Boot Camp

01: Old Version

"I am telling you pistachio is the best-tasting flavor here."

It's around six o'clock at night at my favorite ice cream parlor, Sweet Treat, and my indecisive friend Mina can't make up her mind on what flavor to get. This wouldn't be a problem if we hadn't been standing in front of the counter for ten minutes already and been receiving angry sighs from the two boys behind us eager to get their hands on a sundae.

"But what if I—"

Before Mina can even finish, I order us two pistachio bowls. The worker behind the counter, a grumpy teenage girl, mutters something under her breath and picks up an ice cream scoop. Even she is tired of Mina's indecisiveness.

"You didn't even let me order!" she cries at me, as if I had just committed a heinous crime. We take our bowls and start walking to the small red booth in the corner of the store, our favorite spot for the past four years.

I roll my eyes. "Mina, if I had waited for you to finally make up your mind, I would have hitchhiked to Mars and came back by the time you ordered."

"I swear you are the biggest exaggerator I know," she remarks, taking a seat in the red booth. She ties her straight black hair up and rests her fists under her chin like an upset five-year-old. "If this tastes bad, you're paying me back."

"Haha—it won't." I take a big spoonful of the ice cream and regret it after feeling a giant brain freeze. I always thought I was stronger than this.

"You okay, Whitney?" Mina asks, putting down her spoon.

"Just peachy." Once I feel fine again, I take another spoonful and watch Mina take her third delightfully, her large coffee-colored eyes widening. Once again, I am never wrong when it comes to ice cream.

"Do you ever think we have too much ice cream?" Mina asks. She looks down at her bowl and lightly pushes it away from her. Seconds later she pulls it back closer and her fingers toy with the spoon as if mentally debating whether to keep eating it.

Mina is always conscious about what she eats considering her mother is an esteemed socialite and has the body of a twenty-year-old at forty-six. Therefore, she's kind of forced to live up to her mother's high standards.

"Oh Mina, sweet, sweet Mina, one can never have enough ice cream," I answer, placing my hand on the table. "Well unless you're lactose intolerant."

"I guess not," she replies with a laugh. A distant look crosses her face, a look she gets when she's thinking about something on the back of her mind, and a sigh escapes her lips. "It's still not dawning upon me high school is over. It seems like yesterday we were clueless freshmen getting our hair stuck in lockers."

The last part of the statement is definitely true. We met during our freshman year helping each other get our hair out of our lockers, which we used to slam shut without even thinking. A month into high school we grew out of that habit, and that was about the time we discovered Sweet Treat, our little haven to get away from the drama of high school. I had frizzy hair at that time and Mina was a scrawny fourteen-year-old, barely five feet tall. I cringe when I recall those times.

"Oh, it's hit me already," I answer her. "And I literally could not be happier. Hell School is over." I sing the last part in a falsetto my music teacher in high school would've given me detention over and do a little dance with my hands.

"But we're old now," she whines with a pout. "I'm not ready for all the responsibility yet."

"Mina, you're going to college, not to war."

"I know, I know," she answers and groans slightly before looking up at me. "What do you think you're going to miss though? I mean come on, there has to be something."