Snack (4 page)

“R-r-r-r-r-r-r, r-ooof!”

“Minnie, your purse is barking.” Snack chuckles.

“Oh my God, Wookiee!” Wookiee responds with a pitiful whine. I was so overwhelmed by Snack I forgot about Wook hanging out in my purse. I shake myself out of my Snack-induced coma and open my purse to a wide-eyed, shuddering puppy. “Oh, baby boy, you must be a little frozen chicken nugget by now.” I place my purse on the closest table and pull off my coat. Snack takes it from me and throws it over a chair. I leave my beanie on, unsure how my hair looks underneath.

Wookiee reprimands me with a few more hoarse half-barks as I lift him out, nuzzle, and kiss him. A Yorkie in a lumberjack outfit must ring some sort of universal cuteness alarm because I’m surrounded before I know it. Colette grabs Wook and me and hugs us tight in her arms. Snack follows suit and engulfs us in his massive hold, all six foot three of him. The Snackenbergs are a family full of huggers—you know, nose to toes, every bit of your body smashed against the other person. No modesty gap or, as my ever-so-classy brothers would call it,
boner gap
. A Snackenberg hug was the best kind of hug and I was the lucky recipient to have…
four
of them? Two pairs of small arms belonging to an unmistakable golden-haired girl and boy squeeze my legs. I smiled down at the two of them. Snack’s children. I’ve only ever seen their pictures on Christmas cards. Every year I knew to expect a cute card with their happy faces smiling wide for the camera. Just not this last Christmas.

“Can we play with your puppy?” the boy asks.

Snack reaches down and gives the little boy’s hair a ruffle, “Hey, buddy, give Minnie a second.” The little boy’s face falls. Wookiee wriggles, trying to free himself to get to the boy.

“Sure, you can,” I reply. I’m instantly met with a smile that rockets me back to this same place in 1988 when I was smuggling a different animal in my clothes. And this little boy? He’s a carbon copy of his dad. Great! Another tiny lady-killer stalking the streets of Downers Grove. I’m about to put Wookiee on the floor but think better of it. We
are
in a restaurant, after all. “Colette, is it OK? For Wookiee to be in here?”

Colette surveys the place. Apart from us, there are a couple of college kids in the corner probably home on winter break, and a guy by the window with a guitar, writing things in a notebook.

“It’s fine, honey. I don’t think there are any health inspectors out on a snowy Friday night. Usually as long as dogs are held they can be in here, so go ahead. Let the kids play with him. They could use some fun!”

Snack is shaking his head, “Do you always show up here hiding pets in your clothes?”

“Evidently, yes.”

I plop Wookiee on the floor and he breaks into a chase after the kids back to the play area by the fireplace. He’s as happy as they are for the novelty of a new playmate.

Once the kids and Wook are occupied, I become aware that Snack hasn’t backed away from our hug and is resting his hand on my lower back, his inner forearm grazing my side. His touch unnerves me. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “I wanted to introduce you to my kids—”

“Aiden and Sofia, right?” I turn my head an inch to purposefully feel more of his breath on my face. I close my eyes briefly and absorb the tingling it causes before adding, “But you call Sophia Fifi.”

Snack stays close, but seems surprised I know the kids’ names and Fifi’s nickname. “How did you?”

I don’t understand why it should surprise him. Doesn’t he know?

Then his face breaks into a large toothy smile as he realizes, and we say in unison, “Christmas Cards.”

SNACKS is only open for another hour, and my dad should be here soon to get me. As a matter of fact, I wonder why he didn’t come get me at the train station like he said he would? I hope he’s OK. I shift my gaze out the front windows, craning my neck in search of him. I should probably check my phone, but for some reason I ask Colette.

“Colette, you talk to my dad, right?” Colette blushes a little when and Snack snorts. Weird. “He said he’d meet me at the station, but he’s not here yet.”

“Oh, Minnie, honey, I forgot with all the excitement of you arriving. Gil called. He’s on his way. The snow drifted against his tires and he had to dig out. I told him I’d be on the lookout for you.”

Snack raises his eyebrow at his mom. “Wait. You knew she was coming?”

Colette grins at me and then at Snack. “Yeah, sweetheart. Gil and I thought you needed a happy surprise.” She pats Snack on the shoulder and ushers us to a table away from any of the remaining customers. “What can I bring you both?”

