“Oh, hi Britney. Uh… what are you doing here?” Ella’s voice trails off, but the unsaid question and awkwardness remains hanging in the air, as delicate as a soap bubble waiting to pop. I pop it.
“I work here.” It isn’t a statement, it’s an insult. To me, as well as to her. Usually I’m not this dramatic, usually I don’t use a bunch of fancy similes and metaphors and whatever, but usually Ella isn’t such a jerk.
“We’d… uhh… like three strawberry sundaes, with chocolate fudge.” Ella talks carefully; her quiet voice shaky and weak.
“Fine.” I shuffle over to the huge bins of ice cream and scoop ice cream with practiced ease. I make sure to appear calm and collected; to hide the tiny pocket of weakness, that I’m sure is some where in my iron clad heart. I have been building this wall for five long, hard years. From the day dad got sick, from the day he got laid off, from the day mom had to start getting child support checks and taking us on a roller coaster ride of countless charities, overly sympathetic faces, and shame. I had started working as soon as I could, but I wasn’t taking it home to the family. I’m saving it in my meager bank account, to go to college someday; and it’s not coming out even if my parents were to beg on their knees.
“That’s five dollars.” I mutter. Ella awkwardly pulls out a five from her designer purse.
“Thanks.” She says it in such a quiet, sweet voice that it almost saws through my defenses. Almost.
Okay, okay, I know it’s not a crime to get ice cream at the only ice cream shop in town, but could she be less tactless? A best friend should know better, does know better. She knows my shift, knows I refuse to admit or show I’m poor, knows I won’t take charity from her, won’t even accept her invitation to a fancy dinner party. Yet here she was in expensive, designer clothing, real diamond earrings that are at least a karat, and two snotty popular gossip girls who are all hiding smirks with little success.
I watch them leave, a herd of purses and cell phones, and another metaphor/simile occurs to me, as time slows down and I plunge into a black hole and a black, black mood.
*****
“How was work, honey?” My mom’s voice is tired and worn from her long day at work; and from the fact that she knows what my answer will be. I know I heard her talking at night; we don’t exactly have soundproof walls.
“Oh, it was absolutely wonderful, mom.” I chirp angrily, “I’m almost at $1,000 dollars; maybe I can get into a cheap college for one semester in five years!” I storm down the hall, not bothering to quiet my footsteps as I pass dad’s slightly open door. I think I hear him sigh, but it might have been a wheezy cough. I stomp into my room and flop down on my creaky old mattress; it gives a heavy groan and sinks down a few inches as I lay down.
“Why me??” I cry to the ceiling.
“Shut up!” Our upstairs neighbors cries, “I’m trying to sleep!” I kick angrily at the wall, stubbing my toe horribly. Biting my lip to keep from crying out I vaguely hear my mother shout,
“Don’t kick walls! You might kick them down one of these days!” I burst into tears. Home, sweet home.
*****
It’s closing time, and Jasmine, my cranky boss is coming out of her miniature office. She actually does a pretty good business, being the owner of the only ice cream store in town, but she leaves the customer interaction to yours truly. Jasmine would scare every little 3rd grader coming from soccer practice into tears, and I’m not just exaggerating. She is a fairly pretty Asian woman, but her face is marred by an ugly dragon tattoo down one side of her face. I used to gossip with Ella, wondering when she got it, and if she killed the tattoo parlor employee with some Japanese karate chop. Jasmine moved to America from some place in Asia when she was 11, and for years struggled hard to raise enough money to buy the little ice cream shop, as she is constantly reminding me when I complain about my meager paycheck (it’s some junk about how she worked for years for less, and now she’s a success story, sarcastically of course). At least we have one thing in common, we don’t buy the “poor kid who was genius gets big break and is rich chicken soup.” It’s so Hollywood. I ignore her as I close down, stewing in a rather poisonous soup of jealousy and anger.
At school Ella keeps trying to talk to me, to beg for forgiveness, and she is getting more desperate and pathetic. Today I found a simple note (not on her designer, perfumed stationary) taped to my locker. I’m so sorry, it was stupid, please forgive me. I hate her. I hate her stupid fancy cars and mansions and clothes and the fact that she is rich and I am poor. I turn to leave, swinging my sad excuse for a purse over one shoulder.
“Wait, Britney, I want you to stay for a moment.” If I hadn’t seen Jasmine’s lips move, I would have thought it was more likely to be a ghost of Christmas past.
“What?” I forget to sound annoyed and surly, I’m so curious about what she has to say. Am I fired, or does she want me to clean the bathrooms again?
