"M-my name's Sco, uh, I'm Scotty...hi," I said with a nervous smile.

"You're scarin' th' boy, Cindi," Sammy laughed, fading back onto the hood of his truck.

Cindi may not have known me, but I was very well aware of who she was. She was a year older than me, an incorrigible flirt and totally slutty. She was one of the famous Benedict sisters. They were the hometown poster girls for good times. Cindi was the baby sister and probably the most notorious of them all.

I could hear the familiar sound of grossly over sized tires crushing a Volkswagen as she ran barefoot through the lot, the back of her cut-offs displaying the magic marker scrawled word "Peaches."

I couldn't sleep that night. I kept seeing the word "Peaches" undulate over worn denim. I wanted her almost as much as I wanted Monica Vitti after seeing "Modesty Blaise" at the Rialto.

And who the Hell was Peanut? Her boyfriend? Was it Peanut and Peaches forever?

On Saturday night , Sammy and I rounded the town square for an hour looking for someone we knew. Someone who knew where the fun was at. A Fordload of giggly girls who had been tipping Boone's Farm all night poked their heads out the window, gesturing for us to park. I could see that Mitzi Wallford was driving, and the Hammersmith twins were in there too. Those girls were a little too high-toned for non-jock, lower class types like Sammy and myself, but Sammy had been lusting after the twins since junior high, and so we parked. They piled out of that car like new born puppies. I think the alcohol hit hard the moment they stood up.

And then there was Cindi. She bounced up to the truck, leaned into the cab so close I could smell apple wine and said, "I've been looking for you."

Before I knew it, Sammy had finagled his way into the backseat of Mitzi's car to become a Hammersmith sandwich. I was on the passenger side with Cindi sitting in my lap.

"My parents are gone for the weekend," Cindi announced. "Let's go to my house!"