Dream Come True. Gina Calanni
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 doubt that.” Dreamy Blues is at my side. He’s got to be at least a foot taller than me. And I’m no shrinking violet or however that phrase is supposed to go. What I mean is I’m not short or dainty. My daddy was tall, at least that’s what my mama always said. I hardly remember what he looks like as he left when I was little. I was ten, just turned into double digits. I had been looking forward to crossing over from single digits to doubles for, shoot, as long as I could remember. But, things didn’t turn out as I had imagined and that was the year my daddy decided to leave before it was time for me to blow out the ten candles on my cake. My mama tried to make an excuse at the party about him being called in to work, but everybody knew he hadn’t been to work in weeks.
It’s lunch time and I didn’t pack my lunch as I left Ms. Myra’s in a rush this morning, not wanting to be late on my first day. Ms. Myra is definitely older than my mama by a few years but the way she moves makes her seem much frailer than her years give away. Her frame is thinner than a popsicle stick and easily blown away but that didn’t stop her last night from wanting to be firm with me. She was like a teacher wanting to establish ground rules on the first day of class. She talked about weekday and weekend curfews and such, which seems a bit strict as I am over twenty-two years of age. I could buy a can of beer if I wanted to, though I never have. The smell of it makes me sick. Reminds me of my dad. I shake off that thought.
Blue eyes is holding on to my arm. “Are you okay?”
I eye his hand. It’s large and holding on to my arm. I follow his knuckles, which are grasping my turquoise buttoned shirt, along his arm and up to his big shoulders. My mama would call them farming shoulders, square and huge, good for hauling in hay barrels and the like. On the side of his neck, a vein is popping wildly like it’s trying to send me a Morse code message or something. His jaw is big, too, and chiseled, clean-shaven; that’s a good thing, I suppose. Not that I care. I’m not here for a romance or anything like that. I’m here to better myself and have a real career. Nonetheless, my eyes make their way up his face until our eyes are staring directly into each other’s. I gasp.
I must look like an idiot. I can’t help it. This guy looks like one of those commercial models for a cologne or something.
“Are you okay? Sahara, right?”
I blink my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine.” I glance down at his hand again. It’s still holding on to my arm.
“Oh, sorry. You just seemed like you were upset.” Blue Eyes releases my arm.
“No, not upset at all.” Crap, now not only do I look like an idiot, I sound like one, too. I probably should try and be nice to this guy. Besides him being beautiful to look at, he’s the only person at Blue Ribbon that has spoken to me other than Mr. Flints, and that did not go over well.
“Hi, yes, my name is Sahara. What’s yours?” I offer my hand.
He takes my hand in his and shakes it nicely, nicer than I can ever remember my hand being shaken before. His hand is warm and heavy. Kind of reminds me of my teddy bear; I’ve had it forever and slobbered on it in my sleep so it’s a bit rough in parts, but still my Mr. Bear is my favorite and I’m not ever going to let him go.
“Brandon B-Rollins. Nice to meet you.”
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his pronunciation of his name. Is he nervous? Or maybe he’s got a speech impediment or something. That would explain why he would want to talk to me; he probably realizes we are similar. I certainly don’t look like the rest of the class. I did put on my most professional outfit for today, which consists of my nice buttoned-down blouse and grey slacks; I don’t own a blazer but I suppose it’s not necessary for training anyways. Maybe after I get my first paycheck I will buy one. Mexia isn’t exactly the mecca of fine clothing! It was only last year that we got a Target; this outfit is from the Mossimo collection and I think it looks nice. But compared to the rest of the class, I think it’s pretty clear who got their