Page 84 of Bring You Back

18

Sticky

Camille

Reyna was right. Mitch likes her enough to hire me at her word without any experience in the ice cream industry whatsoever. He likes her enough to place us together behind the counter, at her request, bumping Shelly Belly to floor duty. He likes her enough to not have fired me the first day after I poked a kid in the arm across the counter. He started it. The brat wailed and his mother, who looked and talked like aKaren—not to be confused with Karin Holloway who’s not like the others—went off on me. I’ll bet she has a strong relationship with most of the managers around Bellsby.

Mitch, Reyna’s Number Two Fan, likes her enough to not have fired me the second day after a customer berated me for giving him the “wrong order”. I gave him the order he asked for before he decided to change itafterI had gone through the trouble of making it. I rang up his “wrong order” as Reyna turned on the charm to convince him to pay once he stopped gaping at my threatening, “Listen up. You’re here, usingourservices for something you can’t get yourself. So you might not want to push someone who has complete control over what you put in your mouth.”

I’ll sacrifice tips, and my employment, but I will not sacrifice my sanity. I will not tolerate rude customers, barking at us like dogs, noses in the air.

I’ve been so surprised I haven’t been let go that on the third day I asked Reyna if she was sleeping with Mitch. She gave me an adamant, “No,” bringing up the fact that she’s only sleeping with Julian at the moment.

So she hadn’t used those exact words, aside fromJulian, but I see things she doesn’t.

“Is your mom?” I asked next.

“Ew, I hope not.”

There’s no sexual reason for Mitch’s favoritism; he just genuinely likes her. She’s owner’s pet and I’m the stray, taken in by friendly association and a pinch of familiarity.

So, after a trying first few days on my patience, I can officially say you’re looking at the newest employee of Hold My Scoop Ice Cream Shop.Whew.Whip out the cake and party balloons.

I shouldn’t complain. It’s a job. It’s money. I shouldn’t, butshouldn’thas never stopped me before.

And while I mostly express my distaste through words, Shelby likes to use body language. She sweeps with a vigor that gets stronger the more I’m here, mops where I’m walking to try to trip me—which makes me laugh and subtly spill sprinkles on the floor—and mopes when she’s not doing anything at all. I attribute her pleasant attitude to her break up with Tommy, her sudden switch in position, and me. A trifecta ofNot my problem.

She’s Reyna’s gig. I’m just here for the cash.

And as far as Shelby’s break up with Tommy goes, I’m with him.

By the end of my first week as an employed civilian, I’ve grown to appreciate ice cream shop workers. Being one myself now, I’ve handled too much shit not to. Kids ordering cones topped with scoops as large as their large heads. Even larger crowds flooding the dining area together, shouting out orders that I’m not quick enough to transcribe. I almost threw my pen on a couple occasions, prompting Reyna to take over.

My favorite customers are the ones who arrive minutes before closing. I get to witness the offended looks on their faces when I lock the door on them.Not on my watch, assholes.

I’ve learned the meaning behind “I can’t make it that way”, and have added several new phrases to my repertoire, my most used being:Would you like that in a cone or in a cup?andFor here or to go?

The repeat customers are oursaving grace, as Reyna calls them. These people apparently make our job easier, but I have yet to memorize their orders.

When I’m waiting on customers to decide their order, or when business is slow, I find myself tapping my fingers, gliding my nails along surfaces, just listening to the sound. I’ve swiped cups, straws, napkins, anything I can reasonably get by with taking, and added them to a drawer in the guest room. I daydream about buying a camera and making ASMR videos of my own.

I end every shift with my arms and hands covered in various flavors of ice cream. I’m always sticky, and my right arm hurts. Count “Can’t have just one scooping arm” as another tidbit I’ve learned. During my training, Reyna told me to get accustomed to using both hands. I haven’t, because my left hand is still protesting usage.

All my hours behind this glass door leaves me little time to think about anything else. A positive and a negative.

My mom questioned me about the missing wine. I had to lie!reads the text waiting for me from Reyna.

I chuckle and text back,Oh, the horror.

As I clock out and close that door behind me, I ask myself the dramatic question:What is my life?

The answer waits for me back at the house. Today, it comes to me in the form of Naomi, cheeks, chin, and nose covered in flour at the island with Tommy beside her, his hands working batter in a mixing bowl.

I may have mentioned myWhip out the cake and party balloonscomment to Naomi.

“Surprise,” Tommy hollers once I’m inside, a cheesy grin spreading his lips.

I chuckle and backhand the only balloons in the place—a bundle, tied together right at the door, right at my face, propped up like a potted plant. “This is pathetic,” I tease.

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