CHAPTER ELEVEN
AMELIA DOESN’T EXPECT TO FIND the ice cream stand ready for opening day, because how would Grady know all the things he’d need to do? But as she climbs off her bike, it makes her uncomfortable to see Meade Creamery so not ready. The lawn hasn’t been cut. There are dandelions growing out of every crack in the blacktop. The picnic tables are missing, the trash cans too. Cate is right. Grady does need them more than they need Grady . . . at least in the short term. But the idea of walking away from Meade Creamery, watching Grady stumble from afar as he tries his best on his own, makes her feel even worse.
She pulls the weeds she passes and flings them toward the woods and then crouches down to look at the pile of things people have been leaving in honor of Molly Meade. Flowers—some bought, some clipped from gardens. Handwritten notes and condolence cards. The impromptu shrine cloaks her in a velvety warmth. She picks up a crayon drawing, obviously made by a child, of a frowning ice cream cone crying two streams of blue tears.
“That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Amelia looks up. Grady is standing behind her, an empty cardboard box in his hands. When their eyes meet, he seems the littlest bit confused.
“It’s Amelia,” she says, reintroducing herself as she rises to her feet. “Amelia Van Hagen.”
“I remember your name, Amelia. It’s just”—he momentarily trails off, his eyes trying to untangle something about her, as if she’d been wearing a disguise at the funeral—“my little cousin always wears her hair braided, the same way yours was yesterday. You . . . look older with it down.”
Amelia touches her hair, threading some of it behind her ear. It’s still damp from her shower.
He stares at her for a beat too long, and then he clears his throat awkwardly. “Let me grab the last of this stuff.” He bends down and begins putting the items into the box, equally careful with each object: a bunch of flowers, a photograph. He picks up a teddy bear and pats away some dirt from its fur. “This is already my third box. People keep coming.”
Amelia is touched that so many have shown up for the stand and for Molly in this way, especially after the somewhat anemic turnout at her memorial service. Molly was clearly beloved. Amelia bends to pick up a photograph. It’s of a family of five lined up in front of the ice cream stand, big to little, with each one holding a corresponding serving of ice cream. The dad has a waffle cone with three scoops, the tallest thing on the menu; the toddler has a kid’s cup. “This place means a lot to a lot of people,” Amelia says, passing it to Grady.
Grady takes a good, long look before placing it in the box. “I’m planning to go through everything when things calm down. Maybe even frame a few things.”
Amelia smiles. As far as first impressions go, Grady is off to a very good start.
While Grady continues his task, Amelia discreetly observes him. He’s wearing a button-up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark fitted jeans are folded in big cuffs to his calves, and he has white canvas sneakers on his feet—bright white, as if they just came out of the box—and no socks, though he’s got a significant tan line around his ankles.
Grady is handsome for sure, but Amelia tells herself she’s intrigued mostly because boys do not dress like him in Sand Lake. Boys here wear their jeans loose. They only put on button-ups for church or school dances. They prefer boots, but if they do wear sneakers, they’re dirty from a pickup game of football or a hike or a ride on a quad. Though it’s not as if Grady comes across as any less masculine. If anything, he seems almost more self-assured.
When the last of the mementos are boxed up, Amelia follows Grady around the stand to the door. The other two boxes are stacked there, along with a messenger bag, which Grady hoists over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Amelia takes the key out of her purse. “This might be the first time a boy has ever stepped inside Meade Creamery,” she says, smiling over her shoulder as she opens the padlock.
“Actually, I’ve been in plenty of times before. I spent a whole summer in Sand Lake when I was a kid.”
Amelia blanches as she follows him inside. “Wait. Seriously?”
He doesn’t hear her. He’s spinning in a slow circle, taking everything in. “Wow. This place hasn’t changed. Like at all.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
Grady steps over to the punch clock, checks the time against his cell phone, and pats the top of it, as if the machine were a small dog that had just performed an adorable little trick for him. “Not at all. Nostalgia is huge part of the Meade Creamery brand identity.”
“Brand identity,” she repeats. Amelia has never thought of Meade Creamery as a brand. But maybe it is?
Amelia looks around too, noticing the work that will need to be done to get the stand ready for customers. The cleaning she did on the day she found Molly is barely a leg up. The toppings sideboard is empty, the scooping cabinet is unplugged. No paper cups unwrapped and stacked by size, no napkin dispensers filled, no waffle batter mixed up.
Grady moves into the office, rounds the desk, and sits down. Even though Grady says that he’s been here before, the sight of a boy inside the stand is very strange to Amelia. And to see one behind the Head Girl’s desk is completely bizarre.
He takes several copies of the Sand Lake Ledger out of his messenger bag and fans them across the desk. “Did you happen to see the newspaper this morning?”
