Page 11 of Catching Camila

Camila

Tuesday 1:06 p.m.

One hour into the “piece of cake” job, Camila was ready to eat her words with a double scoop of Chocolate Mocha.

The line at Lizzy’s snaked six feet back from the order window. The picnic tables were packed with laughing teenagers and moms with three or four kids in tow. Camila spotted her Algebra teacher in the crowd, his kids elbowing each other to get a better look at the menu. Everyone in Auburn Township’s heat survival plan seemed to include Lizzy’s.

Camila wiped sweat from her brow and tried not to hate them.

“Double swirl with sprinkles and a Kit Kat flurry. Large!” Fer yelled as she streaked by, two waffle cones in each hand.

Camila looked warily at the soft-serve machine, a clunky stainless steel contraption with three nozzles protruding from the front. The only “tutorial” Camila had gotten happened before they opened: Fer had flipped back her ponytail, placed her mouth under the spigot and pulled the vanilla handle. With the line extending into the blacktop, and the natives growing restless, there was no time for Fer to teach her. Camila took a waffle cone from the stack, held it under the spigot, and pulled the lever. The vanilla ice cream snaked into the cone faster than she'd expected. The result was a lopsided vanilla mountain ready to topple at any movement.

Fer flew by and grabbed it out of Camila’s grip. “Good enough. Work on the Cherry dip, will ya?” Purple hair clung to Fer's forehead in sweaty strands.

“Fer, I’m sorry. I’ll—”

“Save the apologies,” Fer said, striding over to the window, where a six-year-old stood on his tip-toes to peer in. She handed him the cone. Then she flicked her eyes back to Camila. “Cherry dip. Pronto, mi amiga, por favor.”

“Right, right.” Camila grabbed a cone and swirled in vanilla, managing to keep it relatively symmetrical. The basin holding the red cherry liquid sat to the right of the soft serve machine. Camila flipped the cone upside down and dunked it in the red soup. She watched in anguish as all the ice cream slid out of the cone and bobbed at the bottom of the basin like a mangled beluga whale.

“Whoa! Another one bites the dust,” said a voice behind her.

She whirled around. A slender boy in a Lizzy’s Ice Cream T-shirt stepped around her, whisked a cone off the rack, filled it with soft serve, and dipped it in with one fluid motion. He handed the perfect cherry dip to Fer without taking his eyes off Camila.

“Don’t worry about it, man.” A warm smile spread over his face. “My first day I accidentally unplugged the back freezer. Shoulda seen Lizzy flip her lid on that one.” He stuck out his hand. “Travis.”

The infamous Travis. Fer had described him as a burn-out, complete with hemp necklaces and Rasta T-shirts, but with his warm smile and kind eyes, wondered about Fer’s assessment. She could see the pothead signals: the stains on his fingers, the unwashed hair that hung past his ears, the bloodshot eyes. He had a scar on his chin and road rash on his elbow that suggested trick biking or skateboarding. His little soul-patch beard curled down his chin like a fuzzy strip of carpet. He was Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, yet nicer on the eyes.

She slipped her palm into his. “Camila.”

“Rad,” Travis said, still smiling. Still holding Camila’s hand.

“Where’s my G.D. Kit Kat flurry?” Fer yelled over her shoulder. She handed a stack of napkins to a frustrated mother with a crying baby on her hip.

Travis finally let go of Camila's hand. He flipped around, grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack, and held it triumphantly to Fer. “On the double, my Fer-y friend.”

Camila went back to sweating and filling orders, but with Travis there to help, everything ran smoothly. Travis taught her the secret of the perfect swirl, how to scoop from the ice cream tubs without cross-contaminating flavors, and how to sweet-talk the customers until they dropped their spare change into the “Tips Much Appreciated” jar. The young mothers flirted with Travis. The teenagers slapped him five through the window.

By three o'clock the long line had dwindled to a few stragglers slumped over the shaded picnic tables. Fer and Camila leaned hip to hip against the splattered counter. Camila laid her head on Fer's sweaty shoulder. “For a girl who slept through most of your classes last semester, you sure worked your ass off.”

Fer flicked a sprinkle off Camila's arm and shrugged. “I've found my one true calling.” She nodded her head to the machine. “Flurry engineer.” She took a Kit Kat and snapped it off in her mouth.

Travis sauntered over, sweat beading under his shaggy bangs, and smiled easily. “Ferina, how we doin on ye ol supplies?”

Fer nodded to a pad of paper on the counter beside her. “I got an inventory list going. When you talk to Lizzy, tell her not to be such a cheap ass with maraschino cherries. And no more generic Andes Mints for Christ's sake.”

Travis scanned the list, nodding. Then he lifted his eyes to Camila. “How's the first day, young padawan? Have you harnessed the force?” He picked up a cone and waved it around like a light saber.

Camila cracked a smile. “I think I did more harm than good. I'll do better tomorrow.”

Travis waved a dismissive hand. “Psha, don't even sweat it. Plus, you still have the after-dinner rush to get your sea legs.”

Camila was about to respond when her cellphone rang from her pocket. Was it Mama? Her heart began to race.

A twelve-year-old boy was peering up at the laminated menu stuck to the side of the order window. “Go ahead,” Fer said, nodding toward Camila’s phone. “I'll take this one.”

Camila nodded, pulling her phone open. The cracked screen showed her an unknown number with an out-of-town area code.

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