1 | Vanilla Cream Pops

Never in a million years have I expected Mitch to be right about a fortune cookie.

But who knew? The unexpected happens.

My hand held onto the strap of my bag as I hurried down the hall and out into the front doors of the school. I already expected her to be dramatically leaning on the hood of her convertible, looking out into the horizon, ready to tell me, "I told you so." Then, she'll be driving us into the shop because I owed her a vanilla cream ice pop for letting her wait. That was the usual tradition – which I would like to modify, by the way.

I easily spotted her red convertible among the other ratty cars. It had been a gift for her sixteenth birthday, something her parents saved up for. She told me it was the magical start of her car collection.

I only told her, "In your dreams."

Like I had expected, there was Mitch, leaning on the hood of her supposed Car Number One. Yes, she was looking onto the horizon, too, away from my direction. She also had her arms crossed and sunglasses on her eyes. One point for dramatic flair, then.

"Were you posing there the whole time?" Smirking, I dropped my bag on the backseat when I got to her.

"I don't know," Mitch's gaze flew to her watch, "Maybe. It's like in a movie, you see, when you know something crazy's about to happen." There she goes again with her Hollywood references.

"Right." I mumbled.

She lowered her Ray-Bans a little and looked at me behind her eyelashes. "I told you not to open that cookie."

"It's not because of the cookie."

I hopped into the passenger seat while she rounded the car to the driver's seat. It was yesterday, when the student council handed out free fortune cookies. I got one of my own because I had never tried it before and plus, I was hungry that time. Lo and behold when I opened that damned cookie, it had a voodoo paper in it that said, "Get detention tomorrow." It went straight to the trash.

Mitch told me not to trust that cookie. And who knew, when I opened it, it actually came true. From now on, no more fortune cookies for me.

"You should have trusted me," she told me, moving her finger in a tapping motion, "Just you wait, karma's around the corner."

I rolled my eyes, "Cut the crap act, Mitchell."

She laughed, turning on the engine. Mitch took off the Ray-Bans, winking, "You know you like it."

"Oh, and you owe me a vanilla cream ice pop," she reminded me.

I knew it.

Ice cream pops are basically frozen pieces of heaven stabbed with a stick, that melts inside your mouth – so good. We have any flavor in our shop.

"I thought you already had vanilla?" I cocked an eyebrow at her. We began to pull out of the school's driveway and into the road.

"It's vanilla cream, Ollie. Much creamier than plain vanilla," she said, "God, get your pop facts straight. Who's the owner of a sweet shop around here anyway?"

"It's not my sweet shop."

My best friend was a collector. She had almost anything about everything. From music, to action figures, posters, and clothing: she had it all. She even collected weird things like stray pennies, paperclips, bottle caps and crazy straws. But among all, her proudest collection was the ice pop wrappers from my mother's shop. She's currently collecting every flavor.

Mitch flicked through her CDs. One of her best collections, too. "What are you in the mood for?" She asked, browsing through the countless genres and albums.

"Anything, I guess." I shrugged. She put in Taylor Swift's song, Red.

"So . . . on to Sweets?" she drove smoothly, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

"No. Can we stop at Starbucks first? I want a meat sandwich." I realized how hungry I was.

She gave me a look, "Can't you just get those at the shop?"

"It's a sweets shop, Mitch," I told her slowly, "Desserts, sweets, pastries. I don't think meat belongs to that category."

She groaned, "Then make a sandwich in your kitchen then!"

"Shut up. I want Starbucks. My stomach awaits."

We soon arrived in the coffee shop. Mom doesn't want me buying too much from other shops. She said we had a perfectly good sweet shop so she doesn't see any reason to buy in Starbucks or any other restaurant. It was a shame to our shop, apparently. Obviously, I'd always not listen to her.

"Wait here," I told Mitch as I jumped out of the car and practically skipped into Starbucks. Mitch waited while listening to the song.

Thankfully, there wasn't any long line so I quickly got two meat sandwiches. The bad news is that Mitch was gone.

