CHAPTER ONE: PEAS, NOODLES, CAKE MIX, AND DIGNITY
Peas, Peas, Peas. Where are the damn peas?
There is just one thing that is missing from my life right now. After eighteen years on this earth, two weeks away from being confined to cement walls of a college dormitory three hours away from home, unsure if I'm entering a new phase of life like a reborn star or a mid-life crisis barely halfway through life, all I want is one lousy can of peas.
Now I know what you're thinking, mid-life crisis it is. Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner in a pair of sweaty gym shorts and even sweater sneakers with even dirtier hair. Eighteen year old female standing in the middle of the aisle three on the verge of a completely anticlimactic mental breakdown over a can of peas.
There's canned corn, canned carrots, canned yams, canned string beans, and yet no canned peas. The cans are all a mix of red, whites, and greens. All the different brands are blurring together into nothing coherent because none of them say the word peas.
"Ow!" My hand flies up to my head. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed that the culprit isn't a can of peas. I momentarily thought—hoped would be too much—someone saw me in the security cameras and took pity on me. Instead, a box of chocolate cake mix flew over the shelf and ping ponged its way down, smacking the top shelf, the top of my head, and the side of my shoulder, before now sitting on the floor beside my feet.
I go to sidestep away from the suspicious box as another box comes flying over the shelf and smacks me in the shoulder. I almost want to say something but am still trying to decide if this is real or just a not-so-mid-life crisis induced hallucination. I also can't decide whether to rub my shoulder or my head. I would do both at the same time, but I've got a bag of egg noodles that are keeping my right hand compromised. I decide to just swipe up the vanilla cake mix off the floor instead.
I glance around, looking for people and cameras, ideally John Quinones from What Would You Do?, but instead I get a front row seat to another red cake box flying over the shelf. Thankfully, it doesn't hit me this time, but instead lands with a resonating smack against the white linoleum floor. The maroon slice of cake on the front says that it's red velvet.
"Dude! Wrong aisle!"
A guy skirts into view at the other end of the aisle—literally—his sneakers squeak like hot rubber tires against the floor, I'm sure they left black scuff marks, before he jogs his way towards me. He's wearing the maroon polo that all the employees wear and light grey sweatpants. I want to turn around. I will myself to turn around and jog away in the opposite direction, but it's too late now.
The guy stops in front of me, two cake boxes away, and sucks in a deep breathe through his nose, expanding his chest as far as it can go, before exhaling and adjusting to a more relaxed stance.
"Sorry about that," he says, bending down to swipe up the red velvet box. "I was restocking the cake mix when my"—he pauses and leans in closer to the shelf—"idiot friend tossed them over the wrong shelf."
A low grumble emits from the shelf which I guess means his friend heard him.
"It's fine," I chirp as he bends down and picks up the chocolate cake mix. My lips clamp shut again though when he straightens back up, and I'm greeted by his bright green eyes.
We stand there just staring at each other before he extends his hand out. My eyebrows furrow, but then my brain reminds me that I'm still holding the vanilla box. The egg noodles almost slip from my grasp, but I manage to tug both items closer to my chest.
"Oh! I think I'm going to keep this one." Even though it's not on the list my mom gave me, the red spoon on the box signifies it's not just any ordinary cake mix, but rather Betty Crocker cake mix. Part of me wants to ask if it's on sale, but when I glance back up his lips are quirked up to one side, and my rationality flies over the opposite shelf.
"So, vanilla is your drug of choice." Those green eyes are suddenly all too knowing as they slowly circle around me like I'm a mannequin instead of a person. At least mannequins tend to have better style than I do at this very moment. My brain automatically spits out an internal curse, but I quickly shoo it away because I shouldn't care. And for a second, I don't care. I just went for a run in early morning summer humidity—sue me. Sweaty hair don't care. But then our eyes lock again and instead of a box of cake mix, I'm smacked in the face with his grin.
"I'm more of a red velvet kind of guy myself." He holds up the box and gives it a tap with his knuckles. "But if it makes you feel any better these are on sale today."
Insert drooly face and heart eyes. Clean up on aisle three. Mid-life crisis girl has melted into a sweaty puddle.
"I'm Trent." The declaration makes me glance at his shirt, finally noticing the name tag resting there. Trent is quick to follow my gaze and, as if noticing it himself, he points to it with a laugh. "And I guess it's right there."
"Yo! I found the microwavable pizza! All we need are some boxes of hot pockets and our pizza lasagna dreams will be complete." A lanky guy who also happens to be wearing the maroon employee polo throws said frozen pizza box in the air as he saunters down the aisle. Just when the box lands back in his hands, his eyes land on me. "Oh, why hello there." He sends me a slow, television host-like wink before he straightens his posture. "Have you ever had pizza lasagna?"
I shake my head.
"How about burrito lasagna?"
I shake my head again.
"Hamburger lasagna?"
A laugh escapes me just as a dramatic gasp escapes him.
"What are you doing with your life?"
Trent reaches out and shoves his shoulder. "Ignore him."
The kid sidesteps but his gaze doesn't waver. "You know you look sort of familiar. I think we went to the same high school, no? But you were in the grade below us?"
"Yeah, I think so." It would make sense with only about three-hundred people per grade. I can vaguely picture the lanky guy's flopping brown hair under a beanie of some sort, maybe his name was Jack or Carter or something, but then again, it's only been a few months since I graduated, and I've already put up a mental wall between me and the last four years of my life. Once again, I repeat, not-so-halfway-through-life mid-life crisis.
Trent shoves the kid again. "Stop being creepy."
He just sticks out his tongue. "It's called being friendly. You should try it some time."
Trent shoves him again, but this time the lanky kid reciprocates, creating a perpetual cycle of shoulder shoving that only gets more intense as it goes on. I don't know whether to laugh or walk away, but instead I do neither as my gaze falls down.
Trent's sneakers are a mix of grays and have hints of dark blue, but one of the dirty white laces is missing an aglet and fraying, flapping up and down as he gets shoved around. The sight makes me internally cringe, and my eyes dart to the cans on the shelf resting beside his feet.
"Peas!" I gasp before practically body slamming the shelf as I reach for the can. Cue the confetti. Pop the champagne. Assistance is no longer needed on aisle three. Mid-life crisis averted. I'm so giddy that it takes me a second to consciously stop my legs from doing what I hoped looked like a happy dance, not a potty dance, and wipe the smile off my face, but it's too late.
Both boys stare back at me as if I just knocked them both on the head with a box of cake mix. Trent is quick to shake the expression away with a quick wrinkle of his nose, while his friend's face transforms more slowly from perplexity to a smirk, like the Grinch, as his lifts his elbow up and rests it on Trent's head. Trent quickly shoos him off, leaving them both to start another shoving war with snickers and grunts that reminds me of my little sister, which reminds me of my mom and the peas, and the grocery list I still need to complete.
"Well—" I finally step back, making the boys freeze. They attempt to readjust their stances but end up looking more sheepish than composed. "I'm just . . . I'm gonna go." I flick my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis before turning around, ducking my head down, and speed walking away.
"Wait!"
"Ha, too late!"
I ignore them as I turn out of the aisle, taking my peas, egg noodles, vanilla cake mix, and the rest of my dignity with me.
Too bad I get home only to realize all I needed was a bag of frozen peas.
The mid-life crisis continues.
© 2015 ℓαℓαℓαℓαwriting |Original|
© 2019 ℓαℓαℓαℓαwriting |Edited/NEW|
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P.S. Pennbrook is NOT a real college