Bingo.
2
Everyone in Huckabee knows that you can’t go to a bingo fundraiser in the summer without going to get ice cream after. It’d be like going to the movies and not getting popcorn. Or going to the pool and forgetting your swimsuit.
There would be no point in going.
Sam’s Scoops is a block away from Huckabee Elementary, and the large crowd of people leaving the cafetorium and heading toward it trails the entire distance between the two.
Luckily, we’re one of the first few groups out the door.
I power walk across the gravel parking lot, my dad and Johnny a few steps ahead of me, Blake crunching noisily just behind them. I have to jog every couple of seconds just to keep up with this above-average-height crew.
“You’re bringing your prize basket to get ice cream?” Blake asks me, cutting through my staring contest with a Carson Wentz bobblehead wedged between a rolled-up T-shirt and an Eagles hat. She slows down ever so slightly, until our feet fall into a steady rhythm on the gravel. “You doing a victory lap or something?”
I try not to snort at the idea of me parading proudly around with my dad’s “Football Fan Fiesta” basket like I’d just won a Golden Globe. Although, to be fair, that’s not out of character for some people in this town. I’ve heard of someone keeping the highly coveted, still shrink-wrapped “Wine ’n’ Cheese” basket on their mantel for ten years, just to spite their in-laws. The cheese definitely got moldy, but it was never about that anyway.
I tighten my grip on the wicker basket, the plastic around it crinkling noisily. “If I put it in the car, we’ll be waiting two hours to get ice cream.”
It’s the truth. The army of bingo goers converging on Sam’s Scoops right now should be enough to give Sam and the three servers at the window carpal tunnel. A trip to my dad’s car would have put us at the very back of the line, just as their arms are about to splinter into a million pieces. My mom and I figured out that scoops got 25 percent smaller and drippier if you got stuck near the end.
And after today I’m pretty sure I deserve a full-size scoop.
“So I guess you come here a lot,” she says as the end of the line approaches. We’ve managed to walk fast enough to have only about ten people standing in between us and homemade iced sugary goodness.
“Not so much anymore,” I say.
Thankfully, she doesn’t ask me why. Instead, her eyebrows lift. “Wait. Please tell me this place is actually called Sam’s Oops?”
The red-lettered light-up sign just above the white and blue shack has the “Sc” in “Scoops” out, and I laugh at the fact that most of the town is so used to it, we don’t even notice it anymore. “Kind of? That sign hasn’t been fixed in five years, so it’s become the unofficial nickname for this place.”
“What’s your go-to?” she asks as she cranes her neck to squint over the long line of people at the menu board. It makes me wonder if she still wears those big-as-Texas glasses at night when she takes her contacts out.
“Chocolate and vanilla twist on a cone with rainbow sprinkles,” I answer automatically, turning my attention to the front window. “I haven’t had one in years, though.” I can already feel my mouth watering, despite the pang of sadness that comes with the realization that the last time I was here was with my mom.
“Man. If you think you haven’t had an ice-cream cone from Sam’s in years,” Johnny says, tallying it up on his fingers. “Clark, it’s gotta be two decades since we last came here together. The summer before senior year. You remember?”
My dad nods, grinning. “You got mint chocolate chip in a cone, and I smashed it into your face about fifteen seconds after you paid. Had to get you back for pantsing me in front of the whole cheerleading squad.”
They both start laughing, shaking their heads in unison.
I exchange a quick look with Blake, both of us rolling our eyes at the long night of nostalgia ahead of us.
“Your mom was so mad at him,” Johnny says, turning to look at me, the bright light from the street lamp overhead shining directly on my face. He stops laughing, giving me a long, slightly uncomfortable look. I know exactly what’s coming before he says it.
“Phew. I just can’t get over how much you look like Jules.”
It’s a variation of a sentence I’ve heard more times than I can count.
“You look just like your mom.”
“You’re practically a clone of Julie!”
“You two could be twins!”
I used to love when people would say things like that. Now I can’t seem to get away from it, her face haunting me every time I look in the mirror. Long, pin-straight brown hair, strong eyebrows, full lips.
But not her eyes. The eyes that I miss so much are never there looking back at me, no matter how much I wish they were.
Instead of her blueberry blue, I have my dad’s dark, dark brown. If it weren’t for that singular feature, you would never guess I was related to him. His height gene whizzed right on past me.
“Doesn’t she?” my dad says, giving me one of his sad smiles.
And just like that he clears his throat and clams up, like he always does when Mom comes up. I watch as he pulls his eyes away from mine. “Did I tell you about that construction gig I had on Luke Wilkens’s property? With the glass ceiling?” he says to Johnny, and suddenly we are back to boring construction talk, which I get more than enough of at home.
“So,” I say, looking over at Blake as we shuffle forward. “How are you liking