“I did. I was surprised that you’re planning to open tomorrow. That’s . . . very ambitious.”
Though Amelia has tried to say it like it might not be a compliment, Grady grins. “The reporter wanted a quick human-interest story on the stuff people have been leaving at the stand, but once I introduced myself and explained how I’ll be taking over the business, it turned into free front-page advertising.” Grady takes out his laptop and connects it to his phone with a white cord. He taps the space bar and a bluish glow brightens his face. “Just give me a quick sec to answer an email from my advisor and we’ll get to talking.”
“Sure.” Amelia lowers herself into a seat that has not been offered to her. She makes sure to sit tall, folds her hands in her lap.
As he types, he explains, “I’m trying to get Truman to pony up some internship or independent study credits for the work I’ll be doing here this summer.” He groans, like this has been a hassle. “Truman likes to push kids toward alumni Fortune 500 companies, but those places don’t let you actually do anything. Just sit in on board meetings, shake a bunch of hands, eat steak lunches, and make contacts. But here I’ve got the chance to really get my hands dirty, see what I’m capable of, bring what I’ve learned in the classroom to the real world.” He eyes her, looking to see her reaction.
Coolly, Amelia smooths her shorts. But inside, she is lit up with the sudden understanding, one she learned how to recognize from the older stand girls, that Grady is trying to impress her.
After hitting Send with a bit of a flourish, Grady closes his laptop and slides it off to the side. He takes a legal pad out of his messenger bag and searches in the smaller pockets for something to write with.
She stops herself from telling Grady to check the top desk drawer, because of the tube of OXY and the collapsible selfie stick that are mixed in with the pencils and pens. And she tightens, remembering other girly things hidden around the office, like the tampons of varying absorbencies in the bottom drawer of their filing cabinet, the heating pad for cramps and the PMS tea, and, dear God, the box of condoms—donated by Heather, who preached that girls shouldn’t ever depend on a guy to bring protection—filling one whole cubby of the credenza. The space is more like a shared bathroom for a family of sisters than it is a traditional office, because they never imagined that a boy might be in here.
Grady says, “Aha,” and, to Amelia’s great relief, pulls a pen from his bag. Leaning back in his chair, he clicks the top of it rapid-fire. “So. Amelia. I’ll get right to it. I’d like to officially offer you, and the rest of the girls, your jobs at Meade Creamery back.”
Amelia tries to channel her best Cate and not look too eager, but she is very, very happy and relieved to hear Grady finally say this. “Thank you.”
“Tell me . . . how many other scoopers are there, besides yourself?”
Amelia feels her smile slip, and it takes a few blinks before she can force it back on her face. She doesn’t think Grady meant it condescendingly. And scoopers are essentially what the girls are. Still. There’s something flip about the term.
“We typically have ten employees each summer,” Amelia answers. She decides to say employees instead of girls, even though they’ve only ever been girls. The Meade Creamery girls.
Grady writes a number 10 down at the top of the page. “Great. And how much do scoopers get paid?”
There he goes again with scooper. Is he doing it on purpose, Amelia wonders? To make her feel insignificant?
She lifts her chin as high as Grady’s. “Fifteen dollars an hour.”
“You’re kidding me. That’s like twice minimum wage.” Grady’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “You’re telling me that you girls make fifteen dollars an hour. For a high school summer job making sundaes.”
Amelia feels herself begin to sweat. “I’m not sure if this falls under brand identity, but our customers expect a certain level of service when they come to Meade Creamery. The girls who work here are the nicest in Sand Lake. They are dependable, too. It’s rare for anyone to call out sick. We’ve had several honor students over the years. In fact, my friend Cate is going to Truman this fall on scholarship. Mansi, who’ll be a junior next year, was just named editor of the high school newspaper. Liz does student government and Britnee started varsity on the girls’ basketball team, even as a freshman. Bernadette—”
“These are the same girls who broke in here with you, right? Who stole ice cream?” Grady doesn’t sound put off so much as like he’s trying to find a position from which to negotiate with her.
Amelia stiffens. She knows she needs to counter somehow, take a little power back. “Also, you should know that your great-aunt promoted me to Head Girl at the end of last summer. That’s what we call the manager,” she clarifies, hating that it sounds childish. “Head Girl gets seventeen dollars an hour. And I will personally vouch for every single girl on our staff.”
Grady looks at her suspiciously. “What is Head Girl in charge of, exactly?”
Amelia takes a deep breath. “Well . . . Head Girl processes payroll, tallies shift receipts and prepares bank deposits, evaluates the newbie applications and does the interviewing, hiring, and training. Head Girl also is the stock manager, makes the weekly schedule—”
“Talk to me about the schedule. How many girls on a shift?” He fires off the question like this is an oral pop quiz.
