.
Using Amelia’s braids like handlebars, Cate steers Amelia’s head so she’s facing the mirror. “You look amazing,” Cate says, stepping aside so she’s out of the reflection. “Just like Frankie Ko.”
Amelia laughs, because again, yeah right, until, finally, she looks, focusing not so much on herself as on the pin. Though it’s small, it really does sparkle.
CHAPTER TWO
MEADE CREAMERY DOESN’T LOOK LIKE much, and especially not in the off-season, when the two service windows are boarded up with plywood, the picnic tables are brought in, and a heavy chain closes off the parking lot from the road. Really, the ice cream stand is a glorified shed, a white-shingled miniature of the farmhouse looming in the overgrown fields behind it, electricity zipping in from three thick wires sprouting off a nearby utility pole. But to Amelia, and most other people in town, it’s one of the most special places in the world.
Amelia hops off her periwinkle three-speed cruiser and lifts the chain up and over herself as she passes underneath, then turns at the beep of a horn. A glossy black SUV pulls off the road and parks alongside the chain, roof rack strapped with luggage, a license plate from another state. These vacationers are passing through Sand Lake, headed down Route 68 toward other, larger lakes farther on—ones that permit Jet Skis and speedboats, ones where the waterfront is rented by the week.
The music lowers and the window unrolls, revealing a woman with big sunglasses perched on the top of her head. “Excuse me, sweetie! I know it’s a little early in the morning for ice cream, but we’ve been dreaming about this since last summer!”
Amelia grins. The anticipation is something she feels too. She can’t wait to taste the four made-from-scratch flavors they sell—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and the best-selling, wholly original, nothing-else-like-it-in-the-world Home Sweet Home. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not officially open until Saturday!”
The woman beckons Amelia closer. “Well . . . is there any chance you could make an exception for us? I can make it worth your while.” Her three kids eagerly look up from their phones in the backseat. Same for her husband on his tablet in the passenger seat.
If Cate were here, she would say something crazy, like fifty bucks, just to see what would happen. Amelia shakes her head. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. I would like to help you all out but I just can’t.” And she even adds, “I don’t want to get fired,” as if Amelia weren’t herself Head Girl.
The woman isn’t mad. She nods, understandingly, approvingly even, as if Amelia has confirmed some thought she already held about this place and the girls who work there. “Can’t hurt to ask, right?” she says jovially, before lowering her sunglasses. “We’ll see you girls on Saturday!”
Watching the SUV ease back onto the road, Amelia knows the woman means it, too. From the first week of June until the last week in August, there’ll be a line for Molly Meade’s homemade ice cream, out-of-towners and locals alike, a quarter mile of cars parked half in the rain ditch, stretching in either direction.
There are exactly two days until opening day.
As she turns back to the stand, Amelia’s nerves give way to a new feeling—determination. She notes some of the obvious chores: mowing the lawn, weeding the crevices in the walkway, giving the stand a fresh coat of paint. She has a few hours before the other girls arrive, so she might as well get started. Anything Amelia’s able to tackle on her own will make the vibe more relaxed and be less she’ll have to delegate after everyone gets a blueberry muffin.
Slipping the key out of her pocket, she walks around the side of the stand. It surprises her to find the door already propped open with a brick. A few steps more and she sees Molly Meade’s pink Cadillac parked, the trunk lid lifted. Amelia stops, wipes her hands on her shorts, makes sure her polo shirt is tucked tight into her waistband.