She forked up the last bite of pancake, swirled it around in the remaining pools of syrup, and placed it in her mouth with exaggerated bliss.
Brandon rose slowly, stretched, and then crossed the room to switch off the space heater, which he only turned on for her benefit. Then he began shutting down his work station and gathering papers and books for school. He was stuffing them into his backpack when his phone went off. After glancing down at the screen, he snorted.
“What?” Genevieve stood up too, pulling her keys from her pocket.
“Apparently, I’ve been charged with the critical task of finding out why you’re so upset this morning,” Brandon said, cocking one eyebrow at her.
“Excuse me?” She strode over to him and peered at his phone, which showed a text from “Mom.”
Something’s wrong with G, she seems off today.
“She obviously didn’t just watch you hork down a heaping plate of pancakes,” Brandon said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the stairs. Genevieve followed him, shaking her head in equal parts admiration and unease.
“Your mom is a sorceress,” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Tell me about it. She always magically knows when I need more toothpaste, even though she refuses to come down here anymore. Weird.”
“Bye, you two!” Mrs. Summers called from upstairs.
“Bye, you two!” Charlotte parroted, and they laughed as the screen door slammed shut.
In the kitchen, Brandon filled a thermos with coffee and Genevieve rinsed her plate and stacked it in the dishwasher. Then they stepped out into the sunshine. Brandon cast her a sidelong glance as he climbed into the car and snapped his seatbelt in place. “So,” he said casually, “what’s wrong?”
Genevieve sighed and began backing her Corolla out of the driveway. “My dad hired another closer.” Brandon listened silently as she recounted the argument with her dad that morning. She turned onto Sheffield Street and drove past Haley Park as she talked, and by the time they’d pulled into the parking lot of Pinewood High—a single-story brick building nestled at the bottom of a hill on Forest Avenue—she’d gone over the whole tale.
Brandon looked thoughtful. “Maybe he really is concerned about you being there alone.”
“Oh, please,” Genevieve said with a snort, throwing the car in park and turning to face him. “I can bench press ninety pounds and outrun anyone in this town. I can take care of myself and he knows it.”
Brandon grinned and leaned over to squeeze her ample bicep. Quick as a flash, Genevieve snatched his wrist and twisted hard.
“Youch! Okay, mercy! Mercy!” Brandon howled, and she giggled and let go. She took her workouts seriously and didn’t like to be underestimated. Brandon was rubbing his reddened wrist and watching her warily.
“Look, all I’m saying is maybe you should give your dad the benefit of the doubt. He’s seemed more supportive of your plan to stay on at the store while commuting to Mountain Ridge, right? You said that last week.”
Genevieve grabbed her bag and both of them got out of the car and began walking toward the school. “Yeah, after pushing his agenda all summer.”
“Still.”
“Oh, of course you’re on his side.” They stepped over the curb and onto the grassy field, where students crowded in small groups waiting for the bell. “You just love my dad because you guys like to geek out over the same prehistoric video games.”
Brandon hitched his backpack on his shoulders and sighed heavily. “You know, I feel sorry for you,” he said. “Imagine a life without the pleasures of Pac-Mania and pinball wizardry. And your poor father, having to live with himself knowing he’s failed to produce an heir to the gaming community.”
“Truly, I am an unworthy offspring.” She sighed and looked at him. “Seriously, though, Sweet Dreams can’t afford another closer. I do the books; I should know. He’s trying to replace me, and I can’t... I don’t want—”
Brandon stopped and gazed at her soberly. “Genevieve,” he said, “I’m on your side; you’re my best friend. But sometimes that means being brutally honest, right? Even when, especially when, it’s something you don’t want to hear. I think you’re worrying too much about this new guy, and I think you’re just afraid of surrendering any kind of control of Sweet Dreams now that you’ve taken over so much of the business. I mean, I get it—you love your shop. But you can’t do it all.”
She tilted her chin. “Why not?”
Brandon shrugged and began walking again. “Because,” he said reasonably, “even when the business completely passes over to you, at some point you’ll have to hire new workers. Chase won’t be there forever, and neither will Mellie—”
Genevieve protested at that, but Brandon spoke over her. “And you’ll have to trust others to do the job. No one will do it as good as you,” he added quickly, “but it wouldn’t hurt to have extra help, right? You’re at school half-time now; next year you’ll be a full-time college student. You don’t have to do it all.”
They’d reached the wall of lockers where students tended to congregate in the mornings and where Genevieve kept her camera for Yearbook. As she spun the dial on her lock, she thought about what Brandon had said. “So you’re saying I should see this as a kind of opportunity. I should be happy about the new guy.”
“Why not? You get to train him. Consider it practice for when you’re in charge.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Officially in charge,” he amended with a grin. The bell rang and instantly the noise in the hallways was amplified with the sounds of slamming lockers and students rushing off to class. Genevieve, however, stood there a moment longer—imagining the new hire in a new light, as someone eager to learn the ins and outs of the ice cream business. A frozen confection connoisseur—a true partner. Training him would be an important job, something her father had surely considered, and she felt a sudden swell of pride.
“You’re right. Kind of.” She ruffled Brandon’s hair playfully and he feigned horror, ducking away and smoothing it back down.
“Do you have any idea what it takes to get my hair this perfect?” he said in mock reproval.
“Uh huh. It takes you rolling out of bed.” They both laughed and went their separate ways.
Genevieve started the day in her new favorite class—Economics. As a budding entrepreneur and future business owner, she was bound to love the subject, but beyond that, the class was now taught by someone who knew how to infuse the material with the enthusiasm it deserved. Instead of droning lectures, cringey PowerPoints, and outdated textbooks, class consisted of vigorous discussion, intriguing debates, and group projects. And, Genevieve thought as she entered the room where students were milling around freely, they didn’t have to be pinned in their seats all period.
“Hey, sweet girl.” Miss Love greeted her with a smile. She had nicknames for most of them already, even though it was only weeks into the school year. Genevieve had naturally been christened after her job slinging scoops.
“Good morning, Miss Love,” Genevieve said cheerfully. Always with an eye for fashion, she took note of the young teacher’s floral A-line skirt, fitted scoop-neck top, and strappy red sandals. “Love the shoes,” she mouthed to the teacher. Miss Love winked at her, tossed her pink curls over her shoulder, and turned to the front of the room.
“Is everyone on track for tomorrow’s supply and demand market activity? You should all be gathering in your groups. Aiden, you’re a buyer, not a seller; you need to be on the other side of the room. Tamika, where are your notes?”
The class bustled about as their teacher moved between desks, helping them prepare their arguments and offering words of encouragement. Genevieve walked out of class energized and eternally grateful that she didn’t have to sit through the boring monologue that Mr. Garcia surely would have given them instead.
