Read Online Sometimes It Happens by Lauren Barnholdt - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Barnholdt
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can, she’s walking from the ice-cream cooler and back to where I’m sitting at the counter. And she doesn’t have my chocolate shake.
“So,” she says, holding her hair up off her neck and turning her head to the side. “This might be kind of weird, but, um, does this look strange to you?”
“Does what look strange to me?” I ask. I glance around, hoping she’s not talking about me. I mean, I wouldn’t say I look strange exactly, just extremely disheveled.
“This,” she says, and leans over the counter, pushing her head closer to me.
I’m still not sure what she means. So I just say, “Yeah,wow, you have very pretty hair. Is it natural?” I kind of want to ask her why she’s not wearing it up—the last thing I want is hair in my milk shake, eww—but she might be some kind of wacko, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Not my hair,” she says. “My neck.”
“Um . . . you have a very pretty neck?” I try. It’s not even a lie. She has great skin, really smooth and fair.
“No,” she says. “The spot.”
“What spot?” I ask, deciding to try a different tactic and get some clarification.
“The one behind my ear.”
I peer closer. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “What about it?” There’s a tiny, miniscule little spot behind her ear. Looks like a freckle. It’s kind of cute, actually.
“Are you sure?” Lacey asks. She rushes back to the mirrors on the wall and starts twisting all around, trying to get a better look at it. “I just noticed it when I bent down to get your ice cream and . . . it’s not bleeding or anything?”
“Um, no,” I tell her. “It’s just a very small orange freckle.”
“Orange,” she repeats. “Hmmm.” She’s muttering to herself (something about checking out Web MD on her break) as she heads back over to the ice cream, and I watch her closely as she scoops a bunch of chocolate ice cream into the blender.
Noah comes out from the back then, looking dejected.
“Told you it was bad,” Lacey says sadly. She pours a bunch of milk into the blender and then adds chocolatesauce and a few scoops of some kind of powder. I hope she’s making it malted, and the powder isn’t arsenic or something she pulls out when she gets all worked up about orange spots that are probably just mosquito bites.
“Yeah, it’s bad.” Noah plops down onto the stool next to me.
“Why, what’s wrong?” I ask as Lacey sets the glass down in front of me.
“I just have a lot of hours,” Noah says. “Like, forty-five this week.” He sighs and starts twirling a ketchup bottle back and forth between his hands.
“Isn’t that good?” I ask. “More hours equals more money?”
“Yeah, except it ruins your whole summer. It’s better to have a balance—about thirty hours is good money, and then you still have time to have fun.”
“So you’re kind of lazy,” I say. “Got it. Do you want some of my milk shake?” I’m doing it to be nice and cheer him up, but secretly I’m hoping he says no. Not that I want to be all selfish, but I really do need the chocolate.
“Thanks,” he says, leaning over and taking a long pull from the straw.
“No problem,” I say, watching him carefully to make sure he doesn’t take too much. When he’s done, I take the glass back and take my own sip, letting the chocolately goodness explode in my mouth. Ohmigod. It’s amazing. Soamazing that when Noah reaches for another sip, I pull the glass away from him.
“No way,” I say. “One sip is all you get. Have Lacey make you your own.”
“Sure,” Lacey says, “You totally deserve it if you’re going to work forty-five hours next week.”
She gets to work making the shake, and I glance around the diner. There’s, like, hardly anyone in here. One college-aged kid sitting in the corner, reading a book and sipping some coffee. And one old man, over in the back booth, slurping down a bowl of soup and looking out the window.
“It doesn’t seem that busy in here,” I say. “Why does
“So,” she says, holding her hair up off her neck and turning her head to the side. “This might be kind of weird, but, um, does this look strange to you?”
“Does what look strange to me?” I ask. I glance around, hoping she’s not talking about me. I mean, I wouldn’t say I look strange exactly, just extremely disheveled.
“This,” she says, and leans over the counter, pushing her head closer to me.
I’m still not sure what she means. So I just say, “Yeah,wow, you have very pretty hair. Is it natural?” I kind of want to ask her why she’s not wearing it up—the last thing I want is hair in my milk shake, eww—but she might be some kind of wacko, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Not my hair,” she says. “My neck.”
“Um . . . you have a very pretty neck?” I try. It’s not even a lie. She has great skin, really smooth and fair.
“No,” she says. “The spot.”
“What spot?” I ask, deciding to try a different tactic and get some clarification.
“The one behind my ear.”
I peer closer. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “What about it?” There’s a tiny, miniscule little spot behind her ear. Looks like a freckle. It’s kind of cute, actually.
“Are you sure?” Lacey asks. She rushes back to the mirrors on the wall and starts twisting all around, trying to get a better look at it. “I just noticed it when I bent down to get your ice cream and . . . it’s not bleeding or anything?”
“Um, no,” I tell her. “It’s just a very small orange freckle.”
“Orange,” she repeats. “Hmmm.” She’s muttering to herself (something about checking out Web MD on her break) as she heads back over to the ice cream, and I watch her closely as she scoops a bunch of chocolate ice cream into the blender.
Noah comes out from the back then, looking dejected.
“Told you it was bad,” Lacey says sadly. She pours a bunch of milk into the blender and then adds chocolatesauce and a few scoops of some kind of powder. I hope she’s making it malted, and the powder isn’t arsenic or something she pulls out when she gets all worked up about orange spots that are probably just mosquito bites.
“Yeah, it’s bad.” Noah plops down onto the stool next to me.
“Why, what’s wrong?” I ask as Lacey sets the glass down in front of me.
“I just have a lot of hours,” Noah says. “Like, forty-five this week.” He sighs and starts twirling a ketchup bottle back and forth between his hands.
“Isn’t that good?” I ask. “More hours equals more money?”
“Yeah, except it ruins your whole summer. It’s better to have a balance—about thirty hours is good money, and then you still have time to have fun.”
“So you’re kind of lazy,” I say. “Got it. Do you want some of my milk shake?” I’m doing it to be nice and cheer him up, but secretly I’m hoping he says no. Not that I want to be all selfish, but I really do need the chocolate.
“Thanks,” he says, leaning over and taking a long pull from the straw.
“No problem,” I say, watching him carefully to make sure he doesn’t take too much. When he’s done, I take the glass back and take my own sip, letting the chocolately goodness explode in my mouth. Ohmigod. It’s amazing. Soamazing that when Noah reaches for another sip, I pull the glass away from him.
“No way,” I say. “One sip is all you get. Have Lacey make you your own.”
“Sure,” Lacey says, “You totally deserve it if you’re going to work forty-five hours next week.”
She gets to work making the shake, and I glance around the diner. There’s, like, hardly anyone in here. One college-aged kid sitting in the corner, reading a book and sipping some coffee. And one old man, over in the back booth, slurping down a bowl of soup and looking out the window.
“It doesn’t seem that busy in here,” I say. “Why does
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