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or at least ask me to make him a waffle cone. Maybe even say please.
    I don’t hear Reed come up behind me, but suddenly he’s got one hand on my shoulder, the other prying the cone from my grip. I let him take it. His hand slides down over my shoulder blade and stays there for a second before he dumps the sugar cone into the trash and begins scooping more mint chip into a waffle cone.
    “Sorry,” I mumble, feeling scolded. “I was sort of in a daze there.”
    “It’s okay,” Reed says.
    Freckle-face gives me a smug smile.
    I turn to Reed, my back still burning where his hand was. I start to explain that it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t actually screw up the order, but stop myself. It doesn’t matter. We both know the customer is always right even when the customer is a lying, chlorine-marinated brat, and I’m not so sure Reed wouldn’t rat on me if he thought I was being rude to the customers.
    “Yeah, I’m sorry,” I repeat and wipe my hands on my apron even though they’re not wet.
    Reed gives his glasses a nudge upward. “You get used to it. The kids, I mean. The noise.”
    I nod. I doubt it. My house is quieter than death, and I hate it, but it’s a madhouse in here. Right now I just want to be alone in my room, listening to bluegrass and painting sea anemones.
    “Where are the tickets?” an elderly woman barks, tapping the old-fashioned ticket dispenser. It’s a glossy red box with rounded corners and slots like a vintage toaster. Soup calls it the Relic.
    “It’s broken, ma’am,” Reed says. “The line is there.” He points to the end of the snaking procession of people.
    The Relic busted an hour ago, right as the hordes descended from swim camp. The three of us—Reed, Flora, and I—have been shouting “Next in line” instead, trying to keep shoving matches from breaking out.
    I glance over at Flora. She’s older than my mom and looks like an aging showgirl, but I like her. I like how she teases Reed. Her hair is a metallic burgundy, the exact same shade as her lips, and she’s wearing gold hoops the size of CDs that stretch her holes in her lobes into half-inch slits. It’s hard not to stare at them.
    Flora winks at me and chews her gum, unfazed by the chaos. According to Soup she’s a lifer: scooping at Mr. T’s for decades and perfectly happy to keep at it until she dies. Or retires, I guess. She told me last shift that she goes straight from Mr. T’s to the Lucky Lil’s slot machines every night, so I’m guessing her retirement plans involve some luck.
    Reed hands freckle-face the waffle cone, and the kid turns and leaves without a word.
    “Next in line!” he calls, then to me, “Do you need a break?”
    I shake my head. It’s not my turn, and even if it was, it doesn’t seem like a good time to leave them with the low-blood-sugared mob.
    He squints at me for a moment, and I almost think he’s actually going to hold my gaze and not look away.
    “Next in line,” Flora’s phlegmy voice rattles, and his head jerks around before either of us can acknowledge the moment with I don’t know what—A nod? A smile? Probably not.
    He takes a banana-split order from a girl with dripping pigtails, and I call, “Next in line,” but my voice gets swallowed up. Nobody steps forward, so I do it again. This time a sunburned girl wearing a towel like a toga steps forward and asks for samples of watermelon, mango, lime, and tangerine sorbet.
    I won’t be admitting it to Mo any time soon, not with the I told you so waiting for me, but working here is harder than I thought it would be. The aching biceps, cold-cracked knuckles, swollen feet, sore back. I wonder if Lena’s back hurt too.
    At the end of every shift I’ve dragged myself home and curled up in bed with a romance novel. Mo, of course, makes fun of them, calls them Novocaine for the estrogen-hampered soul, but I don’t care. I love them anyway, and not for the sex, either. It’s the stories. They’re full of perfect