Sundae My Prince Will Come Page 8

  “I’ll practice as much as it takes.”

  She nodded. “I am only one of five judges on the audition panel. I cannot promise you anything.”

  “Of course.” I understood how these things worked. But if only I knew how I compared to everyone else.

  “Don’t think about other dancers,” Signora Benucci said, as if she could read my mind. “Think what you can show the judges.”

  She disappeared into her office, leaving me in the studio, alone with my frustration. I thought about the hours and hours I’d spent in this studio over the past couple weeks, while Mom thought I was meeting Tilly for project prep. I fell asleep exhausted each night, only to dream of dance. Would it make a difference?

  I walked out of the studio, lost in my thoughts. I didn’t see the figure standing in the hallway until I nearly collided with her.

  It was Violet Olsen, peering down at me with her sharp, catlike eyes.

  “Malie!” Her gaze flitted to the pointe shoes dangling from my hand. “What a shocker! I had no idea you were still dancing here. I was watching you.”

  “You were?” I glanced at the studio door, suddenly wishing the window cutout wasn’t there. Of all the people to see me here, it had to be her?

  Since I’d quit our ballet class, I’d only seen Violet in passing at school, hoping to avoid any prying questions. Only once, she came up to me in the cafeteria and said, “I’m so bummed to lose my dance buddy.” Uh-huh. Sure she was.

  Now Violet smiled appreciatively. “Your pointe needs work, but A for the effort. Ice cream’s more your thing, don’t you think?”

  I bristled. “Not at all, actually. It’s always been dance for me.”

  “Huh.” Violet nodded. “So this is why you quit our class? To take private lessons with Signora Benucci? I’d love to know how you managed that.”

  I shrugged. “She offered to teach me.”

  Violet’s eyes darkened, but her smile remained unwavering. “Strange. My parents wanted me to take classes privately, but Signora Benucci told them her schedule was too busy.”

  My cheeks flushed. I had to be careful in my reaction. “I don’t really know how it happened. Maybe she ended up with some free time after all?”

  “Mmm. Maybe.” Violet’s smile widened, which made me even more worried. “Maybe my mom can call your mom? Your mom could fill her in on the details.”

  “No!” My panicked voice echoed in the room. More students were filing in for the afternoon’s classes now. The more people who saw me here, the greater the chance word would get around to my mom that I was taking lessons. Dread filled me. “I mean,” I quickly added, “I actually haven’t told my mom about the lessons yet. My dad set them up for me to help me get ready for the Cinderella audition.”

  Violet’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re still auditioning? I didn’t think you could if you weren’t officially enrolled in a group class?” Her mouth was a thin line of barely masked annoyance.

  “I’m not sure how it worked out,” I improvised. I didn’t feel comfortable telling her about the exception that had been made for me. “And the thing is, if I make it, it will be a great surprise for Mom. She’s been stressed lately. I thought it would cheer her up.” Aue. Oh no. I was digging a deeper and deeper hole.

  “A surprise for sure,” Violet said. She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently, as if she were being a supportive bestie. “It’s so cute that you have such spirit. I know we’re going to need a whole troop of mice. You’d look adorbs in whiskers.”

  “Thanks,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’ll be glad to have any part.”

  Violet nodded. “Always a good idea not to set your expectations too high. Though I’m pretty much a shoo-in for Cinderella.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, Signora Benucci’s hinted,” she said offhandedly. “Not officially. I have to audition. Protocol and all.” She tipped her head down. “Anyway, everyone deserves a fair chance. I wouldn’t feel right about being the principal ballerina if I hadn’t earned it.”

  “No. I’m sure you wouldn’t.” I had my backpack in a death grip now. “I should get going.” I turned for the door, then paused. “Um, could you please not say anything to my mom about seeing me here, or my lessons?”

  “Absolutely! I’d never do anything to spoil your surprise.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Sealed.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I let myself out. I tried not to dwell on my run-in with Violet, but dread shadowed me for the whole walk. I didn’t trust her, and now she was privy to my biggest secret. So. Not. Good.

