Finding orion, p.16
Finding Orion, page 16
By the time we were ready (Mom insisted we shower off the dirt from our earlier expedition), it was clear that it would be closer to lunch. We piled in the Tank, and Dad followed the GPS into the center of town. He’d never been to Mallory’s before. Apparently the building had housed a Mexican restaurant when he was growing up, but that was almost thirty years ago. It made sense that some places would disappear and others would rise to take their place.
And yet downtown Greenburg still looked a lot like it probably did thirty or even fifty years ago. Everything had an old-fashioned feel: green awnings and redbrick siding, bright blue mailboxes and old yellow fire hydrants. Wood placards listed store hours, and actual metal bells hung from doors to announce your arrival. There was even a phone booth. It didn’t work, of course—it was just for looking at, but it was kind of neat seeing one out in the wild, and I had half a mind to jump in and rip off my shirt, Clark Kent style. Except there wouldn’t be a Superman logo underneath, just my pale skin and the one annoying chest hair that seemed to have sprouted overnight.
Mallory’s Ice Cream Parlor and Restaurant was situated next to an old-timey barber shop—the kind with a red-and-white striped pole swirling out front. It reminded me of the Salty Shakers. We were still twenty minutes early—the place didn’t open until eleven—so Mom suggested walking around town a bit. Who knows, maybe we’d find a mountain along the way.
As we walked, Dad’s voice rose and fell as he pointed out the places from his childhood. He didn’t recall there ever being a coffee shop, but he did remember the antique furniture store on the corner and the place that sold soaps and candles next door to it. Cass asked if we could stop there. I knew if I objected I would just be outvoted, so I didn’t even bother.
Flicker’s Candle Shop smelled a little like Kaslan’s Candy Factory, sweet and spicy and fruity all at once. It hit you right as you opened the door. I followed along behind Dad while the girls went to check out the froofy bath salts and anything made with milk and honey. Naturally Dad stopped by the row of candles that smelled like food.
“Eighty percent of taste comes from olfaction,” he told me, his nose hovering over a candle that smelled just like fresh pineapple.
“Eighty percent of lectures come from know-it-all fathers,” I said under my breath. If it had been Manny, I would have said something like “If it smells so good, why don’t you eat it?” But that wasn’t much of a dare for my father. I was a little surprised he hadn’t licked the candle already.
“I used to come here all the time as a kid, you know,” he said.
Right. Because who needs a toy store or an arcade when you can come to the candle store and sniff wax all day? Such a nerd. My father took another long snort. “Ethyl butyrate. They put it in orange juice sometimes.” He handed the candle to me.
I took a little sniff. “It reminds me of the beach,” I said, mostly because I didn’t want to say what it really reminded me of, which was a certain orange-and-blue flower dress and the girl who wore it. Talking about girls to my father sounded even less fun than rubbing Aunt Gertie’s feet. I put the candle back and watched as Dad moved down the line, smelling each and every one and muttering a string of chemicals to himself. Anyone who didn’t know him would probably assume he was missing a few screws.
Lyra came over and shoved a bar of soap up my nose and demanded I smell it.
“Peppermint,” she said. “And it exfoliates. Mom said she’d buy it for me.”
What was it with my sisters shoving things in my face all the time? “Good for you,” I said, hoping “exfoliates” meant “to make disappear,” but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
“You could borrow it if you wanted,” she added. “You’ve got a little pimple right there.” Lyra pointed at a new zit on my chin. I swatted her hand away and she pranced off.
By the time we left the store, both girls were carrying little bags from Flicker’s like they were souvenirs and Mom had a new lilac-scented candle stashed in the Bag of Holding. As we walked the rest of the way around the block, Dad continued to reminisce about growing up there. Just about every sentence out of his mouth started with “Used to.”
“That used to be a Radio Shack,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure that was a bank. And that used to be a music store. I bought all my tapes there.” I considered asking him what a tape was, but I knew it would just be faster if I looked it up on my own later. Or just forgot about it entirely.