Her car and her disappeared. Yeah, nice act Mitch.

I fished out my phone to see a text from her: So sorry, I got to go. It's grandma.

I sighed. Mitch's grandma was staying at theirs for a while. She was forgetful all the time. One time, Mitch told me she forgot her way around the house. And since Mitch was an only child and her parents were always working, she often made emergency trips to her house nowadays. Lucky girl, always having a legit excuse to escape from this place we call 'school'.

I stared at the street in front of me. Good. I even left my bag in her car. Now I've only got my phone, not much cash and two meat sandwiches.

My phone started ringing and I answered it, already knowing it's Mitch. "I'm so sorry, Ollie! I swear!" she frantically said from the other line.

"No, it's fine," I reassured her, "Where am I going to get a ride now?" Sweet Moments, the shop that was also known as my house, was at least fifteen minutes from here.

"Can't you call a taxi or ride a bus?" she suggested.

"There's none around here; it's a busy day," I said, "And I'm late for work."

"Oh God! I'm so – "

"I told you to stop apologizing," I cut her off, "It's called karma, okay? I lost my ride home and my meat sandwich's getting cold because I opened a stupid cookie."

She managed a small laugh, "I'll try to drop by and drop off your bag. I still need my vanilla cream. Forget about paying me back; I'll treat you one, too." You'd think when your mom owns a sweet shop, you'd get free dessert anytime. Guess what, you don't. Mom would slap my hand any time my fingers get closer to a piece Black Forest cake.

I do hope she can drop by.

"I'll be fine. Go take care of your grandma."

"Thanks, you're the best! And Ollie?"

"Yeah?"

"I told you so!" Then she hang up. I knew that was coming sooner or later. I put my phone back into my pocket. Guess I'll have to walk.

Exercise is good, right?

An hour later (which is actually only a few minutes as it said in my phone), I was still walking on the sidewalk, two meat sandwiches clutched in my hands. How could this day get any better?

The white and maroon walls and gates of the building welcomed me. When Clevemore High – that's my school – was the public school, Acewell Academy – that's this school in front of me – was prestigious and for the snobby rich kids of L.A.

We had more than enough money to enroll me to Acewell. But there's no way in hell I'm wearing a tight uniform. And again, snobby rich kids.

But that certainly didn't mean Clevemore was any better.

I passed by a car moving out of the driveway. "Hey! Hey!" It took me a second to realize the kid was calling me.

He looked more than a junior than a senior. The ginger glared at me from the driver's seat. "Watch it! You scratched my car!"

I looked back at his car. The "scratch" was a tiny microscopic one. Overacting much?

"So?" I raised an eyebrow. I was used to these kind of drama queens. Mostly because I was related to one.

"So?" Ginger rolled his eyes, "You pay for a new paint job!"

I stared at him like he lost his head. As if his shinier-than-a-diamond car needed a new paint job. He probably got a new one every week.

"What?" I snapped back, "Daddy can't pay enough to fix a little scratch?"

He was getting red now. Ginger climbed out of his car and faced me, "Listen here, you. I just got this done so you better fix it!"

Man, he was talking like Montana was when I ruined her manicure. "Calm it, Ginger," I said annoyingly and slowly, "It's just a little scratch." I saw his schoolmates going around us and watching in amusement.

He was ready to explode. "Just a scratch? Why you little – " I didn't hear the rest of his words.

Because I ran.

Ran into the wind, so his words were only muffled sounds. I hoped he doesn't call the police on me or something. But what the hell, I ran as fast as my sugar-flooded body could go.

When you're raised to be a cook like your mom, exercise rarely crosses your mind. And the tempting sweets always around you make it hard to lose weight. Honest here. I exercise a bit in the house whenever I can, but with the amount of food shoved into my mouth every day, I'm surprised I'm not overweight.

But still, running is hard.

