taps on his paper. “The first thing you will learn is how to properly scoop ice cream.”
I scrunch up my eyes. Sure, I thought I was done scooping ice cream when I was offered a position as a product developer, but now I have to learn how to scoop properly? What does that even mean? I’ve been scooping ice cream at Dairy Queen for the past six years. I’m sure if anybody in this room knows how to scoop ice cream properly it’s me.
“Miss.” Mr. Flints is staring at me. Oh shoot, I hope it didn’t seem like I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.
“Yes, sir?” I raise my eyebrows at him. I’m sure now I appear to be paying full attention.
“It says here on your resume that you have worked at Dairy Queen for the past several years. Why don’t you come up here and show us how they scoop ice cream at Dairy Queen?” Mr. Flints’ voice changes a bit when he says Dairy Queen, almost as if saying those two words makes him sicker than a dog after digging through a dumpster. I don’t know why that would be; Dairy Queen is a nice establishment with good food. Ha, well, good-tasting food. That’s what my mama always says. Not everything you eat has to be healthy, Sahara. I sure do miss her. I hope she’s okay. When I left it didn’t go over as I had hoped it would. She barely put her knitting needles down long enough to let me hug her goodbye.
“Miss?”
Uh oh, Mr. Flints is waiting on my response. I stand up. My hands are a little shaky. I need to remedy that before I begin scooping. I stroll my way to the front of the class like I’m all alone walking in a field of bluebonnets.
“Yes, sir.” I stand next to him in front of the class. There are about thirty other recruits in the room. And all sixty eyes are on me. Me, Mr. Flints, and the ice cream. A stack of bowls is next to the ice cream and several white plastic spoons. I figure I’m supposed to dish up ice cream for the class.
I bet my friend Sally Jane would be in a hysterical fit of giggles right now, knowing I left Dairy Queen because I didn’t want to scoop ice cream anymore only to show up on my first day at Blue Ribbon and have to scoop up ice cream.
“All right, here is the ice-cream scoop. Show us how you folks do it at Dairy Queen.” Mr. Flints nods at me.
“Yes, sir, will do.” I pick up the metal scooper and lift off the ice-cream lid. I try and think of some fancy way to impress Mr. Flints and the class, but my mind, as usual, is empty.
I dig into the ice cream and round the vanilla as best I can before dropping it into the Styrofoam bowl.
Mr. Flints nods. “Exactly. This is the wrong way to scoop ice cream. Thank you, miss…”
“Sahara, sir, my name is Sahara Smith.” I offer my hand.
He shakes it. “Sahara, hmm, that’s an interesting name.” He squints his eyes at me, like he’s trying to figure out why my name is Sahara. I’ve seen this look only every other day in my life.
“Please take your seat, Sahara.”
“Yes, sir.” I make my way back to my seat and notice all eyes are back on Mr. Flints, except one pair of sky blues. Those dreamy blues are watching me walk all the way to my seat. My cheeks flush and I sit down as quick as I can. I pick up my pen ready to jot down whatever special way Mr. Flints is going to instruct the class, as I obviously have failed in my first chance to impress him. I blow out through my lips.
Mr. Flints pulls out a sharp shiny knife from his white coat pocket. “Now, class, what I have here is a sharp knife. Before class I heated some water.” He lifts the cup in front of him and then sticks the knife into the water. He shakes it off and then picks up the ice-cream container. “What I’m doing is cutting a grid into the ice cream with my knife.” He slices squares into the ice-cream container and then places the knife on the table. Mr. Flints picks up the ice-cream scooper, dips it in the cup, shakes it off and scoops up a rounded dollop of ice cream.
“You there, front row.”
A bouncy, brown-haired girl pops up out of her seat. “Yes, Mr. Flints?”
“Here, pass out ice cream to the class, and Sahara you can come and help. Maybe Dairy Queen has shown you the proper way to offer ice cream to a customer… hmm?”
“Yes, sir.” I nod. Maybe putting Dairy Queen on my resume had been a bad idea. I sure thought it would show I had relevant work experience, but it seems like maybe it’s giving me a ding or a black mark, like I’m the spotted egg at the Farmer’s Market. I shake my head and scrape my chair back.
Great, I get to walk up in front of the entire class again and come face to face with each class mate after I’ve already failed once. Shoot. This is not going well. I scoot my way up to his desk and pick up as many ice-cream bowls as I can and pass them out while trying to avoid eye contact as I loop each aisle. Bouncy, brown-haired girl is fast and there are only two more cups, one for me and one for… oh… dreamy blue eyes staring at me. I check out his desk and it’s empty. Bouncy, brown-haired girl has already taken her seat. I take the last two bowls of ice cream and try my best not to stumble over my two feet as I get within steps of Dreamy’s desk. I place the bowl on his desk with the spoon and he reaches for it and grazes my hand with his own. I peek at him and he smiles.
I’m warmer than my Aunt Nanny’s house in the dead heat of August, bless her heart. She’s only got a window unit and it’s always on the fritz. I blow air over my face as I sit down in my seat. Good thing we’re eating ice cream, as I need to cool down.
Mr. Flints pulls down a white screen from the wall and flips on the projector thing on his desk. I remember seeing slides in grade school. The first slide that pops up is the logo for Blue Ribbon Creamery – I suppose this is to remind us where we are. I glance around. I can’t imagine anyone not knowing where they are. The next slide is about Blue Ribbon’s company rules. I pick up my pen and write out as many as I can before the screen changes. I’m not sure why Blue Ribbon doesn’t just have a manual for us to read, but it seems like Mr. Flints is inside my head, responding that it makes more sense for us to write it down because then we might actually remember it. I suppose he might be right. But my hand is starting to cramp. I haven’t had to do this much writing since I don’t know when. I scan the room and the majority of the class have their own laptops. I don’t own one. I brought my computer with me, but it’s not a laptop. I hope to buy one with my first paycheck, that is, if I’m making decent money. I still don’t know what the pay rate is for the training. I know it’s not the same as it will be when I start my product developer position. Exactly how much less I probably should have found out, but I was so dadgum excited I just said yes. I probably would have signed my life away that day I was in such a daze.
Mr. Flints must have dismissed class as everyone is standing and heading toward the exit. I stick all my notebooks and pens in my bag and hustle after them. I don’t want to be left alone in the room with Mr. Flints. Who knows what else he might want to quiz me on.
I exit the room without any further words from Mr. Flints. I let out a sigh.
“Hey there, you want to grab lunch together?” Dreamy blue eyes is speaking to me. Me. Sahara Smith, the girl that just messed up on how to scoop ice cream. He must think I’m a charity case.
“That’s all right, you’d probably be better off joining someone else.” I step on ahead. I’m not going to be somebody’s good deed. No sirree, my mama did not raise anybody looking for a handout. Nope.
“I
