Saturday's Storyteller: Cheese Puffs
by Belinda Roddie
We didn't have much in common in fifth grade, but one thing we always bonded over was cheese puffs. I think it started after I finished up a soccer game, and since her parents and my parents were mutual friends, they dragged me over to her piano recital on the same night. I remember sitting in the front row with grass stained knees and dirty cleats and a fraying jersey, wishing I could be anywhere else. And I'm sure she played well - I mean, I know she's a brilliant musician now - but I wasn't exactly paying attention.
Anyway, after the recital, we were waiting by our parents' cars as they talked about grown-up things and what not, and I remember her ripping open a huge bag of cheese puffs. Just a ginormous bag - not a personal helping, but a feast. I felt my ten-year-old mouth salivate; after all, I hadn't eaten anything since that stale granola bar during halftime of my game. She noticed and smiled.
"My dad always lets me have cheese puffs after a recital," she told me. "You want some?"
Did I ever. And I hate to say it, but that's how she and I became friends. I was slowly becoming the jock in middle school, and she joined the jazz band and was always the keyboardist for combos. We lived in stereotypically separate worlds because that's how American society works - the athletes stick together, and the nerds conspire over dice, and the musicians mull over sheets of notes and rehearsals. I had my own posse, and she had her buddies in brass and woodwinds, her fingers also fidgeting in math class when she didn't have ivories to tickle. It was interesting to watch when I didn't want to pay attention to the quadratic formula.
But every Sunday, when our parents got out of church and had a friend date at her house, she and I would always end up on the porch, eating cheese puffs and talking about the latest movies and our classes and anything we felt like we could relate to. Our fingers would get all greasy and orange from the junk food, and I'd go all out on cleaning them up - even scraping my teeth against my skin to get every last particle of cheesy residue. She'd laugh and call me gross, but then I'd catch her doing the same thing and call her out on it. We teased each other a lot, but always amicably. That hasn't changed.
Well, high school rolled around, and we typically were in one class a day. She was off at state competitions, winning medals for piano and jazz. I was constantly pushing my team to the state sectionals, and that got me to captain of junior varsity fast - I was co-captain during junior year, on the varsity team. Eventually, we didn't see each other that often. But she did go to my games. Sometimes, I'd catch her sipping a soda and munching on those damn cheese puffs, and once the game was over, I'd march over to the bleachers and tease her about not sharing.
"Every time I see you with those puffs," I warned her, "I'm taxing you. You owe me...sixty cheese puffs now."
"Sure," she'd reply with a smirk. And then she'd hand me the rest of the bag. That was pretty nice.
I guess it all came to head in senior year, right before prom, when we were both invited to a mutual acquaintance's house for a party when his dad was out of town. I had been abstaining from junk food for the most part; I was toned, but the typical chips and pretzels and other salty snacks were hard on my stomach, so I kept to a pretty lean diet. Still, cheese puffs were always tempting. And at this party, while everyone else was outside in the hot tub or stealing booze out of the refrigerator, I was hovering by the snack table, digging my fingers into the cheesy goodness like there was no tomorrow.
And then she came over. She had been playing some tunes on the guy's family piano - a baby grand. She picked up two puffs and laughed when she saw my handful. She had always been one to savor cheese puffs, eating them one at a time, and told me to slow down.
"Life's too short," I teased. "I'm taking what I can get."
She responded by poking me with an orange finger. I poked her back, and soon, our shirts had little dusty stains on them. As I got done licking the cheese off my fingertips I couldn't help but notice that the orange stuff was on her lips. I'm not sure how she managed it, but I make sure she knew about it.
Her response caught me completely off guard: "Guess you better get it off, then."
There were no napkins. I reached out with my thumb, but she shook her head.
"No, no, you idiot. Come on."
That turned out to be one delicious kiss.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
We didn't have much in common in fifth grade, but one thing we always bonded over was cheese puffs. I think it started after I finished up a soccer game, and since her parents and my parents were mutual friends, they dragged me over to her piano recital on the same night. I remember sitting in the front row with grass stained knees and dirty cleats and a fraying jersey, wishing I could be anywhere else. And I'm sure she played well - I mean, I know she's a brilliant musician now - but I wasn't exactly paying attention.
Anyway, after the recital, we were waiting by our parents' cars as they talked about grown-up things and what not, and I remember her ripping open a huge bag of cheese puffs. Just a ginormous bag - not a personal helping, but a feast. I felt my ten-year-old mouth salivate; after all, I hadn't eaten anything since that stale granola bar during halftime of my game. She noticed and smiled.
"My dad always lets me have cheese puffs after a recital," she told me. "You want some?"
Did I ever. And I hate to say it, but that's how she and I became friends. I was slowly becoming the jock in middle school, and she joined the jazz band and was always the keyboardist for combos. We lived in stereotypically separate worlds because that's how American society works - the athletes stick together, and the nerds conspire over dice, and the musicians mull over sheets of notes and rehearsals. I had my own posse, and she had her buddies in brass and woodwinds, her fingers also fidgeting in math class when she didn't have ivories to tickle. It was interesting to watch when I didn't want to pay attention to the quadratic formula.
But every Sunday, when our parents got out of church and had a friend date at her house, she and I would always end up on the porch, eating cheese puffs and talking about the latest movies and our classes and anything we felt like we could relate to. Our fingers would get all greasy and orange from the junk food, and I'd go all out on cleaning them up - even scraping my teeth against my skin to get every last particle of cheesy residue. She'd laugh and call me gross, but then I'd catch her doing the same thing and call her out on it. We teased each other a lot, but always amicably. That hasn't changed.
Well, high school rolled around, and we typically were in one class a day. She was off at state competitions, winning medals for piano and jazz. I was constantly pushing my team to the state sectionals, and that got me to captain of junior varsity fast - I was co-captain during junior year, on the varsity team. Eventually, we didn't see each other that often. But she did go to my games. Sometimes, I'd catch her sipping a soda and munching on those damn cheese puffs, and once the game was over, I'd march over to the bleachers and tease her about not sharing.
"Every time I see you with those puffs," I warned her, "I'm taxing you. You owe me...sixty cheese puffs now."
"Sure," she'd reply with a smirk. And then she'd hand me the rest of the bag. That was pretty nice.
I guess it all came to head in senior year, right before prom, when we were both invited to a mutual acquaintance's house for a party when his dad was out of town. I had been abstaining from junk food for the most part; I was toned, but the typical chips and pretzels and other salty snacks were hard on my stomach, so I kept to a pretty lean diet. Still, cheese puffs were always tempting. And at this party, while everyone else was outside in the hot tub or stealing booze out of the refrigerator, I was hovering by the snack table, digging my fingers into the cheesy goodness like there was no tomorrow.
And then she came over. She had been playing some tunes on the guy's family piano - a baby grand. She picked up two puffs and laughed when she saw my handful. She had always been one to savor cheese puffs, eating them one at a time, and told me to slow down.
"Life's too short," I teased. "I'm taking what I can get."
She responded by poking me with an orange finger. I poked her back, and soon, our shirts had little dusty stains on them. As I got done licking the cheese off my fingertips I couldn't help but notice that the orange stuff was on her lips. I'm not sure how she managed it, but I make sure she knew about it.
Her response caught me completely off guard: "Guess you better get it off, then."
There were no napkins. I reached out with my thumb, but she shook her head.
"No, no, you idiot. Come on."
That turned out to be one delicious kiss.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
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