Free Undertow by K Conway

area. I looked over and saw Cara and Jesse waving wildly. “Eila! Hey Eila!  Get your butt over here!” yelled Cara in her high voice. I wandered over to where she and Jesse were sitting.
    “Come for a root beer float?” asked Jesse, smiling warmly.
    “The food is awesome and the ice cream is killer,” said Cara, her bubbly personality shining, near blindingly so. “Move over a bit, Jes!  We can squeeze her butt in with us!”
    “Absolutely!” said Jesse, obediently starting to slide farther to the right. 
    “Oh thanks, but that’s okay.” I said, waving off the warm invite. “I’m just grabbing something from MJ. I’m waiting for him to have a second.”
    “Honey – look around,” said Cara. “This place will be crazy for at least another half hour. So please, SIT!”
    I looked around. MJ and the girl seemed to be on rollerblades as they flew around the shop. Cara was right. There was no way I was getting those keys for a while.
    The wafting, warm scent of fresh cream and fried food made my stomach growl.  I was fairly certain that if I licked the air, I could taste a mint chocolate chip French fry.  I nodded, “You know what? You’re right!  Live a little, eh?” I squeezed in next to Jesse who pulled a red basket of mini, circle shaped fries toward me.
    “Help yourself, best around,” he announced cheerfully.
    “They do smell awesome. I did hear the fries were great,” I said, tossing one into my mouth. 
    Jesse looked at me, an eyebrow raised. “Uh, that’s not a . . .”
    As soon as I chomped down on the “fry” I knew it wasn’t a spud. I shifted the crispy, but chewy lump to one side in my mouth so I could speak. “Is this fish?” I nearly whispered, my stomach starting to twist. Even the thought of eating something with gills made me ill.
    “No, no,” he said, waving off my panic. “Nope, not fish.”
    I eyed him carefully and took a tentative chew.  It still didn’t taste like a fry.
    “Seriously – it isn’t a fish,” protested Jesse at my obvious disbelief.  I finished chewing and swallowed, trying to convince myself it was some sort of veggie, but was having a hard time buying it. 
    I wiped my mouth with a napkin and narrowed my eyes at him and the basket of suspicious, fried rings. “Not fish? Really?”
    “Nope,” said Jesse, taking a swig of his root beer float. “It was a CLAM BELLY!”
    “ACK!  CLAM?  Oh gross!” I wanted to puke, preferably all over Jesse.
    Cara was chuckling. “Here – have some,” she said, sliding her milkshake toward me, a huge smile on her face.
    “Oh thank god!” I said and greedily took a cool, creamy gulp to eliminate all remnants of my briny snack. The ice cream was truly a gift from the gods. “Wow.  Now that is ice cream,” I gushed.
    Jesse’s cell phone rang and he snapped it open, greeting the caller loudly in some male-jock lingo that was tough to get a grasp on. I tuned him out.
    “So, you’re buying MJ’s Wrangler, huh?  Nice ride!  I’m envious,” said Cara.
    I looked at her, surprised that she knew I bought it and more floored that she actually knew what the 4x4 was called. “Uh, yeah. Came here to get the keys.  How did you know?”
    “Hun – this is the Cape. Small town. That and, well, have you seen the hunk of junk he is driving now? No way he would willingly park the Wrangler and drive that old thing,” laughed Cara. She began chatting a mile-a-minute about who’s dating who and the local gossip, barely pausing to take a breath.  She was nice, but standing by the screen door seemed like a much better option in retrospect.
    The weathered bell heralded the arrival of another patron and I glanced over. Coming through the door was none other than Nikki and one of the Pompoms. 
    She didn’t see me seated in the far corner with Cara and Jesse.  She strode in, her superior mentality obvious in her every move.  Two younger girls, probably freshmen, were seated at the counter, chatting happily.