I start to protest that Colette doesn’t need to wait on me, but she insists sweetly that it’s no problem. At first, I order a grande latte but change my mind after Snack orders a hot chocolate. I’ll have to persecute him for ordering the drink of a tween girl, but it sounded good the minute the order left his naturally pouty and now pink-from-warming-up-after-being-outside lips.

“OK, I’ll be right back with those,” Colette chirps. She turns to leave but spins back around and tilts her head. “It’s so good to see you two together again.”

Colette and Snack share an unspoken moment before he says, “Thanks, Mom.” His voice cracks and he clears the thickness out of his throat. He smiles. “Are you sure, Mom? You weren’t always so happy to see us together.”

Colette turns and walks away, waving away Snack’s comment with a flick of her hand above her head. “Yes, I’m sure. Even if I know you two together usually meant trouble.”

Colette is completely, unequivocally right. The combination of Snack and me equals, or should I say, equaled, trouble. Not like bad criminal trouble. More like mischief. It’s what turned us into best friends.

Soon after Snack and I first met when we were kids, we kidnapped Snack’s neighbor’s cat. Our reasoning for doing so was sound in the minds of a couple of six-year-olds. The kitty was always crying at the neighbor’s door and it was getting cold outside. We figured the neighbor didn’t love it, so we took it in. It lived secretly in my bedroom for a week. Snack and I saved food from our dinners to feed it. It wasn’t until my dad smelled the stifling stench of cat urine coming from my room and discovered my body riddled with a bazillion fleabites. We had to evacuate our house and have it fumigated. That was when we realized
why
the neighbor’s cat lived outside.

Another time we gathered up all the kids on Snack’s cul-de-sac and the big chocolate lab Rollo that lived near us and took off for the park without telling a grown-up. At the park we found a big beehive hanging from a branch. In the
Winnie the Pooh
books, Pooh is always eating honey and says it tastes so good, so we convinced Pierson, the booger-eater that lived on the corner, to knock the hive down so we could eat the honey. We didn’t figure on the bees. They swarmed around all the other kids who didn’t run off when the hive hit the ground. They were stung so badly an ambulance had to be called. It was lucky for us that when our parents found Snack and I hiding out with Rollo in Snack’s bedroom closet. They were more relieved than angry that we had the sense to bolt after dropping the hive and not get attacked by killer bees.

When we were thirteen we set Mr. Gary’s, Snack’s neighbor, lawn on fire on the Fourth of July. There was a really bad dry spell that summer and no one was allowed to water their lawns or flowerbeds. All the yards were crispy and crunched under our feet when we walked over them. It wasn’t our fault that his grass caught fire. It was the Fourth. How could you not wave around a sparkler or two or twenty?

The fire wasn’t
that
bad. It only took the
small
fire truck to put it out.

In every case, we got punished. Worse than being spanked, our parents grounded us from seeing each other. They couldn’t have picked a more punitive sentence. Many mornings, Snack would be at my house when I woke up. I spent every afternoon and evening before the streetlights came on with him. There was rarely a day we didn’t hang out. It killed us to be apart from each other. As far as I was concerned, Snack was my best friend and the best thing to happen to me.

The one that sticks out the most was, as it is known in our families, the
Lake Geneva Incident.
It wasn’t about being naughty. None of our hijinks really were. No, the Lake Geneva Incident was about Snack not wanting to leave me and me not wanting him to go. It was 1994. Kids didn’t have cell phones. There was e-mail, but Snack’s parents didn’t have a computer at the cabin. Long distance was expensive and not the same as being in the same room. How were we supposed to talk to each other when we were going to be separated for eight weeks?

There are suitcases in various stages of being packed all over the place in Snack’s living room, boxes full of non-perishable foods and swim bags with suits and flippers sticking out of them. Snack and I are playing Sonic the Hedgehog 3 and narrating the game to avoid talking about the fact that we’re not going to see each other for a long time. At least that’s what I’m doing. He might be doing it to distract me because I’m totally kicking his ass.

“Snack, we’re leaving for Lake Geneva in forty-five minutes. Don’t wander too far away!” Colette yells down the staircase.

“Mooooom!” Snack drags out her name in a moan and then sarcastically adds, “I’m twelve years old, woman. I don’t ‘wander’ anywhere anymore. I know where I’m going. I have direction!”

