Brain Freeze

I try not to think of him the way I last saw him. Cold. Frozen. I prefer to think of him as a different sort of frozen—the frozen in time sort of frozen. Frozen in memory. His smile, crooked, lopsided, and stained blue from a raspberry blast slushy is stuck on my brain as if I gulped one down too fast. Slurping quickly, I feel my skull beginning to itch, my nose tingling and tasting the sour, sticky sweet syrup in my nostrils. My brain explodes and I can’t help but detach my lips from the long pink straw and gasp for air, clutching my forehead. 

“You lose! You lose! Ah ha!” the boy cheers jumping around the gas station, his heavy winter boots clomping against the mucky linoleum in a victory dance. 

With a grunt, I cross my arms, the sleeves of my overly stuffed coat letting out a hiss. 

“What? Don’t be such a sore loser,” he gloats, sucking down the rest of his raspberry blast with a satisfied smack of his blue lips. 

I purse my bright cherry berry red lips. “I am not. You’re a butt face, Noah” 

And thus begins a battle of “are not” “are too” as the bored cashier nods off at the register, his prickly chin perched upon his sausage patty palm propped up against the countertop by his elbow. 

We each count out a dollar fifty in quarters and push them across the countertop, slipping out the door as the disgruntled cashier counts each one. 

It’s our snow day tradition. I live on Faire Street. Noah lives on Sparrow Drive. If we both walk one block, we can meet at the gas station, plastic sled in tow that we leave next to the door while we compete in our brain freeze competition. 

“We should go to Patrick’s house. They’ve got that big ‘ole hill ‘cross from the pond,” he suggests chewing on his straw before pretending to smoke with it.

I don’t like Patrick much because when I said that I had a crush on him last year in the fifth grade he laughed at me, and he still kicks my chair everyday in class when he sits behind me. But I huffily agree, dragging my sled across the salted sidewalk behind me next to Noah until we reach the edge of the small town and turn down the country road. Being badly plowed, we walk along the tracks carved by the trucks through the snow that still falls lightly around us, freckling the plaits of my dark braid with white. 

Patrick is already there, sliding down the massive hill with another boy from class. He wrinkles his nose at me. “This is my hill,” he declares like the king he thinks he is. 

Another part of the snow day tradition. We have to barter with King Patrick like peasants to use his infamous sledding hill. He ultimately accepts a dollar from each of us and the berry flavored cough drop I found in my pocket. 

“First one down the hill wins,” I challenge. 

“Ready?” Noah smiles at me. 

I nod. “Ready.” 

I wiggle onto the flat board, breathing out a puff of smoke. 

“On your mark…get set…go!” 

I kick off, whooshing away down the slick hill. Laughing, I feel the wind lash my cheeks and make my eyes water. I am in the lead. I am winning.  

Just then, Noah zooms past me, whooping and hollering in joy. 

He zips past the fallen tree branch that marks the finish. My sled slows to a stop just beyond it.  

“Kick out your feet, Noah!” Patrick shouts with gloved hands cupped around his mouth. 

The boy continues to slide over the icy pond and then, suddenly, he’s gone. 

This is not part of the snow day tradition.