Sundae My Prince Will Come

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Ice Cream Recipes

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek at Donut Go Breaking My Heart

  Also by Suzanne Nelson

  Copyright

  “Okay, ladies!” Ms. Faraday called, standing in front of the studio’s mirror. “Pas de chat now. One, two, three, and …”

  I took a deep breath and pushed off my left foot into a leap to the side. Returning my feet to fifth position, I repeated the movement. My heart hopped along in time, already anticipating the brisés and grand jetés that would follow these smaller warm-up jumps. I enjoyed the barre work that began every ballet class, and the waltzes and pirouettes that followed as we moved to center work. The jumping, though, had always been my favorite.

  “Lovely, Malie,” Ms. Faraday said, and I smiled at her praise, especially since she didn’t give it easily.

  I focused on my reflection in the mirror. Every part of me—my black leotard, pink tights, gauzy pink skirt, and pink ballet slippers; my thick black hair pulled tightly into its sleek bun; my determined and glittering dark eyes … they all needed to convey serious dancer.

  “Arresting eyes,” my dad had said the day I was born. “Full of purpose.” Only none of us knew what kind of purpose, until my very first ballet class. I felt it the moment I gripped the barre and did my first plié. Dance felt like a long-lost memory, like something that had been a part of me forever. And that was it. At age four, I was a goner.

  I noticed my left wrist sagging slightly and adjusted it, wanting nothing less than perfection. From the corner of my eye, I could see Violet Olsen’s jumps, which were nearly flawless. There were twenty dancers in our class, but Violet and I were the most advanced. Having her next to me made me work that much harder, and the sweat that had been pricking my temples before began to flow in earnest. My thighs and calves burned, but it was a feeling I relished, one that meant my muscles were working.

  “Libby, watch your retiré,” Ms. Faraday told one of my other classmates. “Extend your right leg. That’s better.”

  Now it was time to finish with fouettés. Tchaikovsky’s overture to Swan Lake drifted through the air, my pulse hummed, and everything fused—the music, my mind, my body—until my bends and arcs melded into fluid motion. I forgot about the bodies spinning around me, the hardness of the floor beneath my feet, the sweat trickling down my forehead. There was nothing but the exhilaration of dance, the one thing I loved more than anything in the world.

  I was so absorbed that it took me a few seconds to register Ms. Faraday calling the class to a close.

  “Well done, darlings.” We all applauded, as we did at the end of every class. She nodded toward each of us in turn. “I have some news. First, I know you’ve all been waiting to hear which ballet we’ll be performing this spring.”

  Every year, the Marina Springs Conservatory performed a ballet in the grand theater in town. Last year, it had been Sleeping Beauty.

  “Swan Lake?” Libby called out from behind me.

  “Coppélia?” Natalie asked from across the room.

  “Romeo and Juliet?” I ventured.

  Ms. Faraday shook her head, smiling. “Cinderella!” she announced. There were squeals around the studio. When the noise died down, Ms. Faraday added, “Auditions will be held on May first from three to eight p.m. I hope every one of you auditions.”

  Adrenaline flooded my veins. Cinderella. Maybe this year I would finally be chosen as the principal ballerina! I’d tried out for principal last year, but Violet had gotten the part; I’d been in the chorus—the corps de ballet. Violet was really good. Her posture was always ramrod straight, even as she walked the hallways of Marina Springs Middle School, where we both went. Her legs were long and graceful, and she kept her red hair perpetually pulled back in a knot, like she was ever ready to perform. I had to admit to her talent. It was her attitude that I’d never much liked. I could see it on her face now—the confident smirk-smile that said she knew she was a shoo-in for Cinderella. At this year’s auditions, I vowed silently, I was going to give her plenty of competition.

  “Now for the second announcement.” Ms. Faraday pressed her palms together. “It pains me to say it, my dears, but I’m leaving you.”

