Gomie and I were ambling down the sidewalk, school looming ahead like a prison ship. I teased him gently, "So I heard your ancestors used to be big shot conquistadors or something?"

He smiled wryly. "Something like that. Then here I am, just another cholo from the barrio."

I chuckled. "Still a step up from me - I can't even do math without getting distracted by some girl walking by."

Gomie scoffed. "Oh please, you're one to talk Mr. Smooth Talk. 'Hey sweet thang, let me straighten your hair for ya!' You probably scare them all away!"

I shrugged, not denying it. "Still, at least I try with girls. Unlike you, Gomertito."

He rolled his eyes. "Only cuz you got no game, ese. Asking them out is one thing, actually getting a date is another story entirely!"

I shoved him good naturedly. "Ay shut it! Just worry about scarfing down some tacos for now, vato."

After a long day of trying not to fall asleep in class, Gomie and I were beat. On our walk home, I spotted a glowing neon sign up ahead.

"Aye Gomie, you thinking what I'm thinking?" I nodded at the AW Root Beer sign. His eyes lit up, fatigue melting away.

We made a beeline across the parking lot, jostling each other playfully. Inside was a mishmash of greasy teenagers, loud music clashing with chatter. The tantalizing scent of fried foods hit us like a truck.

We ordered root beers and heaping plates of onion rings and mozzarella sticks to share. Finding a booth by the window, we kicked back and dug in.

"Ah man, nothing beats an AW run after school," Gomie sighed between bites. I nodded in agreement, already feeling recharged.

Our booth became a raucous comedy show as we jokingly critiqued the other customers. Between laughs, I gazed fondly at my best friend and thought how lucky I was to have found him. We might be poor as dirt, but nothing could beat a cold Root beer.

I took a long swig of root beer, savoring the bubbly sweetness. But it wasn't quite satisfying that rebellious itch I felt stirring.

"This is good and all," I said, smacking my lips, "but can you imagine the real thing? I bet a nice cold beer would put some hair on our chests pronto!"

Gomie looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "Hank, we're nine. There's no way they'd serve us beer!"

I cracked up at his naivete. He had no idea who he was dealing with. "Just watch and learn, rookie. Watch and learn."

Sliding slyly out of the booth, I swaggered up to the crowded counter. The teenage girl working looked mega busy and bored. I summoned my most charming smile.

"Excuse me miss, my friend's feeling under the weather. Think I could trouble you for a bottle of water?" I asked sweetly.

Without missing a beat, she passed two beers under the counter. I gave a wink and sauntered back to Gomie's dropped jaw with our "waters." Time to live a little!

"Down the hatch!" I whooped, passing Gomie a bottle like we were seasoned veterans.

The bitter liquid burned going down, making my eyes water. But I kept chugging to look tough. Gomie was coughing and spluttering beside me, barely managing a sip.

An hour later found us both heaving our guts out in the alley behind the AW. "Fuck me, never again," I groaned feebly.

Gomie wiped his mouth, looking as grim as death. "What the hell was that shit, it tastes like ass and sadness."

A fresh wave of nausea overcame me at his words. "Dude, I can taste the vomit from my vomit," I moaned miserably.

He gagged in revulsion. "Gross man, too much info!" More puke spewed from his mouth to punctuate his point.

We lay there a stinking, pathetic mess. Some macho first beer - looks like Gomie was right after all. Next time, I'd stick to root beer.