I get along well with Brenda the cashier. We become good friends, and despite the fact that I’m stealing the place blind right under her nose, I begin thinking of her as the big sister I never had. In between rushes we talk about everything: music, TV, movies, men, women, partying … you name it. She’s cool because she always wears the same tight, faded denim Levis and a white tank top that shows off her monumental breasts. At first I’m convinced they’re fake, but then I realize there’s no way she could afford the surgery … well, unless she totally charged it or whatever.

Anyway, she’s twenty-eight and divorced, raising two little daughters on her own. She seems to have gotten over the bitterness of the split, because she’s always laughing and saying how stupid she was to have married so young.

One day she advises me never to marry my first love, especially if that person happens to be my high school sweetheart. I don’t question her about it at the time, but it keeps bugging me, because despite the efforts I’ve made to forget about how hot I am for Tank’s sister, Sarah Foster keeps popping into my head and dreams as if she’s on a programmed loop, a never-ending rerun in the Zach Ramsey world. I soon become convinced that I’ll marry her someday.

“That thing you mentioned last week about not marrying your first love,” I say. “What if I told you I planned on doing just that?”

She’s sitting on the stool behind the register, reading one of her romance paperbacks and smoking a cigarette. Brenda’s a chain smoker. She closes her book, looks at me. She has this dark and totally feathered hair that makes me think of eight-track tapes and the Eagles and the 1970s and all that.

“Sounds like somebody’s in love,” she says in a raspy voice. “Hold old are you, anyway, Zach?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s about what I thought. That’s how old I was when I met Ron.” She reaches down and turns off the classic rock. The store falls silent save the constant hum of the beverage cooler. She lays an open pack of Marlboro Lights on the counter. “Do you smoke?”

I don’t say anything. Despite our many conversations and budding friendship, this is the first time she’s actually offered me a cigarette. Actually, it’s the first time any adult has offered me a cigarette.

“Reason I ask is because I started when I was seventeen,” she adds. “But it’s cool if you don’t. I mean, you play football, so of course you don’t.” She laughs. “It was a stupid question.”

She’s reaching for the pack when I grab it and slide out a cigarette. “Yeah, I smoke. Started when I was twelve.” I pop the Marlboro between my lips. “Got a light?”