  “I’m here!” I called, opening the back door to the kitchen. Mom was going to be seriously peeved that I was late. I’d tried to hurry, but my toes were so sore from ballet that my walk had turned into a hobble. “Sorry I’m la—”

  My words were lost in the sound of singing. Mom’s singing. I stopped, frozen. Mom was stirring cookie bits into a container of soft, freshly made ice cream. And … she was singing. Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Her hips swayed to the rhythm, and she smiled to herself as she stirred.

  “Mom?”

  She jumped, then looked up at me sheepishly. “Oh, Malie. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Obviously.” I laughed, stepping inside. “Somebody’s in a good mood.”

  Mom quit stirring to grab me in a spontaneous hug. “You’re not going to believe what happened. Mr. Sneeves stopped by a few minutes ago.”

  “Wait.” I pulled away from her, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Mom, do you have a fever? Are you actually happy he stopped by?”

  Mom giggled. “He told me he was impressed, keiki! He used that word. ‘Impressed.’ Our sales have doubled in the last two weeks. Can you believe it?”

  “No …”

  Mom dipped a tasting spoon into the ice cream and held it out to me. “It’s the flavors Lanz is coming up with, and his gelatos. Yesterday’s new flavor was honey lavender, today it’s Cartellata. Here. Try.”

  I slid the spoon into my mouth. Cinnamon cookie bits interspersed with honey-flavored gelato. “That’s flawless.”

  “I know!” Mom snapped the lid onto the container. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure about Lanz’s ideas, but the customers can’t get enough of his flavors. And our catering orders have doubled, too. Having Lanz’s help has made all the difference.”

  “That’s great.” I squeezed Mom’s hand. Her eyes were bright. She looked relaxed for the first time in weeks.

  She slipped an arm around my shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about the school carnival, too. It’s tomorrow night, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. I’d mentioned it to her once, but when she had given me her usual, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re going to be able to go” spiel, I’d let it drop.

  “You don’t have to remind me,” I said now. “I know we’re going to have to work late.”

  She brushed at a strand of hair that had come loose from my ponytail. “Not what I was going to say.” Her smile widened. “I was going to say that since things are running so smoothly with the parlor, and we’re ahead in our monthly sales already, I can spare you tomorrow night. If you still want to go to the carnival, that is?” Her eyes twinkled.

  “Really?” When she nodded, I hugged her until she laughed and cried for mercy. “Thanks, Mom! This is going to be so great. I can’t wait to tell Lanz!”

  She blinked, giving me a curious look. “You mean Ethan?”

  “Oh!” I slapped my forehead. “Yes! Ethan!” How had Lanz’s name slipped out? “I’m going to text him right now.” I pulled out my phone.

  As my thumbs flew over the keys, Mom continued, “Do you see now what a good thing it is that you quit dance? The shop’s doing better. You have free time for your school project with Tilly and for fun with your friends.”

  My thumbs froze. I hated that I was lying to her, still. “Mom, the fact that things are better has nothing to do with me quitting dance,” I said. Maybe I could somehow
steer the conversation to the truth …

  “But you’ve been able to focus your energies elsewhere, and it’s made a difference.” She looked thoughtful, and suddenly, a little sad. “I know what it’s like to waste moments wishing for something that can never be. It’s not a healthy way to live.”

  “You’re talking about you and Dad now. That’s totally different than my dancing.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I loved your father and wanted him to be someone he couldn’t be. You love dance and wanted it to grow into something it couldn’t.”

  “Mom …” I should tell her everything, I thought. Prove to her how wrong she is. But I couldn’t. I was afraid she’d refuse to let me audition for Cinderella, or worse, that she’d forbid me from dancing forever. And we were finally getting to a better place, Mom and I. Now I didn’t want to ruin things with an argument.

  I turned away, grabbing the Cartellata gelato from the counter. “I’ll put this in the deep freeze, and then see if Lanz needs help out front.” I mustered up a smile, then kissed her cheek. “And thanks for the carnival. I’m super excited to go!”

