Free Red Velvet Crush by Christina Meredith Page A

size.
    â€œMedium?” she asks me. I nod. I hate talking to the machine.
    â€œAnd two medium root beers.” She finishes ordering and drops back into her seat. The two old guys in the car next to us look disappointed her ass is no longer on display.
    â€œNot diet!” she yells as I start to roll the window up, and I jump.
    â€œYou done?” I ask, stopping with the window halfway so there is room for the tray.
    Billie nods. “You know I hate diet.”
    I do. Billie would live on pure sugar if she could.
    It is cold today, so our carhop has on a dark brown windbreaker when she delivers our nachos and sodas.
    â€œThe ones in the summer are better looking,” Billie says, eating a chip and staring blankly out her window as our carhop walks away.
    The nachos are covered in that fake bright orange, practically government-funded kind of cheese. They ladle it out of a large black pot and pour it on top of round, salty corn chips here. I’m sure you could get better nachos almost anywhere else in town, but these totally do it for me.
    We sit silently, munching on our chips and taking long, slow sips of root beer. Billie eats in small bites, the cheesiest chips first, then scraping as much cheese as possible onto theones left over, until she runs out and comes scrambling for mine.
    We used to come here a lot with my mom. She could make an order of fries last all night. Billie and I would climb over from the backseat, into the front, where life was far more exciting, full of buttons to push and broken bits of Wint O Green Life Savers stuck into the crack of the seat and an always overflowing ashtray.
    The radio would play low as the carhops swung back and forth in their white sneakers and short shorts, me in the middle and little Billie kneeling at the window, watching the world go by.
    When it got dark and it was time to go home, we’d slide back over into our seats. Mom would drop into reverse, and we’d bite into the whole Life Savers we’d secretly stolen from her purse, leaning in close to each other so we could see them spark in the dark.
    Billie licks her finger and dips it in the drift of salt left behind by her chips. She leans down and runs her tongue along the edge of the plastic tray.
    She sighs.
    I wish we had a radio.
    The ice is melting in my soda. I give it a swirl and stare out over the dash. Somewhere down the road and what feels like a lifetime away, a school bell is ringing for us.
    â€œLook what I got,” Billie says.
    My head rolls toward her along the back of my seat. Should I tell her she has cheese in her hair?
    She digs into her bag and holds up a pack of Life Savers, Wint O Green and brand new, dancing it toward me with a big smile on her face. I smile back. I made it right.
    Her fingers peel back the foil wrapper, and she hands me one.
    I pop it into my mouth. Lean in close and bite down.
    â€œDid you see it?” I ask.
    The cheese in her hair shakes, and she hands me another one.
    We are two tiny little girls, sliding around in a big backseat with minty fresh breath, all the way home.

7
    â€œG ot your next gig,” Winston announces as he steps into the garage the next Friday afternoon.
    It is the end of April, and the sun has been shining for almost a week straight. That is a seriously long sunny streak for us in Oregon. A trail of dust follows him across the threshold, sparkling and swirling up into the sunshine that angles through the windows.
    He has been wandering in and out all afternoon, his old flip phone cradled on his shoulder. That thing has more miles on it than my car. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips. He is hustling for something, I can tell.
    Jay’s amp hums, a tense undercurrent, as we all freeze, staring and surprised. Without saying a word, Ginger Baker walks over and gives it a sharp, small kick.
    â€œUh, don’t you mean first gig?” I ask.
    â€œSemantics.” Winston dismisses me with a wave of his hand