Crashing Into Blue

Chapter 8

"You two have officially lost your minds this time. I'm serious."

Samson turns his back to me and refocuses his attention to his cotton candy stand. It really is his stand, after working it since our freshman year of high school. He beats out every other concession stand along the boardwalk every summer, whether it's snow cones or hot dogs.

With his back to me, he picks up a paper cone, and dips it into the machine. The wispy strands go round and round, and with an expert flick of the wrist Samson creates a perfect sugary cotton ball, which happens to be bigger than the kid's head who ordered it. He presents it to the little girl with a flourish and a bow, and she blushes in delight. Her parents smile at Samson, and they drop a dollar in his tip jar. I know a dollar doesn't seem like much, but getting tips like this a couple times a day, every day that he works, for the past four years, on top of his salary, Samson has accumulated a pretty penny towards his NYU tuition. No other kids can have tip jars, but the owner of all the stands is an elderly woman with a soft spot for Samson (I think he reminds her of her grandson who lives in another state). Safe to say that Sally at snow cones and Harry at hot dogs aren't too fond of Samson and his cotton candy glory.

"Come on Samson! I really need your help."

"I don't think you need my help, I think you need medical help. You and Indigo must have fallen pretty hard on those little heads of yours to come up with an idea like this."

He puts his hand out to stop me before I can speak.

"And I know it was Indigo's idea, but this is outlandish even for her. And for you to go along with it? These hits must have been harder than I even imagined."

He snaps his fingers at me. "You can even go see Mr. Pre-Med for the head checkup, and you can clear up all your issues at the same time! See, you don't even need me; you're welcome."

"Do you have to be so dramatic all the time, Samson?"

He scoffs at me.

"Me the dramatic one? Let me recap what you want me to do here. You want me to play the role of your doting boyfriend so you can make Patrick jealous that he didn't make you his girlfriend last summer, even though he seems perfectly happy with the girl he chose to make his actual girlfriend in the now? Even though in two months you guys will be living in separate states, never to see each other again?" He runs his fingers through his hair, getting pink pieces of cotton candy fluff stuck in it.

"And another thing; what makes you think he'll even care? There are only two things that are going to get a guy's attention: sex and breasts. And neither of those things have changed with you since last summer."

I pick up the cotton candy sticks and throw them at him. It's anticlimactic since they're paper and the breeze blows them aside without one even making contact.

"What is with you and your sister and wanting to throw things at me?" Samson says as he walks around his stand to pick up the sticks. He tugs on the hem of my maxi skirt, and I push him over in annoyance; he loses his balance and falls onto the boardwalk with an oomph. By time he picks himself up off the ground, I already picked up all the sticks. He reaches for them, but I pull my hand back.

"Apologize."

He grabs onto one end of the sticks, while I'm still holding on to the other. "I'm sorry I said that nothing in those two domains have changed since last summer, because it's not true. Did you go up a cup size?"

The problem with being friends with someone for over a decade is that they learn what buttons to push to annoy you, and when they start to push them, they do so mercilessly. How I thought asking him to do this for me would be helpful is something I'll never know. And the fact that Indigo thinks something more is happening between us? She couldn't be more off base if she tried. I screech in annoyance and I let go of my end of the sticks; he just laughs and walks back behind his stand.

"You know what Samson," I say, "I'm taking this." I walk over to his stand and grab his tip jar, which is looking pretty full since he started this morning.

"Hey! Give that back! I have at least ten dollars in there!"

"Consider it collateral damage," I say over my shoulder as I'm walking away from him and towards the nearest vendor. I spend all the money at Harry's hot dog stand: three dollars on a hot dog and a seven-dollar tip in thanks. I can hear Samson whining and complaining behind me, and I'm lying if I said I didn't relish in it just a tiny bit.