“That depends. On weekdays, three girls can typically handle the first shift. Weeknights, things get busier, so normally we have four girls on. That way, there’s one girl for each of the two windows, one can focus on making waffle cones, and one can float, stocking supplies, emptying the trash cans, cleaning. On weekends, we put four girls on both shifts. Unless it rains. If it rains, we can get away with two.” She taps her chin with her finger. “There are other factors to consider, and those change every week, like when summer school is in session, the Little League schedule, holidays . . .” Amelia takes a breath, surprising even herself by how long she’s gone on, considering she’s never made a single schedule before. These are things she’s picked up over the years, watching and learning from the older girls.
She knows a lot. And she can hardly hide her smile.
“Let’s talk ice cream,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial.
“What do you want to know?” she replies, ready to spout off prices, rank flavors and toppings for him in terms of sales, the average number of scoops in a three-gallon drum.
Before Grady can ask a follow-up, there’s a knock at the office door. Grady looks up and Amelia turns in her chair.
Grady’s mom pokes her head inside. She’s in a pale blue tunic with little mirrors and beads stitched to the collar, black capri leggings, and gold leather flip-flops, with an armful of gold bangles, and a huge black leather purse hanging from the crook of her elbow. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting, but we’re leaving for the airport, sweetie. Come say goodbye.”
Grady takes a deep breath once his mother leaves. To Amelia, he says quickly, “Fine. I’ll pay the girls fifteen dollars an hour. It’s utterly ridiculous, but whatever.” He stands up, checks his reflection in the mirror on the stand door. “But I’m the manager of Meade Creamery moving forward, Amelia. I hope that’s not a deal breaker for you working here this summer, though I’ll understand if it is. I’ll give you a minute to think it over.” He grabs two Sand Lake Ledgers from the top of the stack and hustles out the door.
Amelia whittles down her pinkie nail with her teeth.
It would be a deal breaker for Cate, absolutely. She would walk away from this place with zero regrets.
But can Amelia?
One thing she knows for sure—it’s now or never. Springing into action, she leaps out of her chair and flies around the room. Her purse is small, but she manages to stuff all the condoms and tampons inside. The PMS tea will have to stay, though she takes the tea bags out and buries the box—along with the OXY—underneath some paper towels in the trash can.
“Did either of you see this at the hotel?” comes Grady’s muffled voice through the stand walls. “I bought extra copies in case.”
Amelia goes to the window and moves the curtain just enough to see outside.
Grady, his father, and his mother stand around a black Mercedes with tinted windows, the same one that was parked outside the church. The engine is running.
Grady’s dad is handsome too. He’s tall like his son, fit and clean-shaven. His hair is cut short, the white bits at his temples sparkle in the sun like the gold buttons on his navy blazer. His posture is stiff, his blue-and-white-check button-up crisp, and his black driving moccasins buttery soft.
Grady’s mom reads the newspaper article out loud, pausing at the end of every paragraph to smile proudly. Meanwhile, Grady’s dad pops the trunk, pulls out one of those huge European travel backpacks, and drops it on the grass. Then he takes out his phone and scrolls until Grady’s mom finishes reading.
It makes Amelia’s stomach hurt.
Grady kisses his mom on the cheek, walks over and stiffly shakes his dad’s hand, then steps back as they each open their doors. His father takes one last long look up at the farmhouse before he climbs into the driver’s seat. Grady waves until they pull onto the road and the car disappears.
Amelia hustles back to her seat and opens one of the newspapers, just beating Grady, who returns with his backpack on his shoulder. He sets it down near the door with a thud.
“Your parents aren’t staying here with you?”
“No. They’re going back to Chicago, and then on to New Zealand for some golfing trip for my dad. This is the one vacation he’ll take all year.”
Pointing at his backpack, she says, “And you gave up a Europe trip with your friends to stay here and run the stand.” There’s something admirable about this decision that Amelia glossed over when she first read the article this morning. This place must be important to him, to pass on something like that.
“Yeah. Basically.”
But is it important enough to Amelia for her to give up Head Girl?
Grady crashes into the seat behind the desk and glances down at his legal pad, spinning the pen between his fingers like a mini-baton. He lets out a tired sigh. “I’ll make you a deal, Amelia. If you can promise we’ll be ready to open by tomorrow, you can continue as Head Girl.”
“Really?”
“I’m counting on you to convince the other girls to come back. We’ll need all hands on deck. My newspaper interview is going to make for a huge opening day.”
Amelia doesn’t tell Grady that the lines on opening day always reach the road—even if it rains. And she doesn’t say that it’s going to be almost impossible to get everything done in one morning, when it usually takes the girls two full days to set up. Instead, she promises him from the bottom of her heart, “I will do my very best.”