Boot Camp

The air in Sweet Treat, my favorite ice cream parlor, was thick with the scent of sugar and the palpable tension of my friend Mina's indecision. It was six o'clock, and we'd been standing at the counter for ten minutes already, earning angry sighs from the two boys behind us.

"I am telling you pistachio is the best-tasting flavor here," I declared, trying to nudge her towards a decision. Mina, however, was lost in her own mental debate. "But what if I—"

Before she could finish, I cut her off. "Two pistachio bowls, please." The grumpy teenage girl behind the counter muttered something under her breath as she picked up a scoop, clearly as tired of Mina's dithering as I was. Mina gasped, affronted. "You didn't even let me order!" she cried, as if I’d committed a cardinal sin. We took our bowls and walked to our usual small red booth in the corner, our haven for the past four years.

"Mina," I said, rolling my eyes as I settled in, "if I had waited for you to finally make up your mind, I would have hitchhiked to Mars and came back by the time you ordered."

She tied her straight black hair up, resting her fists under her chin like an upset five-year-old. "I swear you are the biggest exaggerator I know. If this tastes bad, you're paying me back."

"Haha—it won't." I took a big spoonful, immediately regretting it as a giant brain freeze hit me. I always thought I was stronger than this. Mina put down her spoon, looking concerned. "You okay, Whitney?" she asked. "Just peachy," I managed, waiting for the pain to subside. Once it did, I took another spoonful, watching Mina's coffee-colored eyes widen with delight as she took her third. Once again, I was never wrong about ice cream.