I’m shocked at his eating manners.
“That’s not how you eat those. You work your way down,” I say, holding up my immaculate cone, getting slowly consumed, top down. “And you’re so not right. Today was an off day for the ice-cream guy. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe to his family.”
“Okay, if that’s the case, we need an ice-cream-truck watch set up.” Haytham shifts his cone into the hand that’s holding Luke at his hip and pulls out his phone. “Write your number in here, and I’ll text you if I see the truck. And you do the same. Then we meet the ice-cream guy again and settle this once and for all.”
I take his phone and send myself a message, an ice-cream cone emoji. When I give the phone back, I see Nuah smiling at me, or maybe it’s us.
He’s gotta know this is a dumb sociological thing that Haytham’s trying to prove, so I address Nuah. “Just so you know, Haytham thinks ice-cream-truck drivers are all either mean uncles or the nicest people in the world. And I’m trying to tell him ours is both. He usually smiles when he gives us our ice cream. Right, Logan?”
Logan turns around from where he’s walking with Dawud.
“The ice-cream man is nice, right? The other days? When he gives you your ice cream?” I prompt.
“I don’t like him,” Logan announces. “He always has the same ice cream.”
“That’s his truck’s fault. But he smiles at you, right?” I try again.
“No, he’s mean. He always gives me the same ice cream.” At this, the top of his Drumstick falls off and lands on the grass, leaving him with an empty cone. We gather around, and I see that only the chocolate chunk at the very bottom remains inside the waffle still in his hand. He looks up at me, his eyes growing larger, his mouth opening into an O at the same rate.
The lip tremble will come next. And then it’ll be a wail that will echo like a police siren.
I know him too well from these last few weeks.
“Here.” Dawud thrusts the Choco Taco toward Logan. “You can have this one.”
“I want the same one!” Logan says, crossing his arms. He throws down the empty cone in his hand with a great flourish, and it lands pointy part up, a pitiful distance from its departed friend, the mound of melting ice cream.
A trickle, which will erupt into waterworks soon, begins falling from his eyes.
I pass my cone to Nuah and bend to grab Logan’s shoulders to get him to look at me. “But remember, you didn’t want the same one? You said you always got the same one from the ice-cream guy. Now you’re getting a special one.”
“I want the same one!”
Still holding Luke, Haytham slides down onto his knees until he’s almost eye-to-eye with Logan. “It is the same one. But you know how the bubble machine makes different bubbles, big bubbles and small bubbles and medium bubbles?” He waits until Logan nods.
“But they’re all still bubbles? The same bubbles?” He waits again. “This is the same ice cream that you like but just in a different shape.”
“But you don’t have a different shape.” Logan points at Haytham’s cone, now running all over his right hand. “You have the same shape. Like mine.”
“Exactly. And look what’s happening to it. It’s wrecking my hand. And look at Luke’s face.” We all turn to Luke, who looks like he just got back from World War I, like something brown and muddy exploded in his face and he survived but is now irrevocably changed as evidenced by the kooky smile on his upturned face, his eyes blinking with maniacal glee. “Look at his ite cweam. Is that the same one you want?”
“No! I don’t want ice cream all over my face!” Now Logan starts sobbing at the stressful idea of potentially looking like Luke.
Haytham nods to Dawud and motions to him to pass the Choco Taco over to Logan. “And with this Choco Taco, you will never look like Luke here. It’s made for big boys and big girls who don’t get ite cweam all over their faces.”
Once Logan takes the Choco Taco, I hand my cone to Nuah again and help Logan unwrap his.
He tentatively takes a bite, and, amid the tears still glittering on his cheeks, the trace of a small smile breaks out before he turns to skip off with Dawud toward the house.
“Man, that was gooood,” Nuah says to Haytham as we follow behind. “What are you, some kindergarten teacher or something?”
“Nope, just an uncle of over twelve years. I’ve got ten nephews and nieces.”
“Uncle of over twelve years? How is that even possible?” Nuah stares at Haytham before slurping the last of his Creamsicle. “You’re, like, my age.”
“I’m the youngest of five—way youngest of five. So I became an uncle at seven.”
“Is that why you’re holding Luke on your hip like that?” Nuah asks, laughing. “Like a seasoned parent?”
“The best thing for your back.” Haytham laughs too. And then he proceeds to hoist Luke onto Nuah to show him how to do it, but Nuah flips Luke to do the football hold, at which point Luke’s ice cream falls on the ground.
Nuah, Haytham, and I look at each other with bated breath.
But Luke just giggles, flails his arms, and says “atain” to Nuah.
He’s passed back and forth like a heavy football between Nuah and Haytham the rest of the way to the patio, Haytham’s ice cream gulped along the way, while I finish my cone slowly and think about how people can be so crazy different.
Good thing for me that, like how I choose my ice-cream flavor, I prefer to stick to only those who make sense.
* * *
Right before we turn the corner of the house to go out to the backyard, Nuah says to me, “So when do we practice the roast?”
Haytham lets go of Luke, and he runs ahead, following Dawud and Logan. “Oh yeah,” he says, “you guys are doing a roast of Muhammad. I’m running the wedding toasts and performances, and you’re on my clipboard.”
I nod. “It’s a take on his favorite YouTubers, the Hearty Philosophers. They do this thing that’s like, when you consider this aspect of life, blah blah blah, it’s weird. But when you consider this aspect, blah blah blah, it makes sense. And they keep going, bringing up the bad and good of everything.”
“And Janna and I worked out this whole routine, based on Muhammad’s profile,” Nuah says, laughing. “Like about his feet unsocked, their potency. And his midnight ketchup, pickle, and peanut butter sandwich runs, and other things to alert Sarah about.”
Haytham laughs too. “My poor cuz.”
“Hey, you should join us,” Nuah says. “We need someone to pop up once in a while, like the Hearty Philosophers do, and say AND THAT’S LIFE. But adding WITH MUHAMMAD! We were going to try to recruit someone.”
We were? Maybe my face looks obviously surprised, because Haytham takes a glance at me and shakes his head. “I think it sounds perfect with just you two. And besides, I’m scheduled to sing a song for Sarah. I don’t want to hog the stage.”
“You sing?” Nuah asks, beginning to walk.
“Yeah. Hey, can I get you guys to vote for me in the Muslim Voice competition?”
“You going for that, man? That’s wild.”