Sundae My Prince Will Come Page 3

  “Wait,” I said to Ethan. “I need to talk—”

  “Right.” Ethan slapped his forehead. “I forgot. You started to tell me something? What happened?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to pour my heart out in front of Lanz. The idea of it made me feel too … exposed, like he’d be drawing his own conclusions about who I was the whole time. Or worse, what if he laughed? That seemed like something he might do.

  The bell rang. “Never mind.” My spirits went from bad to abysmal.

  Ethan squeezed my hand. “See you later?”

  I nodded, but when Lanz glanced down at my hand in Ethan’s, I felt another wave of self-consciousness. What was up with me? I held hands with Ethan at school every day. Why should I do anything different just because someone new was taking notice?

  “Ciao, Malie,” Lanz said. There was that grin again.

  I stiffened. He was so confident. Too confident.

  I watched them move down the hallway, Ethan with his purposeful, I-have-places-to-be walk, Lanz with a crooked saunter. What if they became friends? As I walked to class, I found myself hoping that they wouldn’t. I couldn’t quite explain why, but I didn’t want to see too much of Lanz.

  Three hours later, I saw from my spot in the lunch line that Lanz had made himself at home already. I knew Ethan was eating lunch in the science lab, as he always did in the weeks leading up to the Invention Convention. But Lanz hadn’t had any trouble finding people to sit with. Tables full of kids waved him over. And Lanz didn’t choose just one table, the way most kids did. He moved between tables, greeting everyone with his carefree smile. He seemed just as comfortable talking with the soccer team as he was with the chess club, and gauging from the laughter erupting from each table, everyone found him über-entertaining. I tried not to stare, but it was hard not to.

  When he glanced up at one point, our eyes locked, and I instantly looked away.

  “What a poseur,” I whispered to Tilly, who was studying the sloppy joe on her tray with suspicion. She transferred the sandwich to Andres’s tray, adding to the two there already.

  “Who? Lanz?” She hummed a low note, a sign that she was about to call me out on something. “Doesn’t that seem a wee bit harsh? He’s only been here for a half a second.”

  I frowned in Lanz’s direction. “Nobody makes friends that fast!”

  We paid for our lunches and walked out into the dining area. Tilly set down her lunch tray at our table with a definitive clang. “Mal, you’re having an epically bad day. And I don’t blame you for being totally peeved.”

  I nodded, happy for the validation. From the second I’d told Tilly about the ballet news in homeroom, she’d been brainstorming ways for me to keep dancing. Granted, some of her ideas were over the top (i.e., running away to New York City and camping outside the American Ballet Theatre in hopes of meeting Misty Copeland to ask for her help). But I loved her for refusing to accept reality without scouring for every possible solution. Unlike Ethan. When I’d finally managed to tell him about it in between classes, he’d been sympathetic but also matter-of-fact.

  “Try to see it from your mom’s point of view,” Ethan had said. “She’s doing the best she can.” I knew that was true. But I wanted him to take my side instead of taking his “reason over emotion” approach. I wanted someone telling me how unfair it was. Tilly was doing exactly that, and then some.

  Only right now, when I thought she was going to let me get away with my dig at Lanz, she said, “I know you’ve got ballet angst, but that doesn’t give you a free pass on snarkiness.”

  I sank onto the lunch bench, groaning. “You’re right. It’s just … there’s something about him that …” That made my neck prickle? That made me simultaneously want to stare at him and avoid seeing him ever again? “He’s … too much.”

  “I think he’s legit,” Andres said between bites of sloppy joe. “His locker’s two down from mine, and he has this Italian chocolate. Perugina? He was giving pieces to everybody in the hallway, just to be nice.”

  Tilly smacked Andres’s shoulder playfully. “You think everyone who gives you free food is nice.”

  “Hey! It has to be good food.” Andres laughed as Tilly and I rolled our eyes. “I’m only saying that, even with the ballet stuff, you shouldn’t blame the guy for who his mom is.”

  “What?” I looked at Andres blankly. “What’s his mom got to do with anything?”

