supreme hankering for ice cream. The ice cream shop, of course, is located in the outdoor “kid section” of the shopping mall, wedged right in between the Toys R Us and the tiny Lego store. The crowd quickly thins and soon, parents excluded, we’re the only ones older than twelve walking down the sidewalk. I glance at Cat, who only shrugs. We are not ones to fear the judgment of small children.
I met Cat for the first time when I was six. Back then she was still infested with a life-threatening case of cooties and I was familiar enough with the virus to know to keep a safe distance away from her, but even so, I remember finding myself thinking that she was kind of cool, even if being with her could put me at risk for the disease as well. So one day when she was on the swings, I walked up to her, blushing hard. I said hi, and she said hi back, and the next thing I knew I was on the swing next to hers and we were talking about how Nemo and Dory would be so cool to own as fish. I remember us giggling and blushing and smiling our six-year-old smiles that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. I get her and she gets me and that was always that. Cat is my only real friend, and she’s always been there for me when I needed it most. Even after Mom’s death, even with Dad’s drunken tirades and my total emptiness, she was always there to touch my shoulder and remind me that everything was going to be okay.
And she was right.
Mostly.
We turn the corner, walk a few more steps, and stop in front of a small ice cream shop, The Icecreamery, which is filled with flailing children and their grimacing parents. No one even remotely our age is inside, but it’s not like we care. The shop is an entirely manly place to eat between its pink exterior, its purple-painted chimney, and the fact that there are crayon drawings all over the inside wall.
Cat turns to me. “Are you ready for the experience of a lifetime?” she says, nodding at the front door.
I grin. “Is Abraham Lincoln dead?”
“Well… there are theories…”
I shoot her a look.
“All right, all right fine…” she murmurs. “We can get your ice cream.”
“Good! You ready?”
“Of course.”
Then I grab her hand, bellow “ICE CREAM!” and we charge, laughing, into the store. A small bell rings as soon as we enter, as if to say “welcome to heaven,” and proceeds to blast us with cool air and the squeals of small children all around. The door shuts behind us, and Cat and I pant, grinning at each other. I try to ignore the weird looks of parents as I approach the glowing ice cream freezer.
The cashier gives a little smile, clearly recognizing us from the hundreds of other times we’ve been there. “You again,” she says as I place my hands on the counter like I own the place.
“Us again,” I reply. “Good to see you, Sharon.”
She rolls her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me that?”
“You did.”
“I could kick you out for disrespecting me.”
“But you won’t for the simple reasons that I am your favorite customer and also, that I am just wonderful.”
Sharon turns to Cat, who gives her a sympathizing look. “I’ll serve you first, this time,” Sharon says to Cat. “I like you better anyway.”
I feign a horrified gasp, and Cat elbows me in the side. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I’d like a scoop of your finest vanilla ice cream,” she says way too seriously, holding her head up high. “In a kiddy cone, preferably. Also with rainbow sprinkles.”
Then Sharon turns to me, a smile flickering across her lips, enjoying torturing me. Neither of them seems to understand just how intimate my relationship with ice cream is.
“I’ll have the same,” I say.
Sharon nods, turns to the freezer, and when she brings us back our ice cream we pay her and sit down in the corner of the ice cream shop, our cones in hand. For a long moment, Cat and I just stare, eyes flickering between each other and our respective ice creams.
“Are you ready, Cat Davenport?” I say.
“Wait…” Cat scoots in her chair and leans forward into her ice cream. Then she gives a slight nod, and the ritual has begun. “Ready,” she says.
I lean forward. “Goooood. Race to see who