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Coconut Flavored MiseryKelsey CollierMint chocolate chip ice cream is perfect forwhen you want to say “I have learned my lesson.”It consists of the classic chocolate flavorwhich says I love you and I am consistent inmy love. The mint flavor, which is stronger,implies some sense of positive deviation fromthat love, an improved love. Vanilla is goodwhen having conversations pertaining to sex.That all-too-obvious white begs the question:are you really this innocent too? Have I anyreason to believe that you might be tainted by ascoop of crimson strawberry or dark chocolate?Rainbow sherbet is good for transitional periods.Its multitude of flavors represents an adaptivequality that suggests oneʼs happiness willbe achieved again. Its mixture of warm orangecaring quality and intellectual blue curiositywill help you in unknown territory, while itsgentle yellow will make everyone love you.I know these things because my dad ownsan ice cream shop. My conversations with himover various flavors seem to have defined mylife.I descended the stairs of the apartment above“Lucy and Lukeʼs Lickable Luxuries.” Does heknow what my classmates say his luxuries are?Does he know that Lucy left him and itʼs ridiculousto keep her name on the sign? My dadsat behind the counter grinning, his red bowtie tilted to the right, his shirt wrinkled, andmore than likely at least one sock on inside out.“Iʼm coming to your game tonight Claire. Iʼmclosing shop early just for you.” Every interactionwith him brought more questions, eachone standing in line behind the next until myhead hurt and I hoped that at least one questionmight come hand-in-hand with an answer. Doeshe know that I wonʼt even get to play?During the game, I stared at my dad sittingin a cherry red parka, with the hood up, in themidst of green and white dressed parents, byhimself. I caught on to his attempt to camouflagehis loneliness. He was holding thedayʼs newspaper in his hand. It was turnedto the sports page, and every few seconds histired eyes scanned the field I wasnʼt on andwasnʼt going to be on. Then he would scan theheadlines and would mutter something underhis breath—”those damn Cubs.” My dad didnʼtcare about the Cubs, and he hadnʼt watched anysports games since Lucy left.“Good game, good game, good game, goodgame, GOOD GAME.” I let my hand slideloosely through the opponentsʼ hands, oftenmissing their high fives as I heard their ironicattempts at comforting me over a game I didnot play in and was not upset that we lost.With each successive “good game” I mentallyresponded with whatever I thought might hurtthem most: youʼre too fat to play soccer, youʼretoo slow, you donʼt have a personality.. .theattacks got more personal as I reached the endof the line.32 Spring 2008I hate cherry red. After mentally abusing theopposing team, I passed my dad standing inline with the other parents. I pretended that hehad another daughter he was waiting for, onewho had scored the winning goal and who gavehim a hug after every game, even when herperfect boyfriend was waiting for her. I wovethrough the crowded parking lot, threadingmy frustration between the beat-up Jeeps andrusting Honda Civics. I ended the pattern atmy car, and found Kyle standing there, handsin pockets, head down—shadow covering theright side of his face (the one with the clump offreckles by his ear).“So you guys lost.”“Yup.” I dropped my soccer bag and tuckedmy hair behind my ears. “Leah did a good jobthough. I bet sheʼs happy you were here.”“Yeah, she was. So I was thinking about thebook Iʼm reading. We should hang out sometimeand talk about it. None of my friends arereally into books.”“Thatʼd be cool. Soccer practice gets donearound five every day, so really anytime afterthat.” He moved toward me, the patch ofshadow slowly crossing his face as he shiftedbeneath the lamp light. He rubbed my headwith his hand and then squeezed my leftshoulder.“Iʼll call you sometime this week.”When I parked my car in front of “Lucy andLukeʼs,” I noticed the light inside the ice creamshop was still on. My dad was seated on astool, hunched over the counter, his elbow onthe surface, head in hand. Beside him sat a bananasplit with two cherries and extra whippedcream.I entered the shop. “I didnʼt talk to you afterthe game because I was in a bad mood.” Icouldnʼt say I was sorry. I hadnʼt apologizedto anyone since I was six and I accidentallyspilled Lucyʼs cranberry nail polish all overthe white carpet. I didnʼt tell my best friendI was sorry after I kissed her boyfriend at thehomecoming dance freshman year. Even whenI lay awake every night three weeks afterward—staringat the glow-in- the- dark starson my ceiling, hoping somehow I would besucked into the self- created black holes spacedbetween the neon green bright spots—I stilldidnʼt say I was sorry.“I saw a boy waiting for you after the game.He seemed nice...” He swiveled in the chair.I cut him off before he could finish. “Itʼs nota big deal, he has a girlfriend.”Leaving the room I pushed his empty hopelessexpression out of my thoughts with eachstop to the upstairs apartment. Stair numberthree, I deleted his eyebrows, so that his leftone wasnʼt pushed slightly in to the center.Stair number four, I wiped away his mouthstarting at the sides which were hardly curledup. Stair number ten, I dissolved his eyes sothat tiny dots of blue and green color graduallybecame less cohesive.I began looking at an old photo album of mydad and Lucy when my phone rang.“Hey, itʼs me, Kyle. Sorry itʼs so late, I hopeI didnʼt wake you up. I just realized I havenothing to do tomorrow, so would you want tocome over after practice?” I agreed and hungup the phone.The following day, after practice, we wentfor a walk in the arboretum. It was fall and thetrees were full of burnt sienna, lemon yellow,mahogany, sepia, torch red, and every otherautumn color I couldnʼt name. A stream ofwater ran between the nearly hibernating treesand tied itself in a knot near a fallen tree wherewe sat down. “You seem like a really goodperson.”“You donʼt really know me that well I guess.Sitting next to me in World History doesnʼt reallymake you an expert on my life.” I laughed,realizing how horrible I sounded. “Gosh Ididnʼt really mean it like that—itʼs just thatgoodness is so relative. But thanks”We started talking about random stories andthese tiny segments of conversation stackedupon one another until shadows floated on theriver and we began our walk back to the parkinglot. “What was the best part of your week?”While taking his keys from his coat, hepaused, and lifted his eye brows and lookedat the sky before looking back at me, “Rightnow.”I repeated that line to myself, placing emphasison different parts until the words soundedfunny and not like English at all. I wished Ihad a best friend I could call that would saysomething cheesy like “youʼre just speakingthe language of love.” But I stopped spendingtime with my friends after Lucy left, and ifI had one, she would have reminded me thatKyle had a girlfriend. Girlfriend, I repeated mynew word until I disfigured it as well.I thought about existentialism as my teacherlectured in my World History class, debatingreally had the capabilities to ponder somethingas big as life. I didnʼt think in terms of philosophyor theology, I thought about experiences:being able to fully enjoy peanut butter chocolatebanana milkshakes and the way it feels tohave your back scratched...“Claire.” Kyle waved his hands in front ofmy face and I couldnʼt think of a more welcomeinterruption to my nonsensical thoughts.“Yes? Sorry, I canʼt stop myself from doingthat—zoning out and becoming oblivious toeverything” His brown eyes looked like thebacks of painted turtles, with little gold coinsspeckling the inside near the iris. Should Itell him that? Instead, “so did you finish thehomework from last night? That worksheet waspretty easy.”“Yeah I did, and it was. Hey, we should hangout again. I had a lot of fun with you. Whatabout Friday? Does that work?”“Yeah, Friday sounds great.” We made plansto get coffee and see the midnight movie atState Theatre afterward.At midnight each night that week I noted that