  Mom took up humming again. I vowed to shake off her words about dance and focus on what was happening here and now. Mom was happy, and I loved seeing her this way. I stepped inside the freezer, then paused, taking in the towers of containers rising before me. The freezer was twice as full as it had been before Lanz started working here. It was stacked with flavors that Lanz had invented—Peter Panforte, Rumpeltwixkin, Licorice Red Riding Hood, Bibbity-Bobbity-Mou. Many were blended with Italian candies and chocolate, such as the toffee-like mou I’d tried and loved. I’d been so consumed with my lessons at the conservatory, I hadn’t noticed the transformation taking place right under my very nose.

  I left the freezer and eased the swinging door to the front of the parlor open, peeking in.

  “Buon pomeriggio, Madison!” Lanz cried as a little girl ran into the shop, her black curls and bathing suit covered in sand. He bowed to her and then took her hand, letting her twirl underneath his arm as he said hello to her parents. “Have you come for your Principessa Struffoli sundae?” She nodded, and he breezed behind the counter, grabbing a sundae tray with a flourish. “Va bene, are you ready?”

  He curled a heaping scoop of the Italian-cookie-filled ice cream onto the scooper, then launched it catapult-style into the air, spun around, and caught it in the sundae bowl behind his back. Madison squealed with delight. He wasn’t just making a sundae, he was giving a performance. When he finished, every customer in the shop applauded.

  Lanz turned back to the counter, catching sight of me.

  “Spying on me, eh?”

  “No.” Heat rushed to my cheeks.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You are a terrible liar.” I took two steps into the parlor, and Lanz cocked his head to one side, watching me. “And … you’re hurting.”

  “It’s nothing.” I lowered my voice so Mom wouldn’t hear. “My feet are sore from the pointe shoes. That’s all.”

  He glanced down at my feet, concern crinkling his brow.

  I brushed past him to take the order of the next customer in line. “I need to keep practicing. The auditions are only—”

  “Six days away,” Lanz finished for me. “I know, Malie. I pay attention.”

  “You have to,” I said, scooping some panna cotta ice cream into a cone for a high schooler in a wet suit. “Because of your mom.”

  “I don’t have to,” he said quietly. “I want to. Because it’s important to you.” Warmth stirred inside me, and I started to turn away, but he stopped me.

  “You’re always trying to run away. Have you noticed? I wonder sometimes if you believe dance is all you need. Nothing else. No one else.”

  “I don’t think that. I have Ethan, Tilly, Andres. And—” I stopped just short of adding you, not knowing how he might respond.

  He paused over the cone he was scooping. “And me, I hope?”

  “Of course. You too,” I added, flustered. He studied my face with that quizzical expression he seemed to reserve just for me. That look had grown familiar over the past weeks of working side by side. Even so, it set my pulse flickering every time.

  “You know, you make me think of two customers who visit my father’s gelateria each Friday. An old woman and her pet potbellied pig, Porcini.”

  I snorted. “You’re kidding.”

  Lanz shook his head. “No. This is truth.” He loved to tell me stories about Italy and his dad’s shop, but a potbellied pig? This was a first. “This woman buys ten gallons of pistachio gelato every week for this pig. When my father once asked her why, she said it was to console the pig. Because Porcini dreams of being a cow.”

  I burst out laughing. “Wait a sec. If you tell me I’m the pig in this story, I’ll dump ice cream on your head.”

  “Never.” He grinned impishly. “But Papa likes to get on his knees before Porcini. He says, ‘Porcini, the life of a gelato-eating pig is a fine life. Let it be enough.’ ” He looked at me with one eyebrow raised, until I nudged his shoulder.

  “What?”

  He nudged me back. “Sometimes, you can let now be enough.”

  I paused over his words, my scoop in my hand. Now. What was happening now?

  Now Mom’s smile was resurfacing for the first time in I couldn’t even remember how long, and I realized how much Lanz had to do with that.

  I thought about telling him that, but soon a flurry of customers were rushing in, and there was no chance for any more talking. My feet ached as the hours passed. As the sun began to set and many of the customers headed off, Mom came out of the kitchen smiling (again!).

  “You must have made a hundred sundaes today,” she said to us.

