Page 22 of Winging It with You

“That’s right, Dalton,” Ana chimes in. “The winning team will have a chance to resurrect a discontinued flavor of their choice, and, for a limited time, their ice cream—complete with their likeness and branding—will be available to the public!”

Theo nudges me. “I’ve always dreamed of having my faceplastered all over the desserts in the freezer section,” he whispers, a smirk spreading across his far-too-smug face as he crosses his arms.

I can picture it now. Someone in middle America reaching for that pint of their favorite ice cream after a long, draining day of work and being utterly confused when they find Theo and me staring back at them from our spot in the frosty freezer. A laugh escapes me at the thought of us being actualdairy queens, and I make a mental note to try to weasel that pun into some conversation today. Theo slowly turns his head in my direction, puzzled by my reaction to the joke he’s not in on, but I pretend I don’t see it.

“Alright, contestants, are you ready for your very firstEpic Trekcompetition?” The faux applause reappears. Were we supposed to clap, hoot, and holler? I almost join in but decide against it when I look around and see my fellow competitors are as still as statues. I don’t want to bethatguy.

“And thetrekofficially begins in three, two, one…” Ana and Dalton shout together before a loud buzzer goes off.

All at once, the other competitors take off toward the tables before them. Theo aggressively grabs my hand, his hot touch taking me by surprise, and I have no choice but to follow him at a near sprint. Any and all civility between us competitors quickly flies right out the window as elbows are thrown, and I’m pretty sure I see Bianca attempt to trip someone as we all race around Dalton’s platform.

Theo weaves us through the chaos to our assigned table, with Arthur following closely behind. We find an envelope with our names on it and I instinctively rip it open, pulling out a thick piece of cardstock.

Rainforest Crunch—Five Ingredients

“What’s it say, babe?” Theo asks, his choice of pet name momentarily catching me off guard until I remember that yes, I am in fact hisbabefor all intents and purposes. I silently pass him the card and take off toward our grid of ice cream containers, randomly selecting two, noting that we need to locate five matches.

Shit.Both redX’s.

Theo’s turn. He selects one pint that lists an ingredient,vanilla, but then another redXand puts them both back.

I quickly step forward, grabbing thevanillapint he just put back and selecting another at random—a new ingredient,cream.I roll my eyes but take a mental picture of where both ingredient pints are so I can start making pairs in my mind. I notice that at least two other teams have made their way to the refrigerator.

Theo strolls back over to the grid, selecting another set of pints without any rhyme or reason. He shrugs when he realizes they’re both redX’s and puts them back, his demeanor completely absent any sort of urgency.

Normally, I couldn’t care less about anything competitive. But with the lofty prize money on the line? The dreams I have for my science program—unrealistic or not—flash in my mind.

“Nice try,babe,” I say when Theo makes it back to our table, hearing the twinge of annoyance that’s starting to build. “But it’s a race, remember?”

I watch as Theo’s brows pinch together before I jog over to our grid, and once there, I grab the pint I know saysvanillaand reach for another.Vanilla.Our first match. I run back to the table, placing the pints down as I pass by and continue to the massive fridge—shaking my head at Theo’s unwarranted butkinda cute congratulatory cheers. It takes me no time at all to locate the small container withvanillawritten on it, and within seconds, I’ve grabbed it and emptied its contents into our mixer, the sweet aroma of the vanilla extract trailing behind me.

Back and forth Theo and I go to the grid in the hope of finding the rest of our matches. He’s picked up the pace, which I’m thankful for, but neither of us has made another match, and I can feel myself getting frustrated.

Just as a not-so-subtle comment disguised as encouragement is on the tip of my tongue, he randomly procures a match from the wall:condensed milk.Theo runs toward the fridge, athletically avoiding two of our rivals who turned at the same time to collect their own supplies, and races back to our table to pour the contents into the mixer.

After about a dozen rounds of back-to-back redX’s, Theo matchessea saltand quickly gets that added to our mixture. I fail to find a match on my next turn, but Theo unexpectedly matches our fourth ingredient,cream, and runs off toward the fridge. There’s no way of knowing how many matches our competition has found at this time, but it makes me feel a hell of a lot better about our standing knowing we only have one more ingredient remaining.

However, neither Theo or I find a match on our next two turns, and any hope I had quickly evaporates.

Theo finally selects a pint labeledmilk, but unfortunately, pairs it with yet another redX. I watch as his shoulders slump in frustration.

I go to grab themilkpint he just put back and do my best to remember the zones we haven’t been routinely pulling from. While it isn’t necessarily a strategy, I’ve been mentally sectioning our grid into smaller ones that I’ve rotated between witheach turn. Right or wrong, it’s how my brain makes sense of things like this.

Out of frustration, I snatch for the pint almost dead center of the grid and hope for the best.

Milk.

Finally. I flash the lid to Theo, who throws his fists in the air in exhausted celebration, and I take off toward the fridge in search of our final ingredient.

“Come on, milk…where are you?” I mutter to myself as I rummage through the various containers. I’d imagine it would be in some sort of glass. Maybe a pitcher?

I spot it just as I get bumped from behind.Hard.

It’s Jackson. “Move,” he growls, pushing past me to grab whatever ingredient he needs.

Oh, hell no.

Gripping the handle of the thick plastic pitcher, I quickly but carefully make my way back toward our station, where Theo is standing next to the waiting mixer, a wide grin plastered across his face. The pitcher is oddly heavy, and some milk sloshed over its rim on my way back. Even though I’m using both hands, I don’t have confidence in my wet grasp.

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