Misfit in Love (Saints and Misfits #2) - S. K. Ali Page 0,18

pulls out his phone. “Write your number in here, and I’ll text you if I see the truck. And you do the same. Then we meet the ice-cream guy again and settle this once and for all.”

I take his phone and send myself a message, an ice-cream cone emoji. When I give the phone back, I see Nuah smiling at me, or maybe it’s us.

He’s gotta know this is a dumb sociological thing that Haytham’s trying to prove, so I address Nuah. “Just so you know, Haytham thinks ice-cream-truck drivers are all either mean uncles or the nicest people in the world. And I’m trying to tell him ours is both. He usually smiles when he gives us our ice cream. Right, Logan?”

Logan turns around from where he’s walking with Dawud.

“The ice-cream man is nice, right? The other days? When he gives you your ice cream?” I prompt.

“I don’t like him,” Logan announces. “He always has the same ice cream.”

“That’s his truck’s fault. But he smiles at you, right?” I try again.

“No, he’s mean. He always gives me the same ice cream.” At this, the top of his Drumstick falls off and lands on the grass, leaving him with an empty cone. We gather around, and I see that only the chocolate chunk at the very bottom remains inside the waffle still in his hand. He looks up at me, his eyes growing larger, his mouth opening into an O at the same rate.

The lip tremble will come next. And then it’ll be a wail that will echo like a police siren.

I know him too well from these last few weeks.

“Here.” Dawud thrusts the Choco Taco toward Logan. “You can have this one.”

“I want the same one!” Logan says, crossing his arms. He throws down the empty cone in his hand with a great flourish, and it lands pointy part up, a pitiful distance from its departed friend, the mound of melting ice cream.

A trickle, which will erupt into waterworks soon, begins falling from his eyes.

I pass my cone to Nuah and bend to grab Logan’s shoulders to get him to look at me. “But remember, you didn’t want the same one? You said you always got the same one from the ice-cream guy. Now you’re getting a special one.”

“I want the same one!”

Still holding Luke, Haytham slides down onto his knees until he’s almost eye-to-eye with Logan. “It is the same one. But you know how the bubble machine makes different bubbles, big bubbles and small bubbles and medium bubbles?” He waits until Logan nods.

“But they’re all still bubbles? The same bubbles?” He waits again. “This is the same ice cream that you like but just in a different shape.”

“But you don’t have a different shape.” Logan points at Haytham’s cone, now running all over his right hand. “You have the same shape. Like mine.”

“Exactly. And look what’s happening to it. It’s wrecking my hand. And look at Luke’s face.” We all turn to Luke, who looks like he just got back from World War I, like something brown and muddy exploded in his face and he survived but is now irrevocably changed as evidenced by the kooky smile on his upturned face, his eyes blinking with maniacal glee. “Look at his ite cweam. Is that the same one you want?”

“No! I don’t want ice cream all over my face!” Now Logan starts sobbing at the stressful idea of potentially looking like Luke.

Haytham nods to Dawud and motions to him to pass the Choco Taco over to Logan. “And with this Choco Taco, you will never look like Luke here. It’s made for big boys and big girls who don’t get ite cweam all over their faces.”

Once Logan takes the Choco Taco, I hand my cone to Nuah again and help Logan unwrap his.

He tentatively takes a bite, and, amid the tears still glittering on his cheeks, the trace of a small smile breaks out before he turns to skip off with Dawud toward the house.

“Man, that was gooood,” Nuah says to Haytham as we follow behind. “What are you, some kindergarten teacher or something?”

“Nope, just an uncle of over twelve years. I’ve got ten nephews and nieces.”

“Uncle of over twelve years? How is that even possible?” Nuah stares at Haytham before slurping the last of his Creamsicle. “You’re, like, my age.”

“I’m the youngest of five—way youngest of five. So I became an uncle at seven.”

“Is that why you’re holding Luke on your hip like that?” Nuah asks, laughing.