5

OPERATION ICE CREAM

Customers are scattered at metal tables outside Scoops. Seven tables and Adam is not at any of them. He’s not at any of the five tables inside either. And he’s not one of the four people in line for ice cream.

I wait to see if he’ll come out of the bathroom, which is locked, but when the door opens it’s a woman with a crying baby. Not Adam.

I really hoped that he would be here. That he’d explain everything. That he’d just forgotten to leave me a note. But instead, my second place to scout for Adam is a total failure too.

I decide to console myself with ice cream and take revenge on Dr. Flossdrop at the same time. My mother may not believe in sweets, but one of Aunt Mildred’s mottoes is, “Everyone deserves dessert.” (That includes people who teach dental hygiene for a living too.) And I definitely deserve dessert today.

I order a cone of mint chocolate chip served in a cup — the best of both worlds — and take it outside. I choose a table far away from the others. Even though a scoop at Scoops is always amazing, right now it looks and tastes like slime. I set my cup down; I don’t feel like eating after all.

Soon the ice cream gets melty, which is my favorite, but I still can’t bring myself to take another bite. It trickles from the tip of the cone, down and over the cup, across the shiny silver tabletop. The cone finally topples over, and ice cream spills everywhere. I watch as my frozen treat morphs into a sad green stream, then slowly drips off the table onto the ground.

Drip.

Adam is not here.

Drip.

Adam is gone.

Drip.

Adam taught me how to swim. How to sneak sweets behind Dr. Flossdrop’s back. Mildred taught me to knit, but Adam taught me how to yarn bomb.

For every time I haven’t had a dad around — or a mom, for that matter — Adam’s been there. For as long as I can remember.

My body feels like a sandbag. I lay my heavy head on the table and hope no one worries that I’ve collapsed from ice-cream poisoning. That’s when I start crying. The table rocks, the cone rolls, and ice cream dribbles into my hair. I can feel its coldness drizzle through tendrils the same way I can feel tears drizzle down my face. I don’t care, though. I don’t wipe my face or my hair. I don’t move. I could stay hunched over this table forever, drenched in salty tears and mint-green glop.

I’m there for five long, miserable minutes. Then a loud crash from the street jolts me back. It reminds me I can’t really stay slung over this table forever.

As soon as I get up, I see a few adult-types looking at me with concern. Then I see the thing responsible for that loud crash. Right there on Sunrise Boulevard, a big truck loaded with wooden boxes has skidded onto the sidewalk and collided with a nearby streetlight. The driver’s out of the truck and seems to be OK, but there’s smoke and a crowd of people are gathering to see what happened.

I feel bad thinking it, but at least someone else is having a horrible day besides me.

I stand up, and ice cream dribbles from my hair onto my collar, turning my charcoal gray T-shirt slightly wet and minty green. I throw out the ice cream cone and cup, leaving the drippy goop all over the table, and silently ask Dr. Flossdrop and anyone who works at Scoops for forgiveness for not cleaning up.

Heading in the general direction of home, I pass the sneaker store and art supply store, but the smoke from the accident gets my attention. Some of it is definitely smoke, poofing up and dissipating into the air. But some of it’s moving more like a cloud — a rippling, blurry cloud. It looks like a cloud of bees. A cloud of bees rising up from one of the boxes on the truck.

I stand there, staring, wondering what bees are doing in a box on a truck in the first place. Then I feel a small gust of air as something flies past my face. It’s a bee. I don’t know if it’s a regular bee or an escapee from the smoky truck, but either way, I’m out of here. I’m not allergic to or super afraid of bees, but the fact is, they’re no one’s favorite animal for a reason.

I shake out my ice-creamy hair and keep going. There are plenty of people around to help with that accident. Adult people. And I am definitely not my come-to-the-rescue mom.

But as I glance back, there’s that bee again. It’s making its way toward me like it’s delirious — mostly going in a straight line but veering around a little too, like maybe the wind is blowing it. Lollygagging the way bees do. But still, lollygagging in my direction.

I keep walking — faster now — but when I glance back again, just to see what’s going on, that bee is closer behind me. Or maybe it’s a different bee. They all look the same.

Wait a minute.

All of a sudden it’s not just one bee anymore. It’s a few bees. Then a handful. Then a whole bunch. Before I know it, it’s a whole swarm of bees! My eyeballs are overwhelmed with too many bees to even count. What was an undulating gray cloud over the truck is now an undulating gray cloud above the sidewalk — and it’s headed straight for me.

I walk as fast as I possibly can — trying not to bring attention to myself — but the bees speed up too.

This. Is. Pretty. Weird.

As I hurry down the street, I think of stingers and welts. I could really use one of those full-body suits with a mask. Because that clump of bees is most definitely on the move.

Suddenly one bee breaks away from the others and zips toward me. It circles a foot or two away. It darts toward me for a second, then goes back to circling again. Then it darts closer. This time it keeps coming, a slow-motion swoop in my direction. All I can do is stop right where I am and helplessly shield my face, hoping the bee will abandon whatever mission it’s on.

For a moment, I feel nothing. I peek between my face-shielding hands and see nothing.

But then there’s a tingle on the crown of my head.

Not a sting, just a tingle.

I wave my hand around. Nothing happens.

And then there’s another bee aiming straight for me.

Nonononono!

I shield my face again, but like its predecessor, this bee isn’t going for my face. It’s not going past me either. Instead, I feel a second arrival in my wild, curly, ice-creamy mop of hair. Another tiny little weight.

More bees are coming toward me now. They’re close enough that I can see the way their spindly little legs dangle below them as they fly. Their papery, translucent wings. The soft sound of an old-timey phone ringing.

Bbrriinnnnnnngg. Bbrriinnnnnnngg.

I take off down the sidewalk in a panic, tripping over people and shoes and strollers. It’s like a terrible, ridiculous attack-of-the-bees sci-fi movie is being filmed — except no one else knows about it, and I am, unfortunately, the star.

People turn and look at me, but my legs and mind are moving too fast to care or hear them if they’re trying to talk to me.

I keep running. I don’t look back.

I run for blocks and blocks. Past sneakers hanging from telephone wires. Past kids on skateboards. Past the lady who sweeps up trash. Past the neon-bandana bike-riding guy. Past a food truck.

I’m getting closer to the duplex.

And then I do look back. Just to check.

There’s no use running anymore. The whole swarm is circling, closer, closer, closer. A remote-controlled airplane engine in my ear. Hundreds of bees uncomfortably near my bonnet.

And then they’re landing.

All of them.

On my head!