He stopped on the corner. “There used to be a doughnut shop over there that your grandmother would take me to on Saturdays after my Little League games,” Dad said wistfully. “Didn’t matter how many times I struck out, she’d still buy me two chocolate cake doughnuts. We’d sit on that bench and feed the crumbs to the doves.”
Dad smiled as Mom tucked her arm through his elbow. It seemed strange to hear him talk like this. He always said how he couldn’t stand this town, how happy he had been to get away. Yet there was the street he used to ride his bike down. And there was the little community theater where he saw his first play (Cass was desperate to know which one, but he couldn’t recall). And here was the bench where he ate his chocolate doughnuts. I wondered if it was the same one as in the picture sitting on his nightstand at home, and felt a twinge of sadness. Grandma Shelley might have sat on that bench. We turned the last corner to see the wooden sign outside the ice-cream parlor had been flipped.
The bells on the door jingled as we walked in.
“Welcome to Mallory’s. Take any seat. I’ll be with you shortly,” called a man’s voice from the kitchen.
There were plenty to choose from. There were only three other people in the place. It looked like something out of an old movie. The floor was tiled blue and white, and the stools by the counter looked like they spun all the way around. A giant glass container held long paper straws. The walls were all decorated with metal-plate advertisements for sodas and sundaes, save for one wall toward the back, which was covered with photos, most of them in color but some in black and white. The whole place smelled like sugar and french fries, a winning combination.
We took a big booth in the corner and waited for our server, a young man with slicked-back hair. He looked like something out of the musical Grease; I know because my sister made us all watch it. I wondered if he always wore his hair that way or if it was required as part of the job.
“Hi there. I’m George and I’ll be taking care of you today. Have you been to Mallory’s before?”
Dad answered for all of us. “We’re from out of town.” It was the simplest explanation, I guess.
“Well then, welcome, first timers. Here are some menus,” George said, handing them over. “Food toward the front, sweet stuff toward the back. Our soup of the day is cheesy potato. Our flavor of the day is You Mocha Me Crazy. I’ll give you some time to look things over and be right back.”
I flipped to the food, forgetting, for a moment, why were even here. The picture of the double bacon cheeseburger was taunting me. Sitting next to me, Cass hadn’t even gotten to the food yet. She was still on the first page, the one detailing the restaurant’s history. “It says here that this place was first founded by the Mallory brothers in 1952 and stayed in business until 1967, when the elder Mallory died and the younger one sold the property to pay off debts. The building went through several other owners until it was bought by the Meeks family and turned back into an ice-cream parlor three years ago.”
The name caught my attention. Mom’s too.
“Did you say Meeks? Didn’t we meet them yesterday at the service?” she asked. “Wasn’t she the girl who said all those nice things about your grandfather?”
Her name was Tasha. She had beautiful black hair and a great smile and pink lip gloss with a touch of glitter. She also had on earrings shaped like dolphins. She was wearing white sandals and had painted her toenails to match her dress.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said with a shrug.
“Well, it says he here that the Meekses bought it with the express intention of restoring it to its former glory,” Cass continued. “The new owners even went back to the Mallory family and got some of their original recipes. Several of the menu items are the same as those served in the 1950s, and even some of the pictures on the wall date back to when the parlor was first opened.”
“That’s great,” Dad said, “But I really don’t see how . . .”
“Um . . . Dad . . .”
As expected, Lyra had skipped clear past the food and gone straight to the dessert. She turned her menu so we could all see it and pointed down at the bottom of the Sundaes and Shakes page. To six words in a fancy rolling script.
A lump lodged in my throat.
We’d found it.
An Avalanche in Reverse
Do You Dare Conquer the Mountain?
Do you have what it takes to conquer the most legendary dessert known to man? Twelve scoops of Mallory’s premium ice cream, towering high and topped with chocolate, caramel, and strawberry sauce, then smothered in whitecaps of whipped topping. With or without nuts. The Mountain is calling. Will you answer?
There was no picture of this legendary dessert; that was left to the imagination.
