It was strange to think that even though Abbi was centuries older than me, she didn’t have a good grasp on something as commonplace as a bottle of sugary beverage.
“Different kinds means flavors,” I said, “not the ways they perform.”
“Oh,” she said, taking that information in. “No singing?”
“No singing.”
“I knew that.”
I was pretty sure she didn’t, and tried to catch Hado’s eyes to see how he reacted to her statement, but those sunglasses hid his limited expressions.
“I was asking,” I said, trying to bring this back to what I needed to know, bring it back to the important thing, “if you can hear the book.”
“The spell book?”
“Yes.”
She stopped walking and tipped her face up, sniffing the air. “Maybe?”
It wouldn’t have been a problem if we weren’t standing in front of the door with three people trying to exit and two behind us wanting to enter.
I tugged on her free hand, propelling her into the shop.
Inside was a lot cooler than outside. It was also lit nice and bright, Danny and the Juniors on the speakers telling us all to go to the hop.
The two-story wall of windows slanted inward, leaning like a carefully balanced card house. The windows rose floor to ceiling, each lined with metal and glass shelves, upon which were row after row of soda bottles, grouped by color. It was an altar, a stage, a deconstructed, stained-glass tower of sugar and carbonation presented as an unwavering pledge to the soda obsessed.
Straight ahead and taking up the middle space of the shop was a diner-type counter with little round stools the color of cotton candy. An aisle ran down between the counter and tables with booth seating. Behind the counter was a stainless steel working grill where a couple of cooks were going all out, giving tourists and locals a show.
Soda fountains, machines, and memorabilia filled the counter space.
Beyond that, short metal shelves stuffed with candy also offered T-shirts, toys, shot glasses, and anything that could carry the Pops logo, a soda logo, or a Route 66 logo.
Empty cardboard soda pop carriers were faced at the end of aisles, ready for shoppers to mix and match.
Against the back wall of the shop hummed a blockade of glass-door coolers filled with—of course—soda.
I spotted a few open tables to the right, tucked up beneath the leaning windows, and steered us that way.
The slick glass coolness of the space, the clean manufactured feeling of it all, was overridden by the smell of grilled cheese, fried potatoes, burgers, and a soup that made my mouth water.
Abbi was sniffing loud enough, I glanced down at her.
“I’m hungry for that smell,” she said, trying to get back to the grill as Hado guided her forward. “And soda pop. That smell and soda pop. Can I have it?”
“Let’s find a table,” I said, “then we’ll order.”
We settled beneath the slanted windows, Abbi perched right under the glass shelves, craning her neck so she could look up and up through the colorful bottles stacked to the highest rafters.
Hado sat next to her, angling his big shoulders, so she was mostly hidden from the rest of the place.
I wanted to do the same thing with Lula. Wanted her near the window so I could be between her and everyone in the shop. But instead of insisting, I waited for her to pick a chair.
She moved past me with a soft chuckle, knowing very well what was going through my mind, and settled across from Abbi near the window, leaving me the outer chair.
“I want that one at the very top.” Abbi removed her sunglasses and pointed upward.
Hado considered it and stood.
