Mr. Float's Ice Cream Boat

04. Kids On The Block

While Channing was nothing short of amazing, Bee was quick to tell me that many of its residents basked in the joy of living between the bigger cities rather than the place itself.

"We don't have anything against Channing," she'd explained it casually, twisting a cherry stem in her teeth. "It's just too small for all the major city stuff, like Starbucks and Target."

To distract me from the nastiness with my mom, Bee declared we needed a shopping day. After convincing Roscoe and Wes (who was, obviously, Remi's favorite) to cover our shifts, Bee borrowed Remi's car and we were off to Gladsville.

"Who names a town Gladsville?" I asked, watching as the exit sign flew over our heads. "That's like the cheesiest name ever."

Bee snickered. "Oh, you city folk. You don't even know the half of it."

In spite of the name, Gladsville wasn't as sunny and cheerful as I expected. Instead, it seemed to be a lesser version of Chicago, with wide sidewalks and even bigger allies, the streets crowded with taxi cabs and shiny cars, all honking curse words at one another. If it wasn't for the lack of a Starbucks marking every block, I would have thought I had stepped right into the windy city.

"Okay, so I know I have, like, zero right to asking why your mom's so fucked up, but seriously - why is she so fucked up?" Bee asked me later. It was around eleven, and the only food place open in the mall Bee had dragged me too was a fro-yo shop tucked beside Hot Topic.

I shrugged, mixing my melting Cake Batter with my strawberries. "I'm not sure - my grandmother says that she's naturally adjusted to being a terrible person."

Bee thought about this, chewing a gummy bear. "Hmm."

I couldn't read her face, so instead I dug out a huge strawberry bite and chewed. Slowly, as the hour began to disintegrate, the food court began filling up, loud conversations and chairs scraping against the floor breaking the silence.

I ate another strawberry, thinking about Bee. I thought about the way her hair always smelled like sea salt and how her legs were always tan. She was, undoubtfully, gorgeous. Even with the tiny scar on her chin and thickness of her eyebrows and the slight crook of her nose. Even with her short temper and crass words and loud voice, demanding to be heard. She was beautiful, in every sense of the word.

Nothing about Bee matched up with how I pictured her mother. I'd too many cliché movies and read too many cheesy books that they had stereotyped my thoughts, especially toward people I'd never met before.

Bee's mom, I pictured, spoke and low and deep, her breath one giant puff of smoke after another. She was pale and gaunt with her love of alcohol and drugs, with her desperation to be beautiful. She was a woman stuck in her days of self-recreation during high school, even after having a bouncy baby girl to take care of.

My thoughts were so infected by my negative expectations that I never gave thought to whether or not she gave Bee her long strawberry blonde hair or the array of freckles on her shoulders.

All I could picture was a scared, desperate woman made of smoke.

Across from me, Bee tipped her head back and drained the rest of her melted fro-yo. She stood, slinging her simple leather crossbody over her shoulder. She turned to me and smiled.

"Ready to go?" Bee asked.

I looked down at the clumps of strawberry drowning in melted Cake Batter.

I stood. "Let's roll."

| | |

For the fourth time that week, Headphone Guy sat at his usual bar stool, still a complete mystery to me.