The Almost Summer

Chapter 3: Mr Whippy vs. The new guy♥

Summer jobs. Everyone has one; otherwise your summer would just be too enjoyable - according to my parents.

This is why from eleven o’ clock until four – Monday to Thursday - I stand behind the counter of Two Scoops ice cream shop in an itchy polo shirt and shorts, serving ice cream to bratty kids and teenage couples. To be fair, it is better than the deal that Charlie got: working odd jobs for the old lady down the road and babysitting for the Tanner's every second Wednesday. I’ve worked here for the past two summers, even though I’m probably the worst employee that there is.

I just can’t scoop ice cream. It crumbles into gloopy lumps that splat onto the tiled floor with an embarrassingly loud sound. The first year of working here a co-worker drew a bullseye on the floor in pink chalk, complete with a scoring system. By the second year even the customers were in on it, and some regulars placed bets on how much I’d score by the end of the day.

I’m surprised I haven’t been fired yet, but then again maybe not. I always turn up for work on time and so far haven’t broken any of the machines, and my vanilla milkshakes are legendary.

So I’m standing behind the counter, and it’s one of those days when the air is just so heavy and weighs down on you stiflingly. I scratch my ankle with the side of my flip-flop. Two Scoops is dead, now’s the time everyone is getting lunch. Normally there’s two people working behind the counter, but Jenny - who is my usual co-worker - moved to somewhere in Wiltshire, and her replacement hasn’t turned up yet.

I grab a flake from the box and stuff it in my mouth. It’s against the rules, but I’m starving, and no one’s around to see. It’s as I’m chewing that someone walks in, and I try to swallow so I don’t look guilty. Of course, I start to choke.

I double over coughing, trying hard to breathe.

“Crap!” Someone yells, and then I hear the counter swinging open and it’s suddenly very cramped in the tiny space. “Are you alright?” They're asking and I wave my arms around to convey that I’m definitely not alright.

As I’m waving my arms around I feel my hand connect with something, and there's a bang as the trays of marshmallows, skittles and flakes crash onto the floor. “I don’t know the Heimlich!” He’s saying, definitely sounding panicky now. I wave my arms around some more, still making weird strangled sounds.

I feel arms around my waist, and a fist whacking my stomach. Immediately I cough out a disgusting sliver of flake chocolate into my hands, and stumble headfirst into the bin. I and the rubbish go sprawling out on the floor, covering up the pink bullseye.

I gasp as something cold trickles across my bare legs. Looking up, I see that the other person must’ve fallen into the Mr Whippy machine, and hit the on button. It’s now squirting rapidly out of the dispenser, covering everything in a thin white layer.

I jump to my feet, randomly hitting buttons on the machine, trying to stop the ice cream that’s already spread out across the tiled floor. It is immediately clear that the machine's broken.

“Help me!” I yell at the guy, who is still sat dazed under the machine. He leaps to his feet at once, seemingly ready for anything, and then stops.

“What do we do?” He asks me, and I stop aswell. I spy the tubs and toss him a pack, already ripping open my own and holding it up to the nozzle.

We’re both laughing and squealing as the ice cream drips over our fingertips and arms. The tubs are only small, and they fill up quickly.

I hear the bell of the door chime, and a group of voices.

“Hey Autumn, how are thing’s going- hey? What’s going on?” I hear someone say, someone who sounds a lot like…