  Andres glanced from me to Tilly. “Oh man. You haven’t heard. Soooooo, Lanz’s mom is the new instructor at the Marina Springs Conservatory of Dance.”

  I dropped my head to the table. “Of course she is!” Mom had said the new teacher was from overseas. I looked up at my friends in disbelief. “So she’s the reason the tuition doubled!”

  “She must be an amazing teacher,” Andres said, then yelped when Tilly elbowed him.

  “Not helpful,” she hissed, and he shrugged apologetically.

  I stood up with my lunch tray. “I’m not hungry anymore. I’m going to hang in the library until the bell.”

  Tilly put out a hand to stop me. “Tell me you’re not going to torture yourself by watching Misty Copeland YouTubes.” When I didn’t answer, she sighed, then stood. “I’m coming.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She hugged me. “No wallowing alone. It’s our besties rule.”

  “Don’t argue,” Andres advised me. “You know how she gets when she’s on a mission.”

  That was true. I remembered the time Tilly got it in her head that we should take a class trip to the Everglades to learn about conservation; she hadn’t backed down until our teacher agreed to it. Then there was the time she convinced Andres, Ethan, and me to adopt a sea turtle nesting site. Tilly was intensely loyal to all her causes, which also made her a great friend.

  Feeling grateful, I linked my arm through hers and we headed to the library together.

  I could only hope that the rest of this day wouldn’t be as bad as the beginning.

  Later that afternoon, the storm had passed. As I walked from ballet school to Once upon a Scoop, the weather was sunny and fresh, with a salty breeze wafting from the ocean. Downtown Marina Springs bustled with people shopping and eating at the outdoor cafés. The vacation-y atmosphere only darkened my mood. I’d just had my very last class with Ms. Faraday, which had been hard and emotional. I knew it was likely my very last ballet class—ever.

  When I turned the corner and spotted a line of customers outside the parlor, my mood only got stormier. Now I was going to have to put on a happy face for dozens of strangers.

  And—even worse—there was Lanz, standing in line. My heart fluttered and heat rose to my face.

  “Malie! How lucky to see you!” Lanz said, stepping out of line and walking over to me.

  “Lanz.” My voice was wound tight. “What are you doing here?”

  “What is everyone else doing here? It is hot today, so … ice cream, of course!” When I didn’t return his smile, he added, “Our apartment is not far from here, so I went exploring and found this …” He tilted his head back to read the sign over the door. “Once upon a Scoop.”

  The name of our parlor sounded charming in his accent, but I refused to even crack a smile. “It looks like you’re going to have a long wait,” I told him. “And you got out of line.”

  He shrugged. “This doesn’t matter. I have time.” He took a step toward the end of the line, motioning for me to follow. “It will go fast with company.”

  “Oh no,” I blurted. “I’m not here to buy ice cream. I work here. My mom’s the manager.”

  To my surprise, Lanz’s eyes lit up. “This is even better than I hoped,” he said with obvious delight.

  “I’m, um, not sure what you mean?” I shifted my schoolbag, and he reached to slide it from my shoulder.

  “Please, let me take it.” His fingers brushed my collarbone, and a shiver ran through me.

  “No. Really,” I sputtered. “I’m fine.” But the bag was already o
ff my shoulder, my protests ignored. “So, um …” I struggled to find my train of thought. “Why is my working here such a good thing?”

  “Ice cream! I have, um—how do you say in English—skill with the ice cream?”

  “Eating it?” The sarcasm in my voice was obvious, and I silently scolded myself. I had no reason to be treating him this way. But everything about his cheery, outspoken manner seemed to rub me the wrong way.

  He laughed, looking disarmingly cute. “Eating it, of course. But also making it. I told you before. I am a gelatician.”

  “Um, what is that?” I asked.

  “Ah. This word is maybe not familiar in English? My father owns a gelateria in Verona,” Lanz explained. “He taught me how to make gelato. Ice cream, also.” He motioned to the line outside the parlor. “You’re very busy. And maybe I can help.”

