Falling For Alaska

Chapter Eighteen: Kiss the Cook

The next morning, with the same shitty Justin Bieber song as my alarm, I woke up with a dreariness and a strong feeling of dread.

Perhaps I could plead with Carter to kick me out-- I'm sure he'd have no problem with that. Or perhaps I could poison a hot dog and knock him out.

Ah, if only I could.

Sighing, I quickly got dressed and walked downstairs. "Sammy?" I called out, ruffling my hair. I scanned the kitchen, and finally spotted Sammy, in a full ridiculous cook ensemble, flipping a pan energically. "Sam! What the hell are you