Vanilla Ice Cream

It’s the same as it is every Wednesday. The writing prompt scrolled on the dry erase board in plain view:

Summer

Fifteen minutes to write what comes to mind – that’s the drill – and at the close the option to share, or be chosen if no one volunteers. 

 Someone always volunteers. 

Today is the first day of summer and I assume that’s the reason for the topic. I’ve come to class with my usual bound stack of twenty-eight lines to compress my thoughts in hopes of a passing grade. 

Everyone’s pens are already flicking their pages in quick bursts by the time I open my book. The brief excitement reminds me of the same reflexes used to sail paper footballs through index finger goal posts in Language Arts class. 

Today is a case of writers block. My mind is fixed and floating between the room and a single image I can’t seem to shake: Vanilla Ice Cream. Tiny little drops cascading down sculptured groves.

There’s no sense in trying to fight it or make my pen move in an attempt to string together something worth sharing. 

 So I float. 

I don’t at all feel like I’m stuck to the seat cushion below me even though it’s warm outside. At this moment all of the details feel like they’re part of me – one whole unmovable thing cemented to the passenger side. 

I remember nervously licking the warm drops to keep them from falling into my lap and being surprised when he asked me if I wanted ice cream. It was the first and only time we were ever out alone together and I was curious about him. 

We were only allowed to have dessert on holidays or special occasions. I wondered if away from chaos of home this was who he was.

I don’t remember the transaction just the enormous swirl handed to me on the sidewalk as I reluctantly gripped the paper. I didn’t like vanilla - there was something about it that made my stomach turn. 

I was certain he knew I liked chocolate, but maybe not. 

We didn’t talk in the car. He ate and drove, listening to the local jazz station in his classic tortoise Ray Bans while I made my way around what had to be the biggest tower of soft serve in the state of Maryland. 

After making what I considered an adequate dent my dislike for vanilla maneuvered its way back to my taste buds. Motioning toward the window to eject the cone my observations and internal conversation were interrupted by the cold dialog of the driver. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m finished.” I replied.

“No, you’re not. You wanted ice cream and you got ice cream. Finish it.”

At this the world righted itself and a familiar rush of panic settled in. If we were at home I’d have fought back or refused, but we were alone. 

There was nowhere for me to run after a smart remark. 

No bathroom door to lock or thick wood to race into with the hope he was too tired to chase after me. 

I silently resumed the task of hesitantly licking and hiding defeat. I wasn’t sure how to go about winning a game we’d never played. 

The droplets seemed to be moving down the cone faster than before. I nervously rubbed the ones that landed on my lap into my skin to hide them.

He hated when we made a mess in the car. 

After a few minutes he reached across the car, grabbing my cone and tossing it out his window. I felt relief as we continued the ride in silence - the air of contempt as thick as the swamp-like humidity on the Eastern Shore. 

I was only eight but I understood pulling into the parking lot to meet my mom and sister and stepbrother what I hadn’t at the start: it was never about bonding or love or quality time or sharing. It was about control. 

It would always be about control.

I wonder if people in my class are writing about whole unmovable things right now. I wonder, how long until I find the words to say what I feel? 

I hope whoever reads today shares something other than a synesthesia followed metaphor. 

Statistically speaking I know at least three of the girls in my class have had sex they didn’t want to have. 

Life experience tells me everyone here has lost someone irreplaceable.

And despite his cool nature and perfect clothes, I know for a fact the beautiful tall man across the room has felt ugly and small more times than he can count. 

Today I need to hear those stories. 

As my teacher calls time I realize I’ve spent yet another prompt lost in my head. 

My classmates look pleased as they offer to one another that classic half-smile-nod which essentially affirms they will be the ones to volunteer. 

I keep my head down. 

Another fifteen minutes gone and all I have to show for it is three words lazily scratched atop 28 lines: 

Vanilla Ice Cream

-Katherine Russo

Katherine Russo is a poet, playwright, and businesswoman. Her work has appeared in outlets across the U.S. including NPR, Studio Theatre of Bath, Amazon, and The Huffington Post. When she is not writing, Russo serves as the COO for the retail and wholesale lifestyle brand, Fluffy Layers. She currently resides in Baltimore, Maryland.