Scooper Dooper.
If there is any justice in the world, the first major meteorite to ever strike the Earth will score a direct hit on the Scooper Dooper. I might even become an astrophysicist just so I can help move that plan along. But until then, CDs and concert tickets and gasoline aren’t cheap, and my parents are into that whole “earn it!” mentality, so I work.
My job sucks the most suck that has ever sucked.
“Maybe you could burn the Scooper Dooper and pretend it’s Evan,” Victoria offered.
“That would require a lot more planning than I have energy for,” I said. “Tilt your head back.”
She did. “I can see up your nose.”
“Ew, gross! Stop looking!”
She squeezed her eyes shut and giggled. “Jonah and I are gonna go see The Exorcist downtown. You should blow off work and come with us.”
“Nah, I don’t like paying money to watch heads spin. Or to be the third wheel.”
“Shut up, you’re not the third wheel.”
“If you and Jonah were a school dance, I’d be the parental chaperone.”
“Yeah, except for the fact that you let us make out in front of you.”
“Which is great fun for me.”
She opened her eyes. “Do we make you uncomfortable?”
Kinda. I don’t know. Maybe just lonely. “No, it’s cool. Besides, someone has to be there in case one of you swallows the other one.”
Victoria started to laugh. “Rest assured that there has never been, nor will there ever be, swallowing. Ever.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Victoria!” I cried. “So many details that I don’t need!” I tried to cover my ears but my gloved hands were covered in Marvelous Magenta.
“You love it—you know you do.” She was still laughing.
Have you ever been through a breakup while your best friend is, like, practically engaged to the guy she says she’s gonna marry? It’s awkward. I mean, on the one hand I love Victoria and Jonah to pieces and I’m excited to be a bridesmaid and buy little kid-sized drum sets for their sure-to-be adorable babies, but on the other hand…
There’s no nice way to say this: It blows like hurricane season.
“We just need to get you a date,” she decided after calming down. “You need to go up to someone in the hallway and make out with them on Monday.”
“Oh, yes, because the options are limitless in our school. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner.”
“Hey, school is where I met Jonah!” she protested.
“One out of fifteen hundred. What fantastic odds.”
Victoria settled back in the chair and I could see the wheels spinning in her head. Never a good sign. “What about James?” she finally said.
“James? James, the guy I work with?” She was too funny. “James who takes ice cream scooping more seriously than anyone should? James who almost had a nervous breakdown when the chocolate and rainbow sprinkles accidentally got mixed together? That James?”
“He has a good work ethic,” she countered. “And he’s cute.”
“Hello, I’m not thirty. I don’t want a good work ethic yet. I just want someone who can form complete sentences.”
“Which he can totally do! I’ve heard him! He says, ‘Hello, how can I help you today at the Scooper Dooper?’ It doesn’t get much more complete than that, Audrey.” She paused. “And he’s cute.”
“He’s a smidge of cute,” I acknowledged after a minute.
“No, Aud, he’s cute. One hundred percent cute.”
“If he’s so cute, then why don’t you make out with him on Monday morning?”
“Because, as I’ve pointed out, I’m already with the best guy in the world.”
I laughed through my nose. “That’s fabulous news for the rest of us.”
3 “She started shakin’ to that fine, fine music!”
—The Velvet Underground, “Rock & Roll”
THREE HOURS LATER, Victoria had a sorta-kinda Mohawk that she proclaimed her best hairdo ever; my dad had finished carving the pumpkin with only a small flesh wound; my mom had brought a dozen bags of grossly misnamed “Fun Size” candy bars home; Bendomolena had moved half an inch on the stairs; and I left for work with strict instructions to bring home a pint of Coffee Dream ice cream for my parents. (They seem to be the only ones benefiting from my employee discount, which is just another cruel irony in my life.)
The Scooper Dooper was empty. It was the end of October, it was starting to rain outside, and anyone with any sense was getting hot chocolate or coffee from the food court upstairs. Nobody wanted Misty Moroccan Mint in a waffle cone that day. (And between you and me, they shouldn’t want it on any day, because it’s just plain disgusting.)
“I already cleaned out the water wells and reorganized the overstock,” James said to me as I clocked in and tied on my apron. He always tucks his work shirt in, which makes me a bit nuts.
“And a happy hello to you, too,” I said.
“And I think we’re low on waffle cones, so I left a note for the manager to reorder some on Monday morning.”
“What a relief.”
My sarcasm wasn’t registering with him at all. “I know,” he replied. “You know how customers are about waffle cones.”
“It’s one of the great injustices of my life that I do know, James.” Okay, I even out-bitched myself on that one, I admit it.