teething, we’d been out running errands when we passed the stand. I remember Ma shouting, “Pull over!” Rain was pouring fast and furious, the way it does in southwest Texas in late spring, and Pop was yelling that Ma spoiled us, and for God’s sake who needs ice cream during a monsoon?
But she insisted, saying ice cream would ease Jordan’s gums. So Pop pulled over, and Ma dashed out. She tripped on a tree root coming back to the car, but she held on to those plastic cups piled high with whipped cream and the works.
Ma started humming a country song as we finished up the backgammon game. I was one turn away from victory when she rolled double sixes. That moved her last four pieces off the board to beat me.
Grrrr
. I hate losing at board games, especially to Ma, who doesn’t take them seriously. Pop used to say that God looks out for kids and drunks, but I think he gives Ma special breaks too.
“Where are you going to find money to buy this shop?” I asked.
“Got it figured out,” she said, arranging her pieces for a new game.
Ma didn’t offer more details, and I didn’t ask, even though I’d figured it out too. She’d be digging into the Ditch Fund—the last bit of money we had standing between us and being homeless on the cold streets of Schenectady.
Just as I rolled the dice to start the next game, Jordan leaped onto a stool and, standing, started swinging his arms across his body. Both hands were shaped in a Y. “Party!” he signed.
Party
, our code word for ice cream. Back and forth his arms swung with urgency. “Party! Party!”
“Careful,” I signed, holding his legs steady as the stool wobbled.
Ma laughed at Jordan’s excitement and glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s five-thirty, close to suppertime, though that never stopped us from having a party before. Let’s git to it.”
With that, I pulled down our special red heart-shaped bowls and matching red spoons from the top shelf. Ma put on her cherry-print apron and warmed the fudge sauce while Jordan took out as many candies, nuts, sprinkles, sauces, crumbled cookies, pretzels, cereals, fruits, and mini marshmallows as he could find in the pantry to pour into custard cups.
Within minutes the counter was transformed into an ice cream smorgasbord, with oodles of tempting toppings just begging to be had. Jordan started first, scooping ice cream, spooning candy and nuts, ladling toppings, and squirting whipped cream like he was a culinary artist.
“Don’t forget a cherry on top!” Ma said like she always says just before we dig in, holding the maraschino-cherry jar up.
Jordan read Ma’s lips that time perfectly. Next thing he did was stick his finger deep in the jar and pull out a cherry by its stem. Then he tossed it way high, wiggled his hips, and maneuvered his bowl to catch it centered on his whipped-cream-covered sundae. He quickly set his bowl down on the counter, then signed, “I did it. Jordan is the MAN!” That set off a laugh attack in both Ma and me.
I didn’t admit it out loud, but I had to agree with Ma. Ice cream does warm the heart, no matter what the weather.
The first person I saw when I walked into school on Monday was Kim, the tiny freckle-faced girl I’d met at the bake sale. Only now she was wearing a pirate bandanna and an eye patch.
“I’m not weird. Today’s Hilarious Hat Day,” she said when she caught me staring.
“Ahoy, mate,” I said, and we both laughed.
I wished I had something covering my head for another reason. The Mohawk Valley Village had a power outage that morning, and I hadn’t been able to blow-dry my hair. I was wearing my favorite shirt—a magenta henley with pretty silver buttons I’d added myself—but my stringy hair was matted to my head, and my big ears stuck out like Frisbees.
At the lockers kids paraded by wearing all kinds of freaky hats. I saw a sparkly chicken that clucked, a chef hat, a killer shark, a beanie with a propeller, and an Abraham Lincoln tall
But she insisted, saying ice cream would ease Jordan’s gums. So Pop pulled over, and Ma dashed out. She tripped on a tree root coming back to the car, but she held on to those plastic cups piled high with whipped cream and the works.
Ma started humming a country song as we finished up the backgammon game. I was one turn away from victory when she rolled double sixes. That moved her last four pieces off the board to beat me.
Grrrr
. I hate losing at board games, especially to Ma, who doesn’t take them seriously. Pop used to say that God looks out for kids and drunks, but I think he gives Ma special breaks too.
“Where are you going to find money to buy this shop?” I asked.
“Got it figured out,” she said, arranging her pieces for a new game.
Ma didn’t offer more details, and I didn’t ask, even though I’d figured it out too. She’d be digging into the Ditch Fund—the last bit of money we had standing between us and being homeless on the cold streets of Schenectady.
Just as I rolled the dice to start the next game, Jordan leaped onto a stool and, standing, started swinging his arms across his body. Both hands were shaped in a Y. “Party!” he signed.
Party
, our code word for ice cream. Back and forth his arms swung with urgency. “Party! Party!”
“Careful,” I signed, holding his legs steady as the stool wobbled.
Ma laughed at Jordan’s excitement and glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s five-thirty, close to suppertime, though that never stopped us from having a party before. Let’s git to it.”
With that, I pulled down our special red heart-shaped bowls and matching red spoons from the top shelf. Ma put on her cherry-print apron and warmed the fudge sauce while Jordan took out as many candies, nuts, sprinkles, sauces, crumbled cookies, pretzels, cereals, fruits, and mini marshmallows as he could find in the pantry to pour into custard cups.
Within minutes the counter was transformed into an ice cream smorgasbord, with oodles of tempting toppings just begging to be had. Jordan started first, scooping ice cream, spooning candy and nuts, ladling toppings, and squirting whipped cream like he was a culinary artist.
“Don’t forget a cherry on top!” Ma said like she always says just before we dig in, holding the maraschino-cherry jar up.
Jordan read Ma’s lips that time perfectly. Next thing he did was stick his finger deep in the jar and pull out a cherry by its stem. Then he tossed it way high, wiggled his hips, and maneuvered his bowl to catch it centered on his whipped-cream-covered sundae. He quickly set his bowl down on the counter, then signed, “I did it. Jordan is the MAN!” That set off a laugh attack in both Ma and me.
I didn’t admit it out loud, but I had to agree with Ma. Ice cream does warm the heart, no matter what the weather.
The first person I saw when I walked into school on Monday was Kim, the tiny freckle-faced girl I’d met at the bake sale. Only now she was wearing a pirate bandanna and an eye patch.
“I’m not weird. Today’s Hilarious Hat Day,” she said when she caught me staring.
“Ahoy, mate,” I said, and we both laughed.
I wished I had something covering my head for another reason. The Mohawk Valley Village had a power outage that morning, and I hadn’t been able to blow-dry my hair. I was wearing my favorite shirt—a magenta henley with pretty silver buttons I’d added myself—but my stringy hair was matted to my head, and my big ears stuck out like Frisbees.
At the lockers kids paraded by wearing all kinds of freaky hats. I saw a sparkly chicken that clucked, a chef hat, a killer shark, a beanie with a propeller, and an Abraham Lincoln tall
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