Dad turned to Mom. “You don’t really think . . . ?”
“Don’t you?”
George returned with five waters and a cheesy smile that I’m guessing was also part of the uniform. “So, have you had a chance to look over the menu?”
“What can you tell us about the Mountain?” Dad asked.
George’s cheesy smile somehow got cheesier. “Oh, yeah, it’s pretty epic. You get to pick any twelve flavors you want, and it comes in a giant bowl. And if just one person eats it alone, then they’ve conquered it and get their photo on our Wall of Fame.” George nodded over his shoulder to the back of the parlor, the one covered in the snapshots that I’d noticed earlier. “Believe it or not, we still have pictures of Mountain climbers up there from when this place was around the first time.”
“Wait—you’re telling me that one person can eat twelve scoops of ice cream in a single sitting?” Mom said.
“Sure. One person can. Most people don’t. They share it. But it doesn’t count as conquering the Mountain unless you go solo. And you don’t get your picture on the wall. Or the T-shirt. You can’t cheat your way to fame and glory, ma’am.”
“I don’t think I can eat twelve scoops of ice cream by myself,” Dad muttered.
“I think I could,” Lyra said.
George, our server, shook his head. “A lot of people come in thinking it’ll be no problem, but then they see it and it’s, like, ‘Whoa! That thing is ginormous!’” George made a gesture with his hands to show us just how ginormous. Bigger than his chest, anywas. “Apparently back in the day, the Mallory brothers actually called it Mount Everest. That was back around the time those first guys—Hillary and Norgay—got to the top, so it was really big in the news.”
The Kwirks exchanged another furious volley of glances. This had to be what Grandpa’s clue was referring to. Aunt Gertie had led us right to it, even though she insisted she wouldn’t help us. That she couldn’t help us.
“Of course, now pretty much anybody can climb the real thing, so we just call ours the Mountain and leave it at that,” George concluded.
“And you say it doesn’t count if your whole family eats it? It has to be solo?”
“One climber. One Mountain,” George confirmed. Then, noticing the nervous looks we were all giving Dad, he nodded. “Let me give you all a couple more minutes to think it over.”
As our server escaped back to the kitchen, Mom frowned at her menu. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Fletcher. That much sugar will send you straight into a coma.”
“I work in a candy factory,” Dad replied. “I think I can handle it.”
“Eating a handful of jelly beans over the course of a day is not the same as consuming twelve scoops of ice cream in one sitting.”
“Molly, the clue said to conquer Mount Everest. This is Mount Everest.” He pointed to the description on the menu. “I don’t see what choice I have.”
“Surely you don’t expect him to be waiting for you at the bottom of the bowl.”
I shuddered at the thought of Grandpa’s ashes being mixed in with the ice cream somehow. Like Yanomami mashed bananas. Just gross.
George returned a moment later, interrupting the debate. He was shaking his head.
“Okay, so get this. I talked to my manager, and he says he’ll make you a deal. The whole family can conquer the Mountain together . . . but you have to triple it.”
“Thirty-six scoops?” Dad asked.
“Yup. Twelve flavors, three scoops of each. Plus he says if you can finish it, it’s free. But you still only get one T-shirt.”
“How many scoops is that for each of us?” Cass wondered.
Everyone at the table looked at me.
“Seven point two,” I said. The reality of the math settled over us.
“I can’t do it,” Mom protested. “There’s just no way.”
“Bring it on,” Lyra taunted.
“Are we talking, like, big scoops or kid-size scoops?” Cass asked.
But it didn’t matter what size the scoops were. Dad had made up his mind.
“We’ll do it,” he said.
“Excellent.” George rubbed his hands together. “I’ll go tell my manager while you head to the counter and pick out your flavors.” As he walked back to the kitchen, George called out, “I think we’re going to need a bigger bowl.”
The challenge of conquering the Mountain started with the five of us trying to agree on twelve different flavors. We stood at the counter, pointing out options, debating possible combinations, and making gagging sounds when one of us said something the others didn’t like.
