Of Starry Skies and Salty Snacks

Of Starry Skies and Salty Snacks - Grace Wu (Scarsdale High School, 11th Grade)

I dream of pretzels. 

More specifically, a car parked in an empty shopping mall lot, the flickering lights from the high masts above casting shadows over the pitch-black floors. It’s nearly midnight: the birds are silent, the stars are twinkling, and a chilly breeze sweeps in through the half-open windows. 

A cup of Auntie Annie’s cinnamon pretzel bites and a large lemonade with two straws sit in the beverage holders, napkins and all cushioned beneath the oily paper cups. The other cup of plain bites rests on the dashboard before me, constantly being plucked of its contents and washed down my throat with a long sip of my sour-sweet drink. 

Our sour-sweet drink. A person sits behind the wheel next to me, his face obscured by the poor evening lighting. Neither of us bothered to kick up the heat, but it didn’t matter at all. The pretzel bites were warm and soft, baking up our insides. I had my legs curled up on my seat, with my knees nearly reaching my chin. 

I sniffled loudly, bringing up my clean hand to brush the tears off my face. “Did you finish your physics paper?” the boy asks. His voice is even and serene, yet still well-intentioned and tinged with curiosity. There was no playing pretend with him. I take a long sip of lemonade, working my lips around the straw. “Done and submitted,” I reply, passing the drink to him. He sips from his own straw, which is placed about an inch higher than mine through the opening of the plastic lid. I pop another bite in my mouth, letting the salt dissolve on my tongue. I could get high off the smell alone, nevermind the pretzel itself. Salt and cinnamon don’t mix; the boy keeps his sugar-drenched bites far away from mine.

“O’Connor’s still an ass, though,” I add offhandedly. He nearly chokes, lowering the cup to clear his windpipe while cough-laughing. 

“Another eighty-nine, I take it?” he asks. There’s no judgment in his words; it’s never like that with him. He listens. My family can pinch me until my forearms turn blue-green and claw their hands over the fading marks on my thighs, and he’ll still be waiting there, in his car in that same parking lot, with two steaming cups of pretzels and the biggest lemonade size possibly sold. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I love him. I don’t think anyone’s ever made me feel less inferior, less judged, than the boy right next to me. 

“Worse,” I groan, throwing my head back against the seat and pushing my palm up to my forehead, “an eighty-eight.” 

I don’t have to look over at him to know he’s smiling. It wouldn’t be a cruel smile; it’d be that soft, fond one your parents give you when you’re little and do something so remarkably stupid, it’s endearing. That smile you see less and less of as you grow up into your own person, and suddenly, you can’t avoid disappointing them left and right. All. The. Time. 

“I think you should talk to him,” the boy says. “Go over your work. It might help you improve.” 

“Improve, my ass,” I respond, because we’ve had this conversation too many times for him to believe I’d actually water down my dignity and ask my teacher for help, and for me to take his suggestions seriously. It’s always like this, with him. Even when I’m puffy-eyed and snot-nosed, he’d still sit me down on his couch with a cup of too-sweet tea, pat my shoulder, and ask me if I’d finally gotten a boyfriend as I depleted his tissue box. 

(I loved it.) 

“Hmm,” he says, popping another bite into his mouth.

“Hmm,” I echo. My voice sounds nasal because of how much I’ve cried. I’m surprised I still have the ability to speak. “This is really nice.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“I mean,” I barrel on, gradually losing control of my tongue, “do you know how much we’ve spent on Auntie Annie’s right now? Probably hundreds. Hundreds. They’ll see us pull up and go, There’s another twelve dollars, and it’ll add up to a hundred plus by the end of the month. God, my mom is so done seeing that company pop up so often in my monthly statement.” 

“Have a cinnamon nugget,” the boy says, picking one up between his fingers. “Hmm,” I say. 

We fall into comfortable silence after that. The boy opens the sunroof after we finish our food, so we can lay our seats back and look at the stars. In a city like this, you can barely see those tiny dots in the sky – especially if you’ve got bad eyesight like me – but if you look closely enough, you can make out the strings of constellations smiling down at you. No matter how many years pass, it’ll always be there. 

That still sticks with me, even when my alarm pulls me out of my sleep.