I stopped only when I was sure Ginger wasn't chasing me with his "scratched" car. I was already holding onto the sandwiches like they were life itself. I looked back while slowing down to a jog after I caught my breath.

Tip: do not look back while jogging.

Or running

Or walking.

My head collided painfully with the pavement and the sandwiches rolled over to somewhere. I groaned at the slight pain from the trip, but I pushed myself up on my elbows. I hoped my sandwiches were okay. Let's not make a few bucks go to waste.

My heart fell when I watched the two precious meat sandwiches die before my eyes.

Or got squished by a car, whichever you prefer.

I got on my feet, dusted myself and went over to the car, which stopped when it ran over the sandwich. I cringed when I saw their remains splattered all over the tire. So, I'm having a really bad day today. Yay for the cookie.

I banged my fist on the window of the driver's seat. I don't care if it's Johnny Depp or not, he or she is going to pay for that. If there's one thing for you to get on my bad side, it's to ruin my food. "You little sandwich murderer, open this door!" I punched my fists on the car. Which looked totally expensive, by the way.

"Whoa, what the hell did I run ov – " the driver opened the door and stopped midsentence when he saw me.

I didn't know whether to be grateful or to hate him when I saw him.

Most girls would be screaming their heads off if they were in my place. But me? No. I knew this guy and as I know him, he wasn't just a pretty face in the movies, TV or in YouTube. He's an egotistical pig. An image of the sandwiches flashed before my eyes and I remembered my anger again.

"You ran over my sandwiches!" I punched on his chest. Brennan hadn't got out of the car, but I'd gladly beat him up inside.

He tried blocking and dodging. Then, I finally stopped, breathing heavily. I may be the one overreacting with food, but who can blame me? Food was sacred.

"Someone's bleeding today," Brennan looked up at me.

"I'll make you bleed as much as that when I'm done with you!" I aimed a punch but he countered it.

"Can you continue punching me inside?" he glanced around us, "someone might see me."

I went to the passenger seat and glared at him.

Brennan Dale was titled Hollywood's Duke for his popularity. It's a "sometimes" event to see a famous star out in the open streets of Los Angeles, but when it did happen, people crowded around him or her. I should consider myself lucky to be alone in a car with the Brennan Dale, but seeing him was like seeing an old friend.

He first started off as an actor in a TV series, then started acting in a few movies. He's got it all: the talent, the looks (which girls swoon over) and his dad owns the famous Dale Studios. He's not busy with acting nowadays, but with singing instead. The guy's a hit in YouTube.

And I almost forgot. He's my sister's boyfriend.

Is it cool? Not at all.

"Before you start hitting me," Brennan started, "Tell me what happened first."

"You killed my sandwiches, that's what happened," I replied bluntly.

"Why were your sandwiches on the road in the first place?"

I scowled, "I scratched this kid's car and ran away. Then, I tripped then the sandwiches were gone."

"Not my fault, then." He mumbled.

I hit him again.

"Ow!" he rubbed the sore spot, "You know, most girls would hit on me, not hit me."

"Maybe you should double check if I'm a girl." It was a joke between us. I had a little boyish attitude, I get easily riled up and have that boy name: Oliver.

He chuckled and I finally relaxed. I'm not angry anymore, lucky him, but I couldn't forget about those sandwiches.

"I'm sorry about the sandwiches," Brennan apologized, "I'll organize the funeral myself. Everyone's invited."

I huffed, "Thank you. At least someone understands."

"So on to important matters – " I interrupted him with a glare. He cleared his throat and began again, "On to more important matters," he looked at me questioningly, "Aren't you supposed to be home by now?"

"Supposed to," I repeated, "What are you doing parading around the city anyway?"

"I wasn't parading around," he answered, "Mom called me to fetch my little bro, but I came off later than I thought so when I went to Acewell, he left without me. I was just driving home when I ran over something soft."

"My sandwiches," I murmured. I asked louder, "Why were you supposed to fetch your brother? Isn't he like, eighteen?"

