Page 54 of Grim
“Kane,” she says solemnly, turning to me as she points at the glass case, “that is strawberry funnel cake. It’s everything you love about the state fair in dairy form. Don’t disrespect it.”
“What’s a state fair?”
“How old are you?”
“Very. Also, not from around here, so …” I leave the vowel sound hanging between us as an eager youngster comes to greet us.
“Welcome to Dairy Castle. I’m Jake, your court scoopster. Care to try any of our regal flavors, milady?” thepoor kid intones with as much enthusiasm as he could possibly muster for such an asinine job.
Believe me, kid, I get it.And I wish I could say it gets better. But it doesn’t.
I look at Rue, whose face is alight.
“Can I try the Damsel’s Double Chocolate and the Moat-cha Mint?”
“Moat-cha? Are you serious? This place doesn’t just have regular ice cream?” I ask, shocked at the inanity of this place.
“Shut up,” she responds. “What flavor do you want?”
“I do not want.”
“No way. I’m getting you something.”
Jake hands over two tiny spoons of semi-hard cow’s milk, and I work feverishly not to vomit.
“Oh, these are both delicious,” Rue moans after the bite.
The sound sends undeniable daggers to the base of my spine. That’s definitely a noise I’d love to produce from her. Which is a thought I try to suppress, followed immediately by another annoying epiphany.Am I jealous of ice cream?
Rue’s response to Jake brings me back.
“I will take a scoop of each in a bowl. And he will have …” Rue looks from me to the case and back again.
I indicate nothing.
“Let me get one scoop of A Court of Thyme and Rosewater.”
The nausea returns. “Whatever happened to plain old vanilla?”
“You snooze, you lose,” Rue singsongs.
I can’t help but notice the befuddled look on Jake’s face. I do everything I can to repress the laughter threatening to bubble over.
I manage to control my amusement while Jake doles out a few scoops. Rue pays, and we make our way back outside.
Rue’s continued exuberance makes it almost difficult to brood. Almost.
I sigh heavily. “I’m not eating the ice cream.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“I’m a denizen of the OtherWorld. I don’t need food.”
“You have no problem downing the booze in your pocket,” she says under her breath while poking the spot where my flask resides. “Therefore, you can consume this.”
“Icaneat. I just don’t need to. Can’t say the same for the delicious burn and sweet relief of a drop of grappa.”
We sit on a bench outside, the sun filtering through the trees in soft gold. Rue takes a bite of her ice cream and makes that delicious sound again. The ice cream I could take or leave, but that moan I would gladly devour.