  “You want to work here?” My stomach sank further when he nodded, his eyes hopeful. “We’re not hiring.” My voice was clipped. “The parlor’s on a tight budget.” That was true. Mr. Sneeves wouldn’t let Mom hire any more employees. He said without more sales, he couldn’t spare the expense.

  “Budget?” Lanz repeated, and I could see him silently translating that into Italian in his head. “Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I don’t need pay. I would enjoy helping. I have many ideas for flavors, and—”

  “The parlor owner won’t let someone volunteer to help out. There’s paperwork, and … and …” Now I was making things up as I went along. Yes, Mr. Sneeves had a lot of rules. But I was technically an unpaid volunteer, and Mr. Sneeves had never said anything to Mom about me not being allowed to work at the parlor. “You can’t work here. I’m sorry.”

  Lanz stared at me. For the first time, the smile was gone from his face, replaced by bewilderment.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I am causing you upset.” He handed me back my schoolbag cautiously, almost shyly. The poor guy had just moved here from across the ocean, and here I was, being the unwelcome wagon. “I only thought that you might need someone to fill in for you sometimes? Maybe while you’re at your dance classes?”

  I flinched, feeling an almost physical pain. “I—I can’t take ballet anymore.”

  He caught the quiver in my voice and took a step toward me, his eyes intent on mine. “But why? This was why you looked so sad this morning at school. Yes?” His expression was so focused, like he already understood me. How was that even possible? He was just trying to pull his charm act on me. I was not going to fall for it.

  “Just … never mind. The reason’s not important.”

  “You forget. I’ve seen you dance.” His voice softened. “I think this is not your decision, but someone else’s. Made for you. I think that you would never give up dance on your own. You love it too much.”

  What was he doing, dissecting my soul? “The tuition at the conservatory just got doubled, okay?” I snapped. “It’s too expensive now, and it’s all because of, because of …” Your mom, I wanted to shout, but stopped myself as I saw understanding dawn on his face.

  “Oh, I see,” he said quietly. “I am sorry.” He paused, thinking, and then his face brightened. “But … what if there was a way we could help each other?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “My mother is the new director at the conservatory.”

  “I heard.” There was no disguising the terseness in my voice. “She must be a great dancer.”

  He nodded. “When she married my dad, she was a principal dancer at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan. She danced with the company for ten years before she had me.”

  Wow. That was impressive. I hated to admit it, but it made sense that the conservatory was doubling the tuition, with an instructor of that caliber coming on board.

  “My mother searches for new talents,” Lanz continued. “If she sees you dance, perhaps she may take you as a private student.”

  I shook my head. “I already told you. The tuition—”

  Lanz waved his hand. “This is where my idea comes for helping each other. You can let me help you at Once upon a Scoop, because ice cream is what I love. And in return, my mother teaches you.”

  “But … we couldn’t pay you. And I can’t pay her.”

  “I only want to make ice cream. And my mother, she wants me to have a tutor. To help me with my English. So …” He snapped his fingers. “I will practice English with you and work at this parlor, for free. You will practice dance with my mom, for free. Capisce?”

  It seemed too much to take in at first, too impossibly lucky that this chance should fall into my lap. My heart thrilled. The world, which had seemed darker this morning, brightened again. I could keep dancing, and maybe even talk to Lanz’s mom about Cinderella, to see if I could still audition. Possibilities pirouetted before my eyes.

  Then just as quickly, my hopes fizzled. I couldn’t work with Lanz. If I did, well … I’d have to be near that charming smile, and those curls, for hours at a time. Suddenly, a vision of Ethan appeared before me, his eyes full of purpose and scientific calculations.

  No, I told myself. Working with Lanz was not a good idea. It was a very bad one. But … if it gave me a chance to dance again? How could I possibly say no?

  “I … I don’t know. I’d have to think about it, and check with my mom. But … not today. Things here are too hectic.” I’d put it off as long as possible, I decided.

  Lanz opened his mouth, probably to argue, but he never got the words out, because a demanding “Malie!” boomed from the parlor.

