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“Not even a little bit,” I answer.

He nods. “Figured as much.” Finishing his snacks, he balls up the plastic baggie and tosses it at the nearest trash can. It falls short by at least four feet. Grumbling, he walks over and scoops it up.

I hear Ari’s car coming before I see it. A few seconds later, the blue station wagon swings into the parking lot, never straying above the five-miles-per-hour limit posted on the signs. She pulls up to the bottom of the steps and leans out her open window, a party horn in her mouth. She blows once, unraveling the silver-striped coil with a screechy, celebratory blare.

“You’re free!” she squeals.

“Free of the overlords!” Jude responds. “We shall toil away at their menial drudgework no longer!”

We get into the car, Jude and his long legs in front, me in the back. We’ve had this afternoon planned for weeks, determined to start the summer out right. As we pull out of the parking lot, I vow to forget about Quint and our miserable presentation for the rest of the day. I figure I can have one day to revel in summer vacation before I set my mind to solving this problem. I’ll figure something out tomorrow.

Ari drives us straight to the boardwalk, where we can binge on sundaes from the Salty Cow, an upscale ice cream parlor known for mixing unusual flavors like “lavender mint” and “turmeric poppy seed.” When we get there, though, there’s a line all the way out the door, and the impatient looks on some of the patrons’ faces make me think it hasn’t moved in a while.

I trade glances with Ari and Jude.

“I’ll go pop my head in and see what’s going on,” I say as the two of themget in line. I squeeze through the door. “Sorry, not trying to cut, just want to see what’s happening.”

A man standing with three young kids looks about ready to explode. “That’shappening,” he says, gesturing angrily toward the cashier.

A woman is arguing—no,screamingat the poor girl behind the counter, who looks like she’s barely older than I am. The girl is on the verge of crying, but the woman is relentless.How incompetent can you be? It’s just ice cream, not rocket science! I put in this order a month ago!

“I’m sorry,” the girl pleads, red-faced. “I didn’t take the order. I don’t know what happened. There isn’t any record…”

She’s not the only one on the verge of tears. A little girl with pigtails stands with her hands on the glass ice cream case, looking between the angry woman and her parents. “Why is it taking so long?” she whimpers.

“I want to speak to your manager!” yells the woman.

“He isn’t here,” says the girl behind the counter. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry!”

I don’t know why the woman is so furious, and I’m not sure it matters. Like she said, it’s just ice cream, and clearly the poor cashier is doing her best. She could at least be civil. Not to mention that she’s keeping these poor kids—andme—from getting our ice cream.

I take in a deep breath and prepare to storm up to the woman. Maybe if we can be rational, we can get the manager’s phone number and he can come down and deal with this.

I clench my hands at my sides.

I take two steps forward.

“What’s going on here?” bellows a stern voice.

I pause. The people in line shuffle out of the way as a police officer strolls into the ice cream parlor.

Or… I could let him deal with it?

The woman at the counter opens her mouth, clearly about to start yelling again, but she’s cut off by all the waiting customers. The presence of the police officer encourages them, and suddenly they’re all willing to speak up on behalf of the cashier.This woman is being a nuisance. She’s being rude and ridiculous. She needs to leave!

For her part, the woman seems genuinely shocked when no one, especially those closest in line who have heard the whole story, comes to her defense.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it sounds like I should escort you out,” says the officer.

She looks mortified. And stunned. And still angry. With a snarl, she grabs a business card off the counter and sneers at the girl who is wiping tears from her cheeks. “I will be calling your manager about this,” she says, before storming out of the parlor to a huge roar of approval.

I make my way back to Jude and Ari, shaking out my hands. My fingers have that weird pins-and-needles feeling in them again for some reason. I explain what happened, and soon the line starts moving again.

After we’ve finished our ice cream, we overpay for a surrey from the rental kiosk and spend an hour pedaling along the boardwalk under its lemon-yellow awning, Ari snapping too many photos of us making kooky faces, and Jude and me yelling at her to stop slacking off and start moving her legs.

Until we come across a group of tourists who are taking up the whole width of the boardwalk and meandering at a turtle’s pace.

We slow down the surrey so we don’t crash into them. Ari honks the little bike horn.