|Half Awake (standard:other, 0 words)|
|Author: AJ||Added: May 31 2001||Views/Reads: 2110/1163||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Two friends bond in a time of crisis.|
Half awake, I poured myself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Ceetee was sprawled across the couch, spooning Ben & Jerry’s chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream directly from the container, watching The Price is Right. I sat on her Burton forward-tilt thick maroon snowboard socked feet. “Ice cream...for breakfast, Ceetee?” I asked dubiously. The ice cream, Fruity Pebbles, packages of Cup O’ Noodles, Rice-A-Roni, macaroni and cheese, jujubes, and the carton of Marlboro Lights that lined the cabinets and freezer were a result of yesterday’s celebratory shopping spree. We were celebrating our newfound independence, and the fifty dollars a day EACH my parents had left for us. Seeing Ceetee’s exuberance at our freedom, I’d pushed away the nagging thought that maybe my brother was really badly hurt if my parents, within hours of hearing the news of his accident, had so freely shed their money and their youngest child to fly to the hospital in Nebraska. Ignoring my ice cream question, Ceetee gave me her daily weather forecast and fashion suggestion. She liked to watch SkiTV, the Snowmass channel, which listed conditions, weather and grooming reports each morning. “It’s going to be warm and sunny today. You should wear your red tee-shirt and your black ski pants...and bring your grey sweater.” I took deep breaths of the thin, Rocky Mountain air as I clicked my boots on. My parents had left us Ski School tickets to use while they were gone, but Ceetee and I had unanimously voted down Ski School. For one thing, they always put Ceetee in a lower class than me, no matter how much we complained, and for another, we always ran into the butt-touch instructor, who had been feeling our asses since we were ten. We were thirteen, plenty old enough to ski alone. “Some people call me the Space Cowboy Some call me the gangster of love Some people call me Maurice...” Ceetee and I ignored the annoyed glances of the people in the chairs in front and behind us as we “ree-reed” at the top of our lungs. We swung our legs, making the chair rock dangerously, and threw snowballs at the skiers below. We lit up our Marlboro Lights, our cheeks vibrating and sneezing out our noses to keep from coughing when we inhaled by accident. We crunched our frozen strawberry mentos, and screamed at people we thought looked loserly (“Hey white shirt! Hey white shirt! Do you think that hat is ugly enough?”). We went down Garrett’s Gulch, our favorite trail, a dozen times, skiing straight down the huge moguls without turning, and helped each other up when we fell, harvesting sunglasses, mittens, and hats off the snow. We chatted with the lift operator, Tim, every time we finished, making fun of the lame trivia questions he scrawled on the dry-erase board daily—name all seven dwarves—and struggled to answer them correctly. With all of our money, we went into Aspen on the shuttle bus, splurging on really cool sunglasses—mine had purple lenses and clear frames, and Ceetee’s were silver with black frames. We ate hot pretzels from the Caboose, licking fake cheese off our fingers. We walked boldly into bars, marveling at how the bartenders carelessly poured us beers, despite our obvious youth. We chose the beers with the most interesting names...Pig’s Eye, or Zima. They were disgusting. When Ceetee wasn’t looking, I’d pour mine into her glass. When I wasn’t looking, she’d pour hers into mine. We searched every inch of the town in search of celebrities, ignoring Sylvester Stallone at the supermarket, not caring about Maria Striver in the Heather gallery, and shrieking as we attacked Will Smith on the streets. We went to Skifoto and ordered mugs with the picture of Will and us on them. My parents called every day. “How’s Kevin? Can I talk to him?” “No, honey, he’s still getting over his surgery.” Click here to read the rest of this story (54 more lines)
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