  My heart dipped to my toes. I’d known this moment might be coming; Ms. Faraday was elderly, and there had been rumors swirling around the conservatory that she would be retiring soon. But Ms. Faraday had been my ballet teacher for the past eight years. I couldn’t imagine dancing without her. Protests rose up in gasps and hushed “no’s.”

  Ms. Faraday smiled sadly. “I’ve been teaching nearly half a century, and it’s high time I retired.” Her voice trembled only slightly. “But not to worry! The conservatory has already found a superbly qualified replacement. An email will be sent to your parents with details. And you have the audition to focus on. So I don’t want anyone wasting a moment in gloom. Understood?” Reluctant nods swept the room. “All right, then. Monday will be my last class with you. We will make it our best one yet. Now.” She waved her hands toward the studio door. “Shoo, shoo.”

  A couple of girls left, but many lingered, forming a forlorn circle around Ms. Faraday. I stayed on the outskirts of the circle, and so, I noticed, did Violet.

  There’d been many times over the years when Ms. Faraday had devoted extra time to me after class, working with me on my form or a particular dance combination. She’d pushed hard, but I’d welcomed the challenge. Now I hoped to thank her in a one-on-one moment. Violet, though, stepped in front of me and threw her arms around Ms. Faraday, her eyes filling.

  “It won’t be the same without you!” Violet cried dramatically.

  “You’ll be fine, my dear.” Ms. Faraday patted Violet’s hand, then extended her other hand toward me, clasping my fingers with her own knotted ones. “You both will. You two have such talent, my swans. Keep sculpting it.” She smiled. “And I’ll be speaking to your new instructor, to advise that she put you both on pointe.”

  Every cell in my body shrieked with excitement. Pointe! It was the news I’d been hoping for since my twelfth birthday, when my pediatrician said my bones were strong enough for it. Going on pointe meant moving to another level of difficulty, a level where you were taken more seriously, where your dancing matured into something more complex. Now it was going to happen at last!

  “Thank you, Ms. Faraday. That’s amazing.” I beamed.

  “It is, Malie,” Ms. Faraday said, smiling at me fondly.

  “Mother will be so happy,” Violet chimed in. “She was having a hard time understanding what was taking so long.”

  I stifled my urge to roll my eyes. I knew it was Violet herself, not just her mom, who was antsy about Violet going on pointe.

  But if Ms. Faraday saw through Violet’s ruse, she didn’t point it out. Instead, she said, “Remember, you dance for yourselves first, for the love of it. Your audience comes second.”

  We both hugged her, and I got choked up as she pressed her hand to my cheek, whispering, “I know you’ll make me proud.” She turned away quickly, dabbing her eyes with a dainty handkerchief, and I knew it was time to go.

  Violet and I left
the studio and headed into the changing room together. It was empty now, our other classmates having left already.

  “That’s so sad about Ms. Faraday leaving,” I said, unzipping my dance bag. I used my towel to wipe the sweat off my forehead.

  “Yeah,” Violet said with a shrug. “But I’m so glad the ballet is Cinderella this year. I’ve wanted to dance that part since forever. It’s like Ms. Faraday chose that ballet with me in mind.”

  I sat down on the bench. “Or … maybe she chose it because it has a large cast, so there are more opportunities for everyone.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Violet said, as if she couldn’t care less about opportunities for anyone else. She slid a pair of yoga pants over her tights, then shouldered her dance bag. “We all know that the auditions for the principal are just a formality.” Her practiced smile never wavered. “Don’t we?”

  I returned her smile, not wanting to give off as much as a hint of uncertainty. “Who knows what will happen?” I replied breezily. “Cinderella was the underdog, and look how that turned out.”

  “True.” She laughed and headed for the door. “See you in school.”

  I gritted my teeth. Maybe she didn’t mean to be snarky. Maybe she was just oblivious? Or … not.

  I took off my worn ballet slippers, instantly missing the welcome hug of their elastic and leather around my feet. I frowned, examining the hole in the toe. I needed a new pair, but when I’d brought it up to Mom, she’d responded with a harried, “We’ll see, keiki.”

