Spring 2018; or maybe tomorrow
Sara Rahman was my best friend then. “BFFs, Amber,” she often said to me. And some of the best times we had were while walking home from school.
We joked and laughed about everything – stuff in school, books she was reading, her dorky big brother Ahmed, even some of the sillier songs from “American Idol.”
Maybe we were having too much fun. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone running up to the ice cream truck that came jangling by and pulled over to the curb.
But it was a warm spring Thursday, and Sara had five dollars in her pocket, a pre-birthday present from her aunt, and she loved ice cream.
“Especially butter pecan,” she said. “That’s my very favorite.” So we did stop at the ice cream truck. No butter pecan, but they did have big cones of cookies and cream, so Sara got one of those, and bought me an Eskimo pie.
The Eskimo pie was good, but Sara’s cone must have been better. Not only was it sweet and cold, but by the time we turned onto Hillside, our street, it had taken on an extra identity as a karaoke microphone. She was acting out one of the more outlandish American Idol numbers – I can’t remember now if it was Haley or Sanjaya — singing into the melting ice cream and sashaying down the sidewalk.
“Watch this, Amber,” Sara said, building up to a big finish. She whirled around and threw her arms out in a wide flourish.
And when she did, the scoop of soft cookies and cream flew right off the top of the cone and landed splat! on the side window of a parked silver-gray van. Continue reading A family story for today: “I Hate Dill Pickles”