  “More.” I leaned against the counter.

  “I’ll close up tonight,” she said. “You two have homework to do, or Instagram pics to post, or something better to do.” Lanz started to protest, but she waved us both away. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” I replied, then ducked as she threw a hand towel at my head.

  Lanz and I grabbed our schoolbags and stepped outside. The evening had cooled to the perfect temperature—warm but not hot, with a salt-infused breeze blowing in from the ocean.

  “So … are you heading to the beach?” I asked Lanz. “Tilly texted me. She and Andres are down by the cove surfing.”

  “What are you doing?” Lanz asked me.

  “I need to go home and rest my feet,” I said. “Pretty fun, huh?”

  “Well, it can be fun,” Lanz argued, his eyes sparkling. “Do you mind if I join you? I could even help.”

  “Really?” I asked, mystified but too happy to say no.

  Twenty minutes later, Lanz set a large, steaming bowl at my feet. He’d taken over our kitchen, rummaging through cabinets until he found a bowl and the salt, and then he’d made me sit at the table while he prepared a warm salt bath.

  “It just needs one more thing,” he said, digging through his messenger bag. He produced a Ziploc bag full of tiny purple seeds. “Lavender. I had some left over from the ice cream I made yesterday.” He poured the lavender into his hand, then crushed it between his palms, sprinkling it into the bowl. “It will help with the soreness.”

  “You’re an expert,” I teased.

  He smiled. “My mom was a professional dancer. My father used to do this for her when her feet were sore. Back when things were still good between them.”

  I blushed. The fact that his dad had done this for his mom imbued the whole thing with a sort of romantic undertone. Then I blushed all over again, telling myself that I was reading too much into a simple act of kindness.

  The sweet smell of lavender drifted over me. I set my bare feet ever so gently into the warm water. Then I leaned back in the chair, every muscle unwinding.

  Lanz sat in the chair beside me. “You should be kinder to yourself,” he said. “You push and push, without rest.”

  “I have t
o.” My voice sounded so relaxed that I couldn’t even muster a legitimately argumentative tone.

  “Not all the time.” He tilted his head at me.

  “I guess not,” I relinquished. “Lanz?” My heart hammered with what I knew I wanted to say. “That story you told me today? I’m not Porcini. Hanging out with my friends, hanging out with you … is enough.”

  He glanced at me, a slow smile spanning his face. “Thank you.” Two burgundy spots appeared on the apples of his cheeks, and my pulse began racing. I had the sense that something huge was about to happen. “I’m glad we’re friends now, too. It took long enough, but it happened.” He grinned, but this time there was a nervous vibe between us that made the joking miss the mark. “But, Mal, I think—”

  My cell phone buzzed. I pulled it from my back pocket to see a text from Ethan.

  I blinked, reality settling over me full force. Ethan. I was going to the carnival with Ethan. Which was good. No … great! But … I was sitting alone in my kitchen with Lanz. Which was … What was it? What was this? And what had he been about to say to me?

  “What is it?” Lanz asked me.

  “Oh.” I laughed awkwardly. “Just a text from Ethan. I told him I could go to the carnival. Mom decided to let me go.”

  Lanz nodded. “I hoped she would.”

  “Wait … what?”

  He shrugged. “I might have suggested that you deserved a break. One time, or … maybe ten times. That’s all.”

  I laughed. “I can’t believe it. So I suppose I should be thanking you for that, too!” I rolled my eyes, trying to make it seem like all these thank-yous were getting old.

  “No thanks needed. Really, I was being selfish.” His eyes locked on mine. “You would have been missed.”

  I swallowed, not knowing where to look. He didn’t mean he’d miss me. He couldn’t mean that. Only … why did it sound like he did?

  “Not that much,” I said quickly. “Ethan’s used to not having me go. And Tilly and Andres will be glued to each other all night long.” Then I stiffened, remembering. “And … you’re going with Eve Hunter, right?”

  Lanz nodded with an air of surprise, as if he’d only just remembered. “Sì. I don’t know anything about her, but Ethan has many nice things to say.”