  Even though we’d moved to Florida from Hawaii when I was a toddler, Hawaiian still peppered Mom’s speech and, by default, mine. Mom said it was a way of honoring our Polynesian ancestry. Plus, she hoped it would stay fresh in my mind. After my parents’ divorce three years ago, Dad had moved back to Oahu, and I visited him there each summer. Mom thought keeping up with my Hawaiian would make me feel less like a tourist when I stayed with him. She was happy to help me keep a healthy relationship with Dad. And there wasn’t much that made her happy these days.

  New ballet shoes, I knew, would be on the very bottom of Mom’s list of things we needed to buy. I’d probably have to keep living with these for as long as I could. I slid them into my bag, then changed back into my street clothes. I left the dressing room, dance bag in hand, and walked through the hallway past the row of studios toward the exit.

  After so many years, the conservatory felt like a second home to me. I took classes here five times a week: four weekdays after school, and once on Saturday mornings—today.

  Before I left the building, I paused, setting down my dance bag. I remembered the fouettés I had done earlier, and was itching to try them again. Just one more time, before I had to leave and rejoin the real world. I couldn’t help it; if it were up to me, I’d be dancing every second.

  Even though I was in my street clothes and sneakers, I rose up on my toes, held my arms out in a circle, and began spinning. One, two, three—

  Wham!

  Suddenly, something smacked into me. I tumbled back to the floor, stunned.

  “Pardon me!” a boy’s voice said, and before I could catch my breath, strong hands were lifting me to my feet. My eyes focused on the boy before me. He had obviously just come in from outside, and he looked to be about my age. His tan skin and walnut-brown eyes were set in a square-jawed face framed by tousled black curls. “You are not hurt?” he asked.

  Italian? I thought, guessing at his thick accent.

  “N-no,” I stammered, realizing his hands were still cupping my elbows. I stepped back.

  “I am glad of this.” He smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked in a cute, adds-character kind of way. “Mama would be very upset with me if I troddened on a dancer.”

  Troddened? “Do you mean trampled?” I asked.

  “Trampled.” He mulled over the word. “But this is what stampeding elephants do?” He laughed. “I’m Alonzo Benucci.” So I’d been right. Italian. “Lanz for short.”

  “Malie Analu,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mole-y,” Lanz said.

  I smiled. “Not ‘mole.’ It’s pronounced like ‘shopping mall.’ Like ‘Molly.’ ”

  “Malie,” he tried again, this time correctly. “So. Malie does smile.”

  My smile widened against my will. “Occasionally.”

  He shook his head. “That is not often enough.”

  I stiffened. He didn’t even know me, but he was commenting on how much I smiled?

  “Are you looking for someone here?” I asked. “Or are you a new dance student?”

  His laugh was an exploding “Ha!” Totally uninhibited, but also magnetic. “I am picking up some paperwork for my mother. I am a gelatician. Not a dancer.”

  “Oh. Right.” I wasn’t about to let on that I didn’t have a clue what a gelatician was. “That’s … interesting.”

  “More delicious than interesting.” His eyes twinkled, and I wondered if he saw through my charade. “But you are a dancer. A serious one.”

  I swallowed uncomfortably. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw you dancing as I walked in,” he replied.

  Right. My fouettés. This whole conversation was making me incredibly self-conscious, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. I checked my watch. Oh no! How had I lost track of so much time? It was running into this boy (literally). He’d made me lose every rational thought in my brain.

  “Once upon a Scoop!” I snatched up my dance bag from the floor. “I have to go! I’m late! Mom’s going to kill me.”

  Lanz laughed. “It cannot be so bad as that?”

  I didn’t answer. I was already barreling through the door, then running down Main Street through the balmy late-morning heat, dreading having to face Mom.