"Mom wanted me and Jackson to bond or something." He snorted, "Like that'll ever happen."

At least they're not as worse as Montana and me.

"You didn't answer my question. Why are you out so late? School ended," he glanced at his watch, "An hour and thirty minutes ago."

Even though he was an arrogant jerk, he still cared.

I groaned then leaned back on my seat, "I'm having a horrible day today."

"What do you mean?" Brennan looked so excited to hear it. Sure. I'm glad that you find my life entertaining.

"It started in detention. I got it because of a freaking fortune cookie. Mitch told me not to open it, but since I never followed the rules, I did and it said I was going to have detention today. What do you know? It came true. Then Mitch drove me to Starbucks to get my sandwiches but she ditched me because of her forgetful grandmother. I walked to Acewell, 'scratched' this kid's car," I used air quotes, "Then ran away and tripped. Voila. My sandwiches are forever gone."

Brennan laughed. I expected that. "Why'd you run?"

"What was I supposed to do, then?"

"Aw, Ollie, it's okay." He pinched my cheek, "lucky for you, you have a knight in shining armor."

I looked around, "Where?"

"Ollie!"

I laughed as he began driving. Good thing we pass by Sweet Moments on the way to his house. "But still," I said, "My bad day is not over."

"You're talking about tonight, aren't you?"

"No, I'm talking about yesterday," I said sarcastically. Tonight is something I certainly don't want to happen, talk about, or think about.

"Hey, it's okay. You can just ignore her."

"Yeah, her is like an annoying wasp who doesn't leave you alone. It's kind of hard not to ignore that. What do you think I'll do? Sit there and let her throw food at me?"

He smiled at the memory, "It sure was fun. That food fight between you two."

I glared at nothing in particular, "Say that to the tiny piece of lasagna still stuck inside my ear."

"I don't think a food fight would be happening anytime tonight," I told the actor, "Mom already talked to me."

"Bargained?"

I shook my head, "No, just talked."

"Damn. I was thinking she'd give you a chocolate bar if you behaved or something."

"She's not using that strategy," I paused then added, "Yet."

I turned to face him, "And I'm not a kid."

"Never said you were."

"But you made it sound like I was."

He reached out and ruffled my hair, "You're always a kid to me, Ollie." I'm only two years younger than him. As if he ever acted his age.

"How's the music?" I asked him after a short silence, referring to the new song he's working on.

It took him a while to answer, "It's going great. We might release the music video in a week or so."

Sometimes the pressure and stress of Hollywood would get to him. It's hard being an actor. Much more if you're also a singer. Soon, the fame and burden would make you crazy. Trust me. It happened to Montana.

"I don't even get half of the lyrics of the song," I said absentmindedly.

He smirked, "I don't get all the lyrics of the song. But who cares? Probably a deep meaning or something."

"I don't get what connection it has to the music video, too." He added.

We pulled up to the front of Sweet Moments, my mother's sweet shop. We called it that because it sold all sweet things: from candies, ice cream, cakes to pies, smoothies, and anything chocolate. It was fairly famous in L.A. because of my mom's original recipes mostly. Above the shop sat what mom and I called our home, with one bathroom, a living room, two bedrooms and a kitchen.

"So, see you tonight?" Brennan asked me.

"Yeah, tonight. Hope I don't kill myself before that."

"My fingers are crossed. Without you, who'd be the damsel in distress I'd rescue?"

"Maybe if you parade around the streets, you can score yourself one."

"Maybe I will."

I rolled my eyes and got out of the car, "I didn't mean that, Brennan. The next time you parade around, remember the remains of my sandwiches mashed on your front tire."

"I won't forget about it," he smiled at me, "Good luck, kiddo."

Then he drove off. Ever since he began dating – or fake dating – my sister, he became the older sibling Montana never was to me. My parents (or most likely just my mom) treated him a part of the family already. Without him, I'd have to endure my sister alone.

I spun around to face the busy interior of Sweet Moments. Time for work.

♫ ♫ ♫