I giggle. I don’t know anyone else who can get away with saying the things Snack does to his mom.

“All right, Mr. Focused.” Colette always knew how to respond to Snack’s snark.

Snack cocks his head, makes a goofy face, and jerks his head toward the door. He suddenly shuts down our game, which I object to by opening my mouth in shock.

I recover in a heartbeat. “What? I was winning,”

Snack grabs my hand, pulls me off the floor, and out of his house.

Once outside he drags me over to our bikes that are laying in the front yard as usual.

“Let’s go get ice cream.” Snack hops on his bike. When I don’t move fast enough, he eyes my bike and then me.

We only have a short amount of time to get to our favorite ice cream parlor The Frosty Station, down by SNACKS.

Concerned, I bite my lip. “Are you sure?”

Snack nods. A clever gleam in his eye sparkles when he says, “Yep.”

We head down the street toward the ice cream place, but when we get to the end of the block, Snack starts pedaling really fast—like lightning fast. Like someone-is-chasing-him fast. And then, he turns in the exact opposite direction of The Frosty Station. Evidently, we aren’t going there at all. I pedal my BMX bike as fast as I can, but I’m shorter and smaller than Snack, and I have to work harder to stay with him.

When I finally catch up, I yell, “Snack, what the
hell
are you doing? We’re going the wrong way! And my legs are aching.” I rub my calf.”You made me pedal so fast.”

Snack just shrugs. “I decided I wanted to go somewhere different. I’m tired of The Frosty Station. I wanted Jamoca Almond Fudge. Only one place to get that—”

“Baskin-Robbins,” I finish his sentence. “But that’s pretty far away. On the other side of the highway.”

Snack only nods and starts pedaling faster again.

“Hey, Snack. Um, can you slow down a little,” I gasp. “You act like you’re being chased. What are you running from?”

I’m not really thrilled about biking on these bigger roads with more cars. We’ve never biked this far from home before and the vehicles are too close. Whenever a truck goes by I’m afraid I’ll lose my balance, fall off, and get crushed. Snack slows enough so I can move along next to him and we bike a little longer silently. He doesn’t look at me either. Finally he answers my question.

“I’m running away from vacation.”

“What do you mean? ‘I’m running from vacation.’”

Snack doesn’t clarify and I’m starting to get annoyed. He’s acting weird. Maybe this isn’t just about going on vacation. Snack points out that we have arrived at our destination. We lean our bikes against the mailbox out front and go into Baskin-Robbins. Snack gets his Jamoca Almond Fudge cone and I order Daiquiri Ice in a cup. When I dig into the pocket of my jean shorts for change, Snack grabs my wrist.

“I got it.”

Again, weird. He’s never paid for anything for me before.

I tilt my head and say, “OK.” and take a bite of my Daiquiri Ice. It’s sweet and sour at the same time, refreshing after our long, hot ride. Snack and I sit on the curb next to the mailbox and quietly enjoy our treats. Snack is acting so strange and I’m pretty sure he, no—we, actually, are going to get in big trouble for biking so far from home. I don’t even know how long we’ve been gone. When I finish my last bite, Snack takes my dish and spoon out of my hand and places them on the curb next to him.

“I’m running away from vacation for as long as I can because I’m not excited to go to Wisconsin. I’m not excited about leaving Downers Grove for the summer. I’m… I don’t want to leave… you. My girl.” Snack stumbles over the last few words, and I almost can’t believe what he’s saying. But I feel the same way.

I gulp and then cover my awkward excited embarrassment with a laugh, mostly because Snack’s words feel different. Serious. He’s never talked to me like that before except when he first called me his girl when we were little. That was ages ago. Through my giggling I tell him, “You’re gonna be in big trouble. Correction: We’re gonna be in trouble!”

Snack laughs nervously, too. “I know.” He gets serious again and brings his face really close to mine. I can smell the Jamoca on his breath. “And I don’t care if I get in trouble.” And with that, Snack kisses me. His lips press firmly against mine. They are cold from the ice cream and warm underneath. And sweet. So sweet.

I close my eyes. This might be the best feeling in the world. Better than ice cream or when Darth Vader admits he’s Luke’s father or… I don’t know. I lose the ability to retain rational thought, I think. The kiss is not a peck like my baby brother gives me on the cheek. It’s not a gross openmouthed kiss like in the movies, all slobbery and spitty. It’s just right.