  I entered Once upon a Scoop through the kitchen’s back door. The hum of the giant silver machine in the middle of the room meant that Mom had started a batch of fresh ice cream. I saw containers of chocolate and coconut flavors on the counter. She must have been making Coconut Castle—one of the parlor’s signature flavors.

  I pulled my ruffled purple apron over my head and then checked the timer. The ice cream had five minutes left before I could empty it into five-gallon storage containers and move those to the flash freezer.

  “Malie?” Mom’s voice was a command, blasting from the front of the parlor.

  “Coming!” I called, slipping on the fairy wings that finished off my “uniform.” I walked through the swinging door into the pastel-blue room with its castle mural and white café tables.

  Once upon a Scoop had a prime location on Ocean Lane, the biggest beach thoroughfare in downtown Marina Springs. The parlor offered a sprawling view of the pale sand and azure waves of the Gulf Coast. Dotted with mangroves and palms, the beach, about thirty steps from the parlor’s front door, brought in a steady stream of customers. Some lived in Marina Springs full-time, relishing its warmth and sun. Others were what we Floridians called “snowbirds,” visitors who came south for a few months each year to escape harsh northeast winters.

  With the boutiques and outdoor restaurants, and the pink bougainvillea lining the sidewalks, our small town was a perfect vacation spot. The view from the shop’s window was one of the things I liked about working at Once upon a Scoop, but today I only had a millisecond to take it in before Mom blocked it with her stern gaze.

  “You’re fifteen minutes late.” Her voice was granite.

  “I didn’t mean to be. Ms. Faraday made a big announcement—”

  “Malie, you always have an excuse. I’m not in the mood today.” Mom turned and hurried behind the counter. “Help me put these flavors in the freezer before we open.”

  “Okay,” I said, following her. I’d tell her about Ms. Faraday’s big news later.

  Mom handed me a tub of Snow White, its white-chocolate ice cream dotted with chunks of cheesecake and yogurt-covered pretzels. I dutifully placed the tub into the display freezer.

  “When you started taking the advanced dance classes at
the conservatory,” Mom said, handing me another tub, “it was under the condition that it wouldn’t interfere with your schoolwork or with Once upon a Scoop, but now … I thought you’d outgrow this dance phase.”

  I frowned. “It’s not a phase. It’s what I love.” I’d said it before. So many times. My talks with Mom lately were like a glitch in a song—we started out fresh at the beginning, but inevitably hit a faulty chord and skipped back to the same spot, over and over again. It always came down to dance.

  Mom sighed. “Your responsibilities here come first.”

  “I don’t get it,” I persisted. “When Dad was here, you never complained about my ballet. You wanted me to take lessons!”

  The worry lines on Mom’s forehead deepened. “Some things were simpler then.”

  Like money, I thought. The Marina Springs Conservatory was considered the best ballet school in west-central Florida. It had an aura about it—an atmosphere of gravity and respect that emanated from the very floor and walls. When I’d auditioned in kindergarten and been accepted, I’d been beyond thrilled. Ever since then, I’d imagined going all the way, joining a professional ballet company someday. But I didn’t understand back then what a stretch it was for my parents to pay the conservatory’s tuition. And since the divorce, it had only gotten tougher.

  “I never thought you’d stick with ballet this long. And when your dad was here, he could help out at the parlor. Now I’m—” Mom stopped before adding, by myself. She was thinking it, though. I’d overheard her talking on the phone with Tutu, my grandma in Oahu. It was the only time Mom had admitted that being a single parent was tough. She never said it to me.

  “I want her to grow up without having to worry about me,” she’d said to Tutu. “Lots of people raise children on their own, with less than what we have. If they can do it, I can, too.”

  I worried, though, especially whenever Mom got the look she wore now—the carrying-the-weight-of-the-world-on-her-shoulders look. That look swept the wind right out of my arguing sails. It made me pull her into a hug and give her a peck on the cheek.

  “It will be okay, Mom. I won’t be late again.”