The Scorpions. One of his favorites. My father likes hair metal bands from the ’80s. I do too, probably because he’s been singing those songs around me since I was a baby. I don’t even mind that he can’t really sing.
“Rock on!” I shout through the window. My father turns around and flashes me the sign of the horns, sticking his tongue out and thrashing his head. This was more effective when he had long hair, but he cut it when he turned thirty a few years ago and decided he had to start acting more like a responsible adult, and it’s not quite the same now.
“Sammy!” he says when I enter the kitchen through the screen door on the side of the building. “Nice of you to show up.”
“Well, it was this or watch game shows with the Grands,” I joke, using our name for Hank, Starletta, and Clodine. “What’s going on here?”
“I got the frozen yogurt machine working again,” he says. “But we’re just about out of pistachio ice cream and won’t get a delivery until Tuesday, so push the other flavors. Especially the candy cane. I overestimated how popular that would be, and we have a bunch of it.”
“Got it,” I say as I put on an apron and get ready for a day of scooping, frying, and sundae making.
The first customers show up about an hour later, just as I’m turning the sign to Open. It’s a family of five. I’ve never seen them before, but they look like most of the people who come here early in the season—happy, relaxed, like they have all the time in the world. They haven’t gotten bored with swimming, aren’t covered in mosquito bites or poison ivy, and haven’t yet had their first fight after spending four straight rainy days together in a small cabin with no Wi-Fi. That will happen soon enough, but for now they’re in love with summer.
I get busy making their fries while my dad makes their hamburgers. He likes to stay at the stove most of the time, singing along to the radio and cooking burgers and hot dogs to order. His favorite thing to make is chili burgers, and he’s thrilled that this family has ordered two for their little boys. As he grills the hamburger patties and stirs the big pot of chili, he sings along to Twisted Sister. “We’re not gonna take it!” he informs the spatula.
The family of five is just the beginning. We’re busy all day, and I barely have time to wolf down a plate of cheese fries for lunch because so many people are stopping by. From time to time I steal a glance at the tip jar that sits on the counter just outside the order window, and I see that it’s filling up. Most people just put whatever change I hand them into it, so usually it ends up filled with sticky dimes and nickels, but a couple of people have stuffed dollar bills in there.
My dad lets me keep all the money from the tip jar, even though he does just as much work as I do. The only rule is that I have to save at least half of it. That’s fine with me, as the only thing I really spend money on is my truck. Oh, and wigs and makeup, although no one knows about those because I keep it all at the Shangri-La. And it’s not like I have a lot of that stuff anyway. Mostly I borrow from the other queens for now, until I figure out what my style is.
I’m thinking about this whole style thing during a break in customers later in the afternoon when I hear someone say, “What exactly is a Roadkill Skunkcicle?”
I look up and see a guy leaning on the counter, his head poking through the window. He seems to be about my age, with blond hair that falls over one eye. The eye that I can see is blue. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with Finn and Jake from Adventure Time on it.
I groan, as I do every time someone asks this question. “It’s a chocolate-and-vanilla-twist soft serve dipped in cherry coating,” I tell him. “My dad came up with the name. It’s supposed to remind you of a squashed skunk.”
He laughs. “That’s great,” he says. “I’ll take one of those.”
As I make the cone, he keeps talking to me. “So, what’s there to do around here?”
“That depends on what you like,” I tell him. “Are you staying at the lake?”
He nods. “With my grandparents,” he says in a way that makes it sound as if this is a tragedy of epic proportions.
“Well, then there’s always swimming and kayaking,” I say. “Hiking. There’s mini golf over in Midgeville, and on Wednesday nights they show old movies on the side of the VFW hall here in town.”
“Right on the building?”
“Yep.” I hand him his cone. “It’s painted white, so it works just like a big screen. People bring lawn chairs and blankets and sit on the grass. I think this week they’re showing Jaws.”
“Sounds fun,” he says. “You going?”
“Probably not,” I answer. “By the time we close up here, I’m pretty tired.”
“You don’t get days off?”
“Sometimes.”
“And what do you do for fun?” he asks, handing me a dollar and change. “When you’re not here, I mean. Because this totally looks like fun.”
“If it’s really hot, I like to go tubing,” I tell him, not sure if he’s teasing me or not.
“Explain,” he says, licking the edge of his cone.
“On the creek. You take a big inner tube and float on it. It’s best if you start up by the falls, because when they open the dam the water moves faster and there are some small rapids. Nothing dangerous. Then you just float the rest of the way. You can get out at the bridge just outside of town. Takes a couple of hours.”
“Now that does sound like fun,” he says. “Know where I can get an inner tube?”
“My father works at a garage,” I tell him. “When he’s not working here. So we get them there.”
“The garage,” he repeats. “I guess I could ask there.” He smiles, and I see that his teeth are a little bit crooked.
“Or you could just use one of ours,” I hear myself say. I shut my mouth tight, as if someone else has somehow taken over my body and spoken through me. I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m afraid of looking like an idiot.
“You mean we could go together?” he asks. “Cool,” he adds before I can answer. “I guess I should get your number, then. So I can call you.”
“Good idea,” I say. “Here.” I take a napkin and write my name and number on it, although I have to concentrate really hard to remember what it is. I hand it to him.
“Sam,” he says, reading what I wrote. “Hey, Sam. I’m Tom. Tom Swift.”
“Hi, Tom Swift,” I say. “It’s good to know you.”
“We’ll see,” Tom says. He writes his name and number on another napkin and slides it to me. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dollar, which he stuffs into the tip jar. “Maybe this summer won’t be so bad after all,” he says.
“Jennifer, are you finished? Your grandfather is waiting.”
Tom stiffens. Behind him, an older woman is standing with her arms crossed over her chest.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Tom says to me, but his voice is tight. He turns and walks past the woman. As he passes the garbage can beside the picnic tables, he drops his unfinished cone into it.