14 15 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW sheltered underneath during a pop-up storm. I tried not to be afraid, even though I knew it wouldn’t keep us safe from the lightning. I could practically feel the electricity balling up on my fingertips, the way the air heated and cooled at random, gusty increments, stirring up a stench of rotten seafood. Now, the boardwalk is rubble. I step forward towards the counter and notice that they’re cleaning the blender. Three girls are back there, all college-aged like me, each of them not standing still for more than a zeptosecond. The one who waited on me, with the buckeye eyes, is the one cleaning the blender. I assume this is why it’s taking so long. She can’t make a frappe without a blender. I keep an eye on my rosesweatered neighbor. She’s been here for almost as long as I have, right? I turn to the windows, which obviously face the tarmac. Clouds have packed the horizon to the brim, seamless. This morning, the sky was cotton and blue mottled, filling in white on the car ride to the airport, royal icing flooding exposed cracks. It’s the one day Florida hasn’t lived up to its Sunshine State title. Still, I know the sun is up there. It’s the kind of cloudy day that makes you want to squint. My plane’s polished top flashes under the invisible sun like a bald man’s head. I think about hurricanes, how they ripped away the Dairy Queen. How they coerced construction workers to dump truck-fulls of imported sand over the pre-existing sand, covering all the shells. The best shells I’d found this trip were not from the surf but rather, the toosoft sandbox sand at the top of the beach, too far from the water. To me, that doesn’t even count. By now I’m starting to get nervous. Unbeknownst to me, Ms. rose-sweater is gone. I have almost certainly been waiting longer than anyone else. I approach the counter. “Um…excuse me?” My heart throbs in my throat. Thu-dump, thu-dump. “Yes?” It’s buckeye-eyes again. Guilt hits me like a wave (but one from the Atlantic side of Florida, not the gulf). “I’m so sorry…I ordered a peppermint mocha frappe about 20 minutes ago? I just wanted to make sure you guys didn’t forget?” “What’s the name?” “Haley. I’m so sorry.” “I don’t see it.” She glances at the labeled cups up by the cash register, sharpie-scribbled with names, and then returns to making drinks. “Uhh.” My face warms into a blaze. I can feel one hot glob of sweat dripping down my left armpit. As a last resort, I look down at the drinks already set out to be picked up on the counter. There, in a festive, grooved paper
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