See You at Harry's(7)

Oh, my God. I can’t believe he just said that. Mona, who is Chinese American, is a waitress who has worked at the restaurant for a million years and used to babysit us all the time, too. She just shrugs. Everyone always just shrugs when my dad says something stupid. He means well, my mom always says. Whatever.

“So,” he says to everyone else, “the first ad will air at the end of the month! Just in time for the fall tourists. Just you wait. Just you wait! They’ll be flowing through the doors.”

A quiet, sarcastic great sweeps through the stifling room. My dad seems to be the only one interested in increasing business at Harry’s. I think everyone else just sees a busier restaurant as more work. Most of the people who work here are what my mom calls strays. People who are down on their luck. People she thinks she can help save. I think it’s the only part about owning the restaurant that she really likes — being able to help give people jobs, even though waiting and bussing tables is hardly a good time.

“Well, back to work, work, work!” my dad says cheerfully.

A few people roll their eyes behind his back. I see my mom notice and cringe. My poor dad. The thing is he really does mean well. He’s just . . . a little intense. Sometimes I look at the old photo albums my mom keeps to see that he wasn’t always like he is now, so obsessed with the business and making it busier. My sister loves to tell the story of how before they had us kids, my parents followed the Grateful Dead on tour and camped out in people’s fields and stuff. But then my grandparents died, and my dad inherited the business. And soon after that, my mom got pregnant. I think Sara is secretly devastated that Jerry Garcia, the lead singer, died, because she is obsessed with their music, and I’m sure she would love to camp out in strangers’ fields, too. But I just like hearing the stories and looking at the pictures because my parents look so happy and relaxed in them. And it makes me think that if they could be that way once, maybe someday they will be again.





A FEW DAYS LATER, we’re in the kitchen helping my mom with dinner when the phone rings. When my mom hangs up, she tells us that we have to go out to the driveway for some sort of surprise from my dad.

“What now?” Holden asks.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” my mom says.

Sara and I sigh at the same time.

“Why do you guys always have to assume the worst?” my mom asks.

“Do you really have to ask?”

“Oh, Fern, don’t be so negative.”

“Should we all put our T-shirts on in case the camera crew is coming to the house?” Sara asks.

Charlie, who is already wearing his, pats the dinosaur on his tummy.

“Let’s just get outside,” my mom says.

We all follow her out to the driveway. Charlie takes my hand and swings it back and forth. Even though his hand is sticky, it feels kind of nice that he picked my hand to take instead of my mom’s or Sara’s. He looks up at me and smiles. “I like supwises.”

“Not this kind,” Holden mumbles.

Charlie frowns. I squeeze his hand to reassure him, even though I have to agree with Holden.

In the distance, we hear the familiar roar of the ice-cream truck.

“Daddy!” Charlie yells. He lets go of my hand and starts to run down the driveway.

“Charlie, get back here!” My mom runs after him and pulls him onto the grass.

My dad honks the horn and swings the truck into the driveway.

“Oh. My. God,” Sara says.

I stare at the side of the truck with my mouth open. My mom drags Charlie back up the driveway but stops halfway and turns when she sees the looks on our faces. Charlie wriggles out of her grip and runs back to me as my dad comes around to us from the other side of the truck, beaming.

We all stand beside the truck and stare. Even Charlie is speechless.

“Well?” my dad finally asks. He’s smiling bigger than I think I’ve ever seen. “Whaddaya think?”

The ice-cream truck used to say Harry’s Homemade Ice Cream and Family Restaurant on it in fancy scrolled letters. Now the words are gone, and instead there is a giant photo of Charlie’s face. He’s licking an ice-cream cone in his dinosaur T-shirt. The front of it is covered with blue ice-cream drips and so is his chin. His long curls hang in his face so he looks like a girl. To the right of his face, there’s a giant cartoon speech bubble that says in enormous letters SEE YOU AT HAWEE’S! Yes, it’s spelled that way.

No one says a word.

My dad steps over to the truck and pats Charlie’s enormous face. “Well, gang? Pretty great, huh?”

Charlie steps closer to the truck to get a better look. He blows a raspberry at his face, then turns around and shakes his bottom at it. I don’t know what that means, but if I had to guess, it’s Charlie’s way of saying he looks ridiculous.

My dad ruffles Charlie’s hair. “How’s it feel to be famous, kiddo?”

Charlie head-butts my dad’s leg.

“Wow, honey,” my mom finally says.

Wow, honey could mean so many things. My mom has become an expert at using phrases this way. In her head, Wow, honey could mean:



“That is the craziest most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in my life! But I won’t say so out loud because I don’t want to upset you!” or