A is for Cookie (Salt Shots) | Teen Ink

A is for Cookie (Salt Shots)

February 7, 2008
By Mighty.Morphing.Brower.Ranger GOLD, South Haven, Michigan
Mighty.Morphing.Brower.Ranger GOLD, South Haven, Michigan
15 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
Air goes in and out. Blood goes round and round. Any variation is bad.

A is for Cookie
(Salt shots)

It was a Thursday night, which meant play rehearsal. It was play rehearsal, which meant a ride home from Eric. It was a ride home from Eric, which meant fun.

Rehearsal went well enough. There were a few fights, a handful of ‘philosophical disagreements’. Drama within drama, actors acting out. When it was all over, three of us fought for the front seat of his car.

Fran won. Fran always wins.
Eric and Fran were seniors. Kayla and I were sophomores. We were - are – crazy, but being crazy together is much more amusing than being crazy alone. Eric cranked a cd, which was good music, because his taste in such is impeccable. Kayla and I sang along with her mp3 player. His music in one ear, hers in the other.

“Is your sister working tonight?” he asked me.

“Yes”, as my positive reply.
He pulled into the gas station where she worked because he had her wrapped around his little finger, and knew she would pay for gas, since I couldn’t. All of us piled out to go harass her.

“Erin!” he called.

“Buy me something”, Fran demanded.

Kayla and I wanted soup.
She told us to sit. We did.

Eric pulled McDonald’s salt packets out of his coat pocket and smiled wickedly. “We are going to play rock paper scissors”, he told us. “Loser has to take a salt shot”
I lost, one paper to three scissors. With a grimace I opened a packet. “Cheers!” I winced, and threw it back. They all laughed when I lost a second time. Then we stopped playing, which I thought was unfair, but what can you do?

Eric began carving triangles on a Styrofoam plate with a plastic knife. “A is for…” he wondered aloud, scratching it into the flaky surface.
“Alphabet” I suggested.
“Anarchy”, Fran said.
“Cookie”, Eric laughed, and engraved it into the plate.

Erin let us pick out gas station gourmet. Gummy Frogs. Tic Tacs. Drinks that would keep us awake longer than we should be on a school night. She pays with the mail-order checks she just received, and is so proud of.

When we leave, I begin to wonder. This is all I’ve ever wanted. To be surrounded by friends, being inexplicably stupid. This was just one chapter in a long novel of teen idiocy, and I love it all. I hope that it never ends. But when it does, I’ll always remember the taste of salt shots, and that A is for cookie.
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