“Ew! You can’t have mint chocolate chip and peanut butter chunk in the same bowl. That’s like orange juice and toothpaste.”
“Is it asking too much to have cherry cordial and strawberry and raspberry ripple?”
“Am I the only one here who likes pistachio?”
“I really don’t think you can put chocolate sauce on top of cotton candy. That’s, like, overkill.”
“Dude, you can put chocolate sauce on top of anything.”
“Maybe we should just get thirty-six scoops of vanilla.”
“Why would anyone want to eat something called rocky road? That’s a terrible name.”
In the end, each kid got to choose three flavors, and Mom and Dad shared the last three picks because, as they put it, “We are adults and know how to compromise.” I picked cookies and cream, brownie batter, and luscious lemon. I figured I’d try to save the lemon for when I was suffering from chocolate overload and needed something light and refreshing. We were headed back to our booth to await the arrival of our triple-sized Mountain when I heard a familiar voice call my name.
“Well, if it isn’t Rion Like Ion.”
I turned around slowly, thinking there was no way, not here, not now, but there she was, standing by the cash register, tying on an apron. Her curly hair was pulled back, and she was dressed in the same white polo shirt as our server. She looked better in it than he did.
“Um. Hey there,” I said, heading slowly back to the counter, making sure I didn’t trip over anything along the way. “You . . . uh . . . work here?”
“Didn’t you read the menu?” Tasha Meeks asked. “My parents own the place. So, yeah. I work here.”
“Yeah, but, like, don’t you have school . . . and stuff?”
Me talk so good to girls.
“It’s our spring break this week. Some kids get to go to Florida with their families and lie on the beach. I get to come wipe tables and wash dishes.” She finished tying her apron and leaned over the counter on her elbows. Glitter lipgloss again. Not that I was paying that close attention.
“Wow. That sucks,” I said. “Sorry.”
“It’s not so bad,” Tasha said with a shrug. Same dolphin earrings, too. “Dad says it’s teaching me the value of hard work, but mostly it’s just made me sick of mopping floors.”
My parents only made me empty the dishwasher at home. And even then, my mother would usually come behind and redo it. Apparently the plastic cups and the glasses had to stay on separate sides of the cabinet. “What about you?” Tasha asked. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Yes. Probably, I thought. Except my grandfather’s body is still MIA. “We’re sticking around another day or so. There are some . . . loose ends we have to take care of.”
Tasha Meeks’s brown eyes narrowed. “I know why you’re really here,” she said, a sly edge to her voice.
I swallowed hard. “You do?” If she knew about Papa Kwirk’s last wishes, she must really think we were nuts.
Tasha nodded. “Of course. You came for the ice cream. That’s all anybody ever comes to Mallory’s for. I mean, the food’s decent, but it’s really just an excuse to get dessert.”
I let out a sigh. “Right. You got me.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to judge,” Tasha continued. “Personally I prefer soft serve in a cone. That’s what your grandpa and I used to get sometimes . . . but I guess you already know that.”
Motorcycles, and twist cones, and going all in. “Yeah. That was a great speech, by the way,” I said. “You really touched me. . . . I mean, it touched me . . . but, like, in a good way. . . .”
I scratched my suddenly hot cheek, thankful that my sisters weren’t standing here listening to me make a fool out of myself.
“Yeah, I was pretty nervous,” Tasha admitted. “But I wanted to do it. To honor him, you know? For everything he’s done for my family.”
I still wasn’t sure what all Papa Kwirk had done. Only that he gave her a ride sometimes and taught her how to play poker. That he was there when she needed him. “So your dad and my grandfather . . . ,” I began.
“I know. Doesn’t seem likely,” she said. “They were both war vets, so they sometimes talked. But then when Dad had his accident . . .” Tasha paused, chewing on her lip, studying me as if she expected me to know the whole story. “But of course you’re not from around here. It was a pretty big deal. Three cars. Drunk driver swerved into oncoming traffic. Nobody died, thank God, but several people got hurt.”
