You want to swap coconut chapstick with the boy holding a can of Orange Crush soda. He’s laughing over the pool’s kiosk counter with a glowing girl that isn’t you. Condensation races down the aluminum can. Exhale. It’s the heat of summer. You want a boy who wants a girl who works at the pool’s kiosk counter. To swallow something so cold, it buries the sweet. To be the can of Orange Crush briefly kissing his bottom lip. To know what it’s like to have it all: that teenage tabloid brand of love, the sun-soaked lifeguard & every bubble carbonating in his oiled palms, a way to say remember that time in second grade? With the blue raspberry popsicles on field day? You always remember. Always want something sugar-stained, tough to the touch, reaching constantly, but never quite making contact. An August sun pinks you again. The chapstick melts in your pocket.