Melting Ice cream

CW: Themes of emotional abuse

I stared at the growing pool of rainbow as the dropped Popsicle lay splattered on the asphalt, the wooden stick jutting out like a sad little flag.

I tilted my head, curious.

The heat slowly coaxed more of the sweet, sticky goo into the swirling puddle. I didn’t know why it was so mesmerizing.

Maybe it was boredom.

Maybe it was because Mama had told me I had to stay outside until the sun went down. School had let out a few weeks ago, and Mama said she couldn’t be fooling around with me all day. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

My small body leaned against the side of our faded white house. My worn out Skechers tapped against each other as I fidgeted with my feet. They were a little holey, but like Grandmama always said, “If it still works, it ain’t trash.”

The ice cream truck only came once a week to our neighborhood. If I’d had twenty-five cents, I would’ve gotten the pink swirly cone with extra sprinkles and the little brown crumbly bits. I begged Mama for it, but she said I was selfish to even ask, especially when things were “tight.”

Pink was my favorite color.

I licked my dry, cracked lips as I stared at the puddle.

Mama didn’t let me inside no matter how much I begged. Not even to use the bathroom.

My stomach growled and clenched at the sight of that dropped Popsicle. The thought of licking it up off the road like a dog was overwhelming. I knew that was shameful. My hands gripped the overgrown blades of grass beside me to stop myself from lunging into the street.

My mouth and throat were dry. I had to wait until supper to eat or drink anything.

Across the street, Sally Mae and Rachel Lily were playing hopscotch. They’d each had an ice cream cone and already finished them, giggling as they jumped and played.

I tucked my chin to my knees.

I’d tried to play with them before. But just like I couldn’t afford the ice cream truck, they didn’t understand why I dressed so shabby or why I smelled funny.

In that moment, I felt like the melted Popsicle.

A pile of goo that no one wanted.

Later that night, when Mama finally let me back inside and Papa came home from work, I sat at the dinner table still thinking about that Popsicle. Would it still be there tomorrow? Or would it be gone?

I picked at my food in silence while Papa talked to Mama about the construction site. He said his boss was being mean again. That Big Man might not even pay him.

Mama sighed and started fussing. Said there was so much she needed to buy. Said it was a lot of work dealing with me. Said she needed the money to get things to make herself feel better.

Papa didn’t look happy. I could tell by the way his jaw clenched. He always did that when he was mad. They’d argued before about money. Papa said Mama spends too much.

I wasn’t allowed to speak.

Papa told me once that kids should be seen, not heard.

Not that I had much to say anyway except maybe something about the Popsicle.

I yelped when Papa smacked my elbows off the table.

“Sit right,” he growled.

I nodded fast, ducking my head so my brown hair covered my face. I always forgot. Papa said it was impolite to sit like that. Said it wasn’t respectful.

Mama gave me a look like I ruined her whole day. “She won’t ever listen.”

I stared at the mashed potatoes on my plate as my vision blurred.

A sharp, heavy feeling bloomed in my chest. The kind that didn’t go away no matter how long I waited. It echoed all through me. I called it the Big Sad Sickness. It always showed up uninvited. It was rude like that.

Mama was so pretty. She had such a beautiful smile. I wanted to tell everyone how pretty my mama was. Maybe if I cleaned more, she’d be happy. Maybe she’d smile at me.

I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. That pretty.

But I’d buy my babies all the ice cream they wanted. Not too much, though. Didn’t want them getting a toothache and all.

I thought about the Popsicle again as I finished eating. I wondered if an animal would eat it, or if it’d get run over and spread across the road like a rainbow smear.

That night, I lay in bed holding Mr. Fluffy, my old stuffed rabbit, close. I stared out the window as the tree branch scraped softly against the glass. It was almost soothing like the ticking clock across the room.

I ran my fingers over Mr. Fluffy’s ears until I fell asleep.

The next day, I stood over the melted goo. Only a splintered Popsicle stick remained.

I’m not sure what I expected to find.

I knew it would melt. I wasn’t dumb. But I thought there’d be more of a puddle.

“Freak!” Rachel Lily shouted from across the street.

She giggled beside Sally Mae, who sneered at me. “What’s she even looking at?”

I slumped my shoulders, their words landing like stones in my chest. I wished they’d be nicer. I wished they’d let me play.

I wanted so badly to be their friend. To play pretend. To laugh.

But I was different.

Weird.

Gross.

I turned away and wiped a tear as I went to lean against my usual spot by the house.

In that moment, I felt just like the Popsicle.

I almost wished it hadn’t melted. It gave me something to wonder about. Something to take my mind off everything else.

I was too scared to go further than the yard.

I got lost once. I remember crying, wandering alone in a strange neighborhood after I got on the wrong bus. My friend had begged me to ride with her, but then I didn’t know where to get off. So I picked a stop at random. Two older girls found me crying on the sidewalk. Their mama saw Papa’s name and number on my backpack.

That was the first time Mama and Papa were ever nice to me.

Mama cried while Papa hugged me tight.

For a moment, I felt like we were really a family.

But now, leaning against the faded white house, I wished I had a different family.

One that let me buy ice cream.

One that didn’t send me outside all day.

One that bought me a pink swirly cone with extra sprinkles.