Going Going

Copyright © 2005 Naomi Shihab Nye
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780688161859

Justin's Italian Ice

What if Florrie had not been boycotting TCBY for being a franchise and had stopped there, instead of wandering down to the San Antonio River to cozy, familiar Justin's Italian Ice?

The boy ahead of her in line jingled a handful of quarters. He wore sandals, knee-length beige shorts with many pockets, a thick green T-shirt, and smelled terrific. He was much taller than Florrie, about her age, sixteen, or a little older, and wide at the shoulders. He was staring straight ahead at the list of flavors over the counter, mouthing them perceptibly ... pistachio, almond nougat, cantaloupe, lemon.

This caused Florrie to watch his succulent mouth very closely. He turned and grinned. "Hey, what's best?"

She felt flustered. "It's all good. Depends on what you like."

"Very helpful."

He turned to face the counter.

"Mexican vanilla!" he said.

"But that's ice cream, not ice," said Florrie. "Which do you want?"

"I don't know. I thought I wanted ice cream. What about you?"

Florrie shivered. "Ice," she said. "Definitely ice." September had been very hot so far. Hotter than August, even. He motioned to her to step ahead of him while he made up his mind.

Florrie said hi to Justin, the boy who worked there. The shop was namedfor his father, who had opened it years ago, and had the same name. Justin lived a few blocks from Florrie in old downtown San Antonio. They had known each other since they were small. "Hey," she said. "Kiwi in a medium cup, please." Then, "I saw your photograph in that show at the Guadalupe-yours was the best!" She tried to pull a napkin from the container with her free left hand.

The other boy stepped up to the counter and echoed her order-"Kiwi-in a medium cup"-then looked down to count the money in his hand.

Justin raised his eyebrows at Florrie. "Stalker," he mouthed.

She went to sit outside at a small table with iron legs. A cluster of pale-skinned tourists-where were they from, Nebraska? Minnesota?-huddled together by the river looking at a map. Florrie could hear them mention the Alamo and had to control her desire to tell them to go immediately across the little bridge and head right up the stairs.

The boy stepped out the door behind her, stared at the river a moment, then sat down at the table next to Florrie's. He looked at her as he licked his spoon. "I wasn't really going to sit here," he said. "I was going to take this and leave. But I wanted to ask you something. Are you by any chance the person who was on the ten o'clock news a few nights ago? You look kind of like her...."

Florrie gulped. She was sure he heard it.

"Don't tell me your dad runs Sam's Club," she said.

He laughed. "Hardly! He manages the big Marriott." He paused. "And my mother runs the Gap at North Star Mall." He was grinning, staring at her hard.

Florrie felt momentarily speechless.

Then he said, "Just kidding. My mother teaches eighth-grade English."

"But the Marriott is true?"

"Yup. The Marriott Rivercenter hotel. You know it?"

"I guess so!" Florrie said. "How could I not? It has like one thousand rooms."

He was licking his spoon. "Kiwi's good, by the way."

She said, "Your dad's hotel allows dogs. That's nice of them."

"How do you know that? Did you take a dog there?"

Florrie shrugged, "I ride the elevators sometimes. I've ridden them during dog shows. Sometimes I go to dog and cat shows. Do you ever go? Once I rode an elevator with two Saint Bernards-I almost expected them to press the buttons. It seemed nice that a hotel would let them in."

"Were you visiting someone?"

She paused. It sounded strange. "No. I always go in buildings. Check them out. I enjoy-architectural details. Also I like knowing which conventions are in town, for instance those potato people last week all wearing potato-shaped badges, did you see them? Wandering around is sort of my hobby."

He hadn't looked away, so she continued. "The Gunter and Menger Hotels are my favorites. Plus the Saint Anthony, of course. The old ones. Big chains own them now but they are still the old ones."

"And what did you find at my dad's Marriott, besides dogs?"

Florrie thought he seemed very curious.

"Well, the usual stuff. It's an okay place, but there are too many Marriotts! No offense. There are like four or five downtown right now! I mean, there are too many hotels, period! But once everything gets standardized, it gets less interesting. Don't you think? Fewer kids growing up might feel like they could ever open a hotel of their own, the way Mr. Menger or Mr. Gunter did."

"The truth is," he said, "till I saw you on the news that night, I'd never honestly thought about it. I mean, who wants to open their own hotel? Do you know anybody?"

Florrie did not. But if it were a different world, she might have.

They were both scraping the bottoms of their cups. She wished they'd gotten the large size. She was very glad the Italian ice had been frozen so solidly-it had taken longer to eat it.

What happened next surprised her completely.

She was certain that he was secretly thinking, You are such a dud, but instead he asked, "Have you ever heard that the Menger Hotel is haunted?"

"Of course! There's a whole book about it! Thirty-two different documented ghosts supposedly live in there."

He said, "I know, can you believe it? My uncle once saw the lady ghost playing the piano in the lobby."

"Are you serious?" said Florrie. "So did my grand-father! I always walk through the lobby, hoping to see her, and I never do. And wouldn't you like to see that cowboy ghost who appears in the rooms of businessmen staying alone? Do you know about him? He's standing there when the men come out of the shower. He scares them so much they run down to the desk in their boxer shorts! He's supposedly wearing a fringed jacket, staring out the window toward the Alamo, and turns his head to say, 'Are you with us or against us?'"

"No way!"

"I swear!"

He laughed. Florrie thought he had the richest, most musical laugh she'd ever heard.

Continues...

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Excerpted from Going Going by Naomi Shihab Nye Copyright © 2005 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Excerpted by permission.
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