The Elusive Ice Cream Truck

My friend and I are sitting out back, the tiny backyard seeming to get smaller, and smaller, by the minute. It’s July, and it’s one of the hottest days of the year, so hot you can see the heat waves coming off the pavement. My best friend Olive and I, had tried to put the sprinkler on but my mom came out and told us it was drought season so we shouldn’t waste water. Olive and I were both going into third grade in the fall. We were put in the same class this year for the first time since kindergarten. Eventually, the sun got too hot in the spot we were sitting, so we moved into the small patch of shade and lay down on our backs so we could look at the clouds. Just when I had spotted one that looked like a heart, we heard a familiar jingling sound. It was the ice cream truck! We raced inside and begged my mom for money. She responded by sighing and giving us a ten dollar bill. We said our quick thank you’s, threw on our colorful flip flops and sprinted out the door. 

When we got outside we couldn’t see the truck, but we could still hear its jingle taunting us. We followed the sound, running side by side, our flip flops making angry red blisters on our feet. After two minutes of dead sprinting, we finally saw the truck. It was pink, and had a giant spinning vanilla ice cream on top of it. We finally caught up to it when it stopped at the end of my road. The driver gave us a joyful smile. He had dark hair and green eyes with little freckles in them. His eyes almost reminded me of mint chocolate chip ice cream. When we ordered I got a popsicle that looked like the cartoon character SpongeBob, and Olive got a Spider-Man one. I handed the ice cream man the ten dollars and put what change he gave back to me in the Mason jar, labeled tips. We took our time walking home, savoring the refreshing popsicles that were helping to cool us down. I knew the way back home well; my mom made me memorize our address so she could ensure I would never get lost. When we made it back home our popsicles were long gone, and the only thing left were chewed popsicle sticks. 

“That was the highlight of my summer,” I told my teacher on the first day of third grade. Olive smiled at me from across the circle. This was going to be a good year.