CHAPTER ONE
FINN
Today would be another lovely day at The Scoop, the little ice cream shop that I opened last year, if only the new biker shop across the street weren’t here to ruin it. The sun is shining through the wide front windows and across the pink and turquoise floor tiles, but instead of appreciating the refreshing summer breeze that dances in the air, I’m wincing at every screech of clanging metal. We’ve been gifted the ideal conditions for a stroll through the gay neighborhood and a waffle cone, the kind of afternoon you can’t help but whistle through. Ice cream weather.
It’s a glorious, whistle-worthy day, and the bikers have decided to roar their motors through it.
As if summoned by the noise, Kenneth, my front-of-shop employee, emerges from the back with a fresh tub of double cherry and hitches up his jeans, messy hair in his eyes. When a triple-bang sounds from across the street, he stretches his mouth down in a grimace. “Yikes.”
“Yikes,” Miranda agrees as she steps out behind him. The second of my two employees, she wears an apron with berry smears from the batch she was just mixing up, the same blues and purples as her hair. “I can even hear that in the kitchen.”
“Yes, it’s quite loud today,” I acknowledge, raising my voice as a rumbling truck backs up to the garage, beep-beeping. “But I’m sure they’ll be done with these renovations soon!”
Miranda and Kenneth share a glance.
“I suppose motorcycle repairs could be less noisy than garage renovations,” Miranda offers, searching.
“And there won’t be heavy machinery on the street,” Kenneth adds. “Hopefully.”
I take the tub that Kenneth brought out, remove the top, and drop it into the display case. “The neighborhood ordinances about noise are bound to kick in,” I point out. “The fact that we’ve lost most of our foot traffic this week, I’ve decided to take that as an unexpected opportunity. It’s our first real breather since the busy season started this spring, which means a chance to work on the new flavors before the customers return.”
Kenneth walks over to the window. “The problem is I’m not sure they will. Thanks to our new neighbors, all the pedestrians head the back way around the block. They go from the park to the main drag without passing the ice cream shop.”
“Everyone used to like to sit at the patio out front and people-watch,” Miranda adds. “Can’t enjoy that with a ruckus.”
“That’s why we need something new to delight our customers when they inevitably, absolutely will return next week.” I drag my eyes away from the empty patio seats. “Butter fudge ice cream with mini sugar cookies? We might need to hire another person just to handle the rush.”
I’m excited to debut the butter fudge ice cream, a recipe I’ve been refining for weeks, although there’s still something not quite perfect about it.
There’s a bowl of the new flavor behind the counter, and Kenneth uses a sample spoon to taste it. “It’s tasty enough, but kind of lacking rizz,” he says. “Ever since fruit flavors stoppedtrending, we’ve been primed for a new star.” He licks the spoon again. “I’m just not sure this is it.”
Another screech of metal sounds out from the street, and all three of us flinch as an argument erupts outside the shop. I glance out the window and see two burly men yelling at a truck that’s blocking half the road.
“Whatever may come, you can’t fight it,” Miranda says. “You have to adjust. My friend Vinny used to make little dolls of men in fancy clothes.” She holds her index finger and thumb wide apart to demonstrate the size. “Built up an inventory of hundreds of those tiny fellows, and then his wholesale supplier went under. Thought he was doomed until gay marriage was legalized. But now? He’s a famous cake-topper-er.”
I smile. “Well, that’s great!”
“I once saw an athleisure store open up across from another athleisure store,” Kenneth says. “Then the first store went gorpcore to survive, but they still went bankrupt.”
I blink. “Okay. I honestly have no idea what gorpcore is.”
Miranda shrugs. “You have to make the best out of the luck you get, but there’s never a guarantee for another day. Neighborhoods change. Technologies become obsolete. Entire industries collapse, like the infamous Beanie Baby bubble.”
“I was a little young for that, but I don’t think Beanie Babies count as a collapsing industry,” I point out.
“You’ve built as secure of a business as one can hope to build,” Miranda continues sagely. “Ice cream is timeless. But small businesses are not invincible.”
“At least the gayborhood isn’t going anywhere,” Kenneth adds before mumbling, “even if you do have to move to a new location down the street, possibly.”
“Exactly,” I agree, ignoring that last part. “People love ice cream.” The rumble picks up outside, loud enough that I have to raise my voice. “They love popping in for a sweet treat, andgetting something cool and refreshing when the street festivals are on, and they love the cute little patio furniture with the striped umbrellas, and the sparkling clean display case, and the free sample sticks that are shaped like?—”
“What?” Miranda yells over the noise. “What did you say?”
“That are shaped like hearts!” I proclaim from my diaphragm. “They love all of that more than they dislike noisy bikers! Believe me.”
It’s true. We’re already turning a profit after only one year, and the entire gayborhood buzzes when I release a new flavor sensation. My customers tell me that it’s impossible to imagine Allentown without us.
Although as the day stretches on, there’s never more than a trickle of customers. Our slowest day since winter.