“Why don’t you come outside with me?” Jasmine glides over to a metal bin of strawberry ice cream and neatly scoops two generous portions in large plastic bowls. My mouth starts to water as she pours hot fudge around and around. Jasmine tops it with a squirt of fluffy whipped cream and two cherries. “Come on.” She repeats and steers me out onto the back step, carrying the sundaes in one hand. There is a beautiful meadow out back, covered with freshly fallen snow gleaming in the sun. The sky is a pale cotton candy blue, with streaks of rippled clouds tinged peppermint pink. A pale moon hangs in the sky, as the sun is setting behind a sugar coated forest. Jasmine doesn’t talk at first and I lean against the rough wood stair, soaking up the last rays of the day, enjoying the brisk air and my ice cream. It’s so peaceful that I can almost forget about Ella, school, and the dingy apartment that I will have to return to soon. Then Jasmine starts to speak, “You’re like me, aren’t you?” I stare at her, wondering if she is trying to connect with me.
“Look, I don’t need a pep talk right now, okay?”“I know. But we are alike. I moved here, as you know, when I was eleven. No money and everyone knew it. I hated my parents, I admit it, I blamed them, you see, I was trying to fit in, and make a new start for myself. It didn’t work.” She grins wolfishly, remembering some long ago fight or argument I guessed. “You’re struggling just like me, except you’ve got yourself a good friend who screwed up.”
“No I’m not, and mind your own beeswax.” I snap, sounding like a 2nd grader. “And you bet Ella screwed up. I hate her.” I snarled.
“Don’t.” I stare at her, shocked. “She’s a good friend to you, and those are rare these days. Sometimes distancing yourself from others leads you to owning an ice cream parlor, bitter and grumpy. Sometimes it leads you to getting a rotten tattoo.” Jasmine touches her tattoo, thoughtful. “Sometimes you forget who you are.” I want to roll my eyes, but they seem to be permanently glued to her face. “You talk to your parents much?”
“N-No.” I stutter, shocked at the sudden change in subject. Jasmine gives me a sad little smile, and we sit there in a comfortable silence for a while. The sun is really setting when Jasmine stands up.
“You should go, and I should be getting home too.” I slowly get up, and the funny thing is, I don’t want to leave her rough wooden step, I don’t want to go home, and I don’t want to leave Jasmine sitting there alone. I throw out my ice cream bowl and head out the front door slowly, dragging my feet. When I look back, she is still sitting by the meadow, stroking her tattoo.
*****
“Where were you honey? We were so worried!” My mom throws herself onto me, hugging me tight.
“I’m fine, Jasmine made me a sundae and we talked a bit.”
“Jasmine! She wasn’t mad at you, was she? She’s a moody snake, I swear. If she fired you…” Dad trails off, looking worried.
“No! We just talked about my fight with Ella. She’s really not that bad.” I defended her.
“You and Ella are fighting? Oh honey, what happened?” I don’t answer mom right away, wavering between snapping and finishing the story. Jasmine’s tattoo seems to swim in my mind, its detailed face snarling in disapproval.
“None of your…” My voice trails off. I sigh and start to talk. Mom pulls up a chair for me, and I sink down nervously. Dad leans back in his chair, but his eyes are on mine and he nods often. Mom sits, worry etched in every line of her face.
“And so now she wants to apologize and I don’t know what to do.” I finish lamely. Dad and mom sit quietly for a few minutes, and I think I spot a look flash between them. It’s a good look though, one of relief, and a little hope. It’s a look I haven’t seen for a long, long time. It feels good.
Dad speaks first, “That’s one heck of a problem!” He sighs, “I used to have fights like that, ‘cept my friends were jerks.”
“You don’t think Ella’s a jerk?” I ask, not sure if I should feel betrayed or just plain mad. Why the heck is everyone defending her?
“Well, heck yeah, I’ve know lots of jerks in my life, everyone has. But I’ll tell you one thing, that Ella is at much of a jerk as I am.” He stops suddenly, and another look flashes between my parents, not as good anymore, but way more familiar. It’s a look of, oh no, we’ve set her off again, or set ourselves up for an insult.
“What we mean honey,” Mom coos, as if she expects me to hit her, “Is that dad and I are behind you.” It’s such a corny movie moment, one where the directors are too lazy to think of an original ending and have to have some scene to tie the whole cheesy movie together; but I try not to be too critical because I know that’s just what parents do. I look at my parents, hard. They have too many lines on their faces, and too many gray hairs. I know, right then, that this is their best apology to me. For being poor, and being sick, and the fact that they’re too prideful to apologize for real, because they don’t know what to apologize for. I realize right then that we have a lot in common, we both need to apologize and be apologized to, and neither of us knows what we need to be apologized to for. But the fact is I know I must apologize too, because my parents need to hear it, just like I did.
“Thank you.” I say, and I try to put some feeling into it, “I’ll apologize to Ella, maybe I was too hard on her.” But what I really mean is, I’m apologizing to you, maybe I was too hard, too many times on you. I think they know because the first look, the magical, wonderful look flits across their faces again. I get up, my chair squealing on the floor. I pull on my coat and step outside, my parents know where I’m going, and won’t worry. Skipping down the street, skidding on the ice, I catch a glance of myself in a frozen puddle. I see a tired, thin girl with the biggest smile I have ever seen. It’s the first smile I’ve seen on her face in a while. It was missed, but now it’s back. And it doesn’t look anything like a dragon.