  Uh-oh. Mom. She was standing in the doorway.

  “Inside now,” she said.

  “I have to go,” I mumbled to Lanz. But instead of walking away, Lanz followed me to the door.

  “Signora Analu?” Lanz smiled at Mom. “I’m so sorry I kept Malie from her work. Please. It’s my fault. Not hers.”

  “Well.” Mom huffed, wiping her brow. “She should’ve kept an eye on the time. And the line. We’re swamped. And you’re out here chatting away with … with—”

  “Lanz Benucci.” He shook her hand. “A friend of Malie’s from school.”

  I could only answer Mom’s questioning look with a shrug.

  “Since it’s my fault Malie is late,” Lanz went on, “I’d be happy to help in the parlor. I think …” He nodded toward the line. “… you need it?”

  Mom shook her head, and I felt a wave of relief. She wasn’t going to let him stay. “Mr. Sneeves won’t like anyone who’s not an official employee working with the ice cream. It probably violates health codes, or liability, or—”

  “Excuse me,” a red-faced customer interrupted, “we’ve been waiting for over fifteen minutes …”

  A chorus of rumbling agreements rose from the line.

  “We’ll be right with you!” Mom called, looking increasingly desperate. Then she added to us, “I don’t have the time to deal with this.” She headed for the sales counter and called over her shoulder, “Just … come in and let’s see how it goes. Please don’t break anything.”

  Lanz grinned triumphantly. “Looks like you are stuck on me,” he said.

  “It’s stuck with you,” I corrected him. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”

  “Don’t touch that!” I said as Lanz reached for the buttons on the silver ice cream machine. “It’s, um, fragile.”

  “Really?” Lanz’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “It doesn’t seem so very different from the ones we use in Italy.”

  “The buttons are moody,” I explained.

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  We’d been in the kitchen for about five minutes, which was already five minutes too long. Usually, I felt chilly in the kitchen, because the AC was blasting while I handled cold ingredients. Today, though, my skin was flushed, and my heart hadn’t stopped hammering. As Lanz moved around the kitchen, studying our machinery and supplies, I noticed everything about him, from the way he grazed his fingers along the countertops to the way his curls sloped across his right eyebrow. I would put a sto
p to the dizzying effect he had on me.

  “And … this is your deep freeze unit?” He moved toward the freezer.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “You won’t be using it.”

  He turned to the ingredients lined up in the containers on the counter, and his eyes narrowed.

  “You use these … caramelle gommose in your ice cream?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Gummy bears.” I nodded.

  “And … this gomma da masticare, too?”

  “Bubble gum. Sure. Little kids gobble it up. It’s the neon colors, I guess.”

  His eyes widened, and if I hadn’t been so intent on staying annoyed with him, I might’ve laughed at his expression. It wasn’t an expression of distaste, or haughtiness. It was an expression of legit horror.

  “But where are the fresh ingredients?” he asked. “Fruit from the market?”

  “We use canned fruit.”

  “What about pastries?”

  I shook my head. “We use store-bought cookies and candy.”

  He clutched his chest, falling back against the counter, then shook his head so violently his curls bounced across his forehead. “Never! My father uses only fresh ingredients.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t your dad’s ice cream shop.” For a second, sadness flickered over his features. I felt a pang of guilt, guessing I’d hit on a sore spot. I could’ve asked him about it, but decided not to. I didn’t want to get to know him too well. “Besides,” I added, “you’re not going to need to work with any of the ingredients.”

  He leaned against the counter, folding his arms and giving me that playful, taunting smile. “Okay. Tell me, what am I allowed to do? Count the gummy bears? Or maybe watch ice cream freeze?” So he had noticed my cold shoulder. I blushed and opened my mouth, but before I could respond, he laughed. “You’re trying so very hard to get me to dislike you. I hate to disappoint you,” he added with a grin, “but it’s not working.” My face burned hotter. “I’m not giving up, but I am going to help your mother. I’m pretty sure she’ll agree that I’m safe with a scooper.”