My dad said, “Leave it, David. I’ll get you a new one,” but David didn’t listen.
His chair shot back and he dove after it. “No, David! Let me get you a new one.”
My dad pulled him by the arm, but David wouldn’t budge.
He grabbed the ice cream and crammed it back onto what was left of his cone,
and when the bottom part of his cone crumbled completely away, he started screaming.
It was awful. He was like a two-hundred-pound infant, throwing a tantrum on the floor.
He was yelling words I couldn’t understand, and after a minute of trying to calm him down,
my father said, “Julianna, can you get him another cone?”
The man behind the counter scooped as fast as he could, but in that short time
David knocked over a table and two chairs with his flailing and managed to smear chocolate everywhere.
The checkers and customers at the registers seemed frozen with terror
like David was some sort of monster out to destroy the world.
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