Rocky Road Read online

  To my daughter Kellyrose.

  Love and ice cream forever.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  A Smattering of Ice Cream Recipes from A Cherry on Top

  Ice Cream Flavors and the Inner You

  Tasty Afterthoughts

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  On average, it takes a customer fifty licks to finish a single-scoop ice cream cone.—The Inside Scoop

  “Start spreading the news,

  I’m leaving today.

  I want to be a part of it,

  New York, New York….”

  “Pleeeez stop singing, Ma. You’re making me want to jump outta this car!” I called from the backseat. I would’ve, too, if it hadn’t meant leaving Jordan. For three days and eighteen hundred miles, I’d been suffering in silence through Ma’s barn-owl screeching of the only New York song she knew. A broken leg had to hurt less than this ear torture.

  “Thank the good Lord your laryngitis is cured, Tess,” Ma said as we moved into the fast lane, passing a Volkswagen Beetle.

  Laryngitis—ha. Staying silent as the falling snow outside was the only sane way of dealing with our latest hopalong adventure. I’d been around Ma for all twelve years of my life, long enough to know that presenting a sensible argument as to why we shouldn’t move cross-country in the dead of winter without money or a plan wouldn’t put a dent in her thinking. See, when Delilah Dobson makes up her mind, she leaps first and looks later. And sure as we were fishtailing in this freezing car on an icy highway, she hadn’t done much looking.

  I stared out the car window. A silver van passed with two little girls holding juice boxes and waving. Now, where are they going? I wondered. Grandma’s? Ice-skating? A party? No matter, they each wore a brightly colored pom-pom cap and a plucky grin, as if they fully expected sunshine, lollipops, and welcoming smiles to greet them at their destination.

  “I want to take up in a city that doesn’t sleep….”

  “It’s wake up, Ma. And we’re not going to New York City,” I said, though she didn’t hear me over her own singing.

  I have to admit I too caught the Big Apple fever that struck Ma on New Year’s Eve when she announced her resolution was to “refresh, revitalize, and relocate us to New York.” Of course, I thought she meant New York City. Moving to the Big Apple might’ve been worth suffering through this long and freezing car ride. I read Vogue magazine every month, cover to cover (even the advertisements, especially the advertisements). Who wouldn’t find living in the fashion capital of the universe irresistible? I daydreamed about passing celebrities on the streets of Manhattan, all of us decked out in designer wear like Dior and Stella McCartney. And I pictured myself strolling around the garment district on weekends, sorting through rich fabrics just asking to be made into snazzy outfits and home furnishings. Plus all those famous stores! Bloomingdale’s, Barneys New York, Saks Fifth Avenue. And what’s that jewelry store mentioned in movies? Tiffany’s, that’s it.

  Sure wished Ma hadn’t waited until the morning we left Texas to set things straight and tell me she meant upstate New York. No one would feel like chitchatting in a freezing car if they’d just gotten hit with that news.

  “Now that you’re speaking again, Tess, how ’bout sitting up front so we can have some girl talk?”

  “Can’t, Ma. I’ll wake Jordan.”

  I rubbed the top of my brother’s hood. He was sound asleep on my lap, with his sweatshirt pulled over his head like he was a turtle in its shell. I’d wrapped a fleece blanket around him too, tucking it tight under his sneakers to cut the draft. Looking down at his sandy brown bangs poking out, I realized that at times like this being deaf had its advantages for my eight-year-old brother. He didn’t have to listen to Ma’s wailing-siren singing or her ninety-miles-per-hour rambling about the whole new world awaiting us in a city called Schenectady.

  Brr. It felt like an air conditioner was blowing straight into the backseat. My hands were throbbing, even though my fingers were crocheting furiously. I pushed the yarn to my side so it wouldn’t bump Jordan’s head. I was almost finished with a zigzag scarf like one I’d seen on a mannequin at the Gap. Not like that one, actually—far superior. This one would be softer thanks to an alpaca-merino-blend yarn with a stylish tousled fringe. It was turquoise, which Vogue declared the “hottest hue” this season. Jordan’s doe eyes and puffy donut cheeks already drew smiles from women. Add this scarf to that sweetie-pie face and he’d resemble a mini boy-band singer.

  “It’s up to you, New York, New York….”

  The draft from the window was getting worse. Each time Jordan breathed out, it looked like he was puffing on one of Pop’s Marlboros. I hadn’t seen Pop in two years—since he stopped by to tell us he was taking that construction job in Galveston—but I still could predict his reaction if he knew what Ma had done. Sneering, head shaking, and beer swigging. “Sounds like another of your dumb-as-a-bowling-ball schemes, Delilah,” he’d say, especially if he knew the heater was busted.

  Thinking about the busted heater made me clamp up all over again. I’d told Ma she oughta fix it before we left San Antonio. “The Weather Channel says the Northeast gets colder than a meat locker in the winter,” I’d said. So what did Ma do before we left?

  To affirm the refresh part of her New Year’s resolution, she took our run-down car to Maaco Auto Painting. Our tired gray Toyota came back a tired and ugly lime-green Toyota, still with a busted heater.

  Outside, the evergreen trees blurred like a green kaleidoscope. Then we passed what had to be the hundredth deer-crossing sign as we headed north on Interstate 87, this dreary highway that was sending us deeper into the New York section of Antarctica. Hail was smacking the windshield like frozen turds, and the chain pulling the U-Haul was groaning like it had a stomach bug.

  I rested the unfinished scarf against Jordan’s cool cheek, then touched his little fingers. Ice-cold.

  “Jordan is getting frostbite!” I called to Ma over the rumble of a passing SUV. Having spent all my life in southwest Texas—where a fifty-degree cold snap causes a run on Walmart flannel pj’s—I wouldn’t know frostbite from fungus, but it got Ma’s attention. First she whacked the heater. Then she pulled over to the highway shoulder, got out, and walked back to the U-Haul.

  She returned holding two pairs of socks. “We’ve got three bins of your craft supplies, and two bags full of your brother’s stuffed animals, but I can’t find any doggone gloves or hats.” She tossed the socks on my lap. “Put these on you and Jordan. Just a short ways to go.”

  I put them on Jordan’s hands and mine, even though the look was truly tacky. I wanted to finish this scarf, and I couldn’t crochet if my fingers went numb.

  “What about you?” I asked, noticing her bare hands. Ma’s got no meat on her skinny bones.

  “Can’t grip the wheel with socks on,” she said as we merged bac
k on the highway. “Any more questions?” Smack—her knuckles whacked the heat vent again.

  “Just one. Tell me again: How come we’re moving to this sorry city, Schenectady? It’s just asking to be spelled wrong.” I knotted the aqua yarn and started chain-stitching in navy, but the socks made it impossible. I yanked them off.

  “They’ve got good schools in New York, Tess. And there’s a gold mine of business opportunities that I got wind of, thanks to Jimbo.”

  Jimbo worked in the produce department at Albertsons and was always shouting free advice over to Ma as she sliced meat behind the deli counter. He should’ve stuck to displaying fruits and vegetables. If he’d been so smart, he would’ve convinced Ma to stop with the spending sprees and get-rich-quick schemes. These past two years, that had only gotten us poor.

  “What would he know about a business opportunity in Schenectady?”

  “Jimbo’s wife’s cousin’s stepsister lives there. Got herself a cushy job working for the New York Lottery. I’ve been e-mailing her on Jimbo’s laptop during my work breaks, and she sent me listings of businesses that’ve gone belly-up in Schenectady. The upside of a slumping economy is plenty of leases to choose from at bargain prices. Sometimes life just calls for you to pick up and go. It makes me think about them immigrants who spent weeks at sea, only to arrive in New York Harbor and get welcomed by Gal Liberty, smiling and holding her big ol’ torch.”

  “Nobody asked Jordan what he wanted,” I said.

  “Being deaf was no picnic for him back in San Antonio, Tess. He wasn’t catching on in school. A third grader not reading? Nonsense. And you know how he fusses at me like the devil. New York’s chock-full of smart special-education teachers. They’ll get him on a straight and narrow path.”

  I didn’t want to hurt Ma’s feelings, but the teachers in San Antonio had nothing to do with why Jordan acted up. The reason he busted her chops was plain as the nose on her face. Jordan and Ma can’t understand each other. Now, I’m not saying Ma hasn’t tried to learn sign language since Jordan got the high fever as a baby and lost his hearing, because she has. When Jordan was littler and Pop was still around, Ma kept a sign-language dictionary propped open on the coffee table, and we’d all practice every night after supper, signing songs and silly rhymes. And she’d check signing videos out from the library for us to watch—that is, until our DVD player broke. Maybe it did have something to do with her being left-handed like she said, but for some reason, getting signs right was always harder for Ma. And then Pop’s boozing got worse, and the money problems kicked in, and—well, right or wrong, mastering sign language fell to the bottom of Ma’s priority bag. After Pop split for Galveston, she had to work longer hours at Albertsons, so she started relying on me. I’d taken free American Sign Language classes at the Y, and truthfully, it came easier to me. “Tess, my interpreter,” that’s what she called me.

  Ma’s voice brought me back. “As for you, my crafty queen, I bet you a hog’s curly tail that you’ll take a shine to Schenectady from the minute we get there.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I said. “I’ll be the new kid. Who wants to be the new kid in January?”

  “Think about the possibilities. Northeast weather gives you more fabrics to work with for home and fashion design. You couldn’t stroll down the River Walk in San Antonio in January wearing a full-length rabbit-fur coat, now, could ya? But you can in Schenectady. Like I said, a whole new world!”

  “I wouldn’t want to wear real rabbit fur,” I told Ma, but I had to admit she had a point. I’ve always admired the bulky cowl-neck sweaters, pleated wool skirts, and shearling boots I saw in Vogue advertisements. That cozy look falls flat (and sweaty) on a seventy-degree winter day in the Southwest.

  “Mark my words. Girls at the new school will appreciate your style and your warm heart. Folks say that New Yorkers act salty on the outside but they’re sweet like honey on the inside, where it counts. That’ll be a big change from those sorry witches back at your old school.”

  I couldn’t argue that point either. The first half of seventh grade hadn’t been worth the scuff on my shoes. That’s because the girls at Navarro Middle School worshipped whoever had the coolest cell phone—not the neatest art project. Last October I’d overheard Kaylee, my science-lab partner, whispering about my “cheesy homemade vest” and setting off a chorus of snickers. Designing that black satin vest and embroidering those ghosts and pumpkins on the front lapels took weeks. And it looked nice—not “cheesy.”

  Ma looked back through the rearview mirror and caught me swimming in those mucky memories. “Don’t fret your pretty face about those girls,” she said. “That’s yesterday’s news. I see sunny skies and true-blue friends in tomorrow’s forecast for you.”

  I smiled. Maybe Ma was right. Maybe there were other “crafty queens” in Schenectady just waiting for me to arrive with my yarn and paints and glue gun. Maybe, just maybe, my new school would even have an art club where we could hang out together and reveal our inner artists.

  Bump. The car hit a pothole. Jordan opened his eyes, sat up, and pushed his hood back.

  I put the crochet hook down and moved my hands. “Turtle Boy wakes!”

  He stared out the window. “Where is new home?” he signed.

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “Hungry. Hungry.” His hand moved quickly from his throat to his belly. As usual, his signing was sloppy. His fingers were clenched like a fist, which confused the meaning.

  I took his hand in mine and corrected his fingers. My stomach growled too. Lunch was four hours and two states ago. Then I kissed his forehead. “What do you want for supper?” I signed.

  “Chicken and ice cream.”

  Now, Jordan always got those signs right. Chicken looks like a beak, and ice cream is easy as licking a cone.

  “Too cold for ice cream,” I signed. Was it ever.

  “Not too cold!” His fingers banged the air like he was playing drums.

  Come rain, shine, or tornado, Jordan is always up for ice cream. No surprise. And he gets it whenever he wants. “Ice cream warms the heart, no matter what the weather.” That’s Ma’s motto for a good life. Sure, it’s silly, but I love ice cream too.

  A road sign for Schenectady appeared an hour later, as daylight slipped behind the tall pine trees and gray horizon. Jordan was distracted, playing with his Happy Meal collection of zoo animals, but I noticed right away.

  “Only a few miles to go. Time to check the local directions,” Ma called. “Imagine folks like us from the Alamo City about to call New York home. Brace yourself, Schenectady—here come the Dobsons!”

  Brace yourself was right, because as we entered the city, the truck in front of us swerved to avoid a pothole while Ma was looking down at the seat. She slammed on the brakes, lurching us forward and sending papers flying.

  “Shoot balls of fire! That driver’s not fit to steer a wheelbarrow!” Ma shouted. She kept looking at the seat beside her, shuffling through a folder. “I know I stuck that flyer in here. Son of a buck. Where is it?”

  Suddenly she reached over for the papers that had fallen, causing the car to hit an ice patch and plow into the side of a parked car.

  The driver had just opened the door and was about to step out when—whack!—Ma took his door clean off the hinges.

  Clanky-clank, clanky-clank. The door scraped, wobbled, and banged the asphalt, then plopped against a sewer grate.

  “Holy—————!” Ma let out a six-foot string of cusswords that would’ve fried bacon.

  I’d barely felt the bang in the backseat, but seeing that car door rolling was a real shocker.

  Ma whipped her head toward us, I guess to see if we were dead or bleeding. Then she pulled over and glanced back at the car she’d hit. The driver was still sitting inside. His bald head was shaking back and forth like he was a robot.

  Jordan looked at me to sign something, and I waited for Ma to say something, but she didn’t. I rubbed Jordan’s knee to calm him,
and Ma scrunched her eyes shut like she does when she’s thinking hard. Then she peeked in the rearview mirror and smoothed her hair.

  “Could’ve been worse,” she said, getting out of the car. “Doors are replaceable, right? That’s why they got hinges. Stay here.”

  Back home, before we were evicted from the house, I used to tell little Juanita who lived next door that Ma did things up big like Texas. “Hace grande, that’s what Mexicans would say about your ma,” Juanita always said, her brown moon face giggling.

  Juanita was three years younger than me, but I liked her better than just about all my seventh-grade classmates combined. And she was right about Ma. Arriving in Schenectady was another hace grande moment on this hace grande trip. Because as it turned out, Ma’s wisest comment today was her warning Schenectady that the Dobsons were coming.

  Our Toyota had a dent on the front passenger door, and the side mirror was cracked and twisted. Luckily the U-Haul had no damage, so we’d still get our deposit back. But no such luck for the car we hit, a gold Lincoln Town Car.

  Yikes. Ma hadn’t ripped the door off Mr. Nobody’s car. This one had a custom license plate that said it all: MAYOR.

  Chapter 2

  Americans gulp down 1.6 billion gallons of ice cream per year, or twenty-three quarts per person.—The Inside Scoop

  Two police officers showed up within minutes. One had a clipboard and asked Ma and the other driver questions. The second one redirected traffic and set flares along the road. Meanwhile, Ma tried to make small talk with the guy she hit. The cops called him Mayor Legato, and he really was the mayor of Schenectady. He wore earmuffs, and a pipe sticking out of his mouth made him look like Frosty the Snowman, only he wasn’t jolly. Mayor Legato kept staring at his new car minus the door and shaking his head, disgusted. When he spoke to the cops alongside Ma, his deep voice rolled right over hers, the way adults step on kids’ words.

  Jordan and I stood on the icy sidewalk with our teeth chattering while Ma tried to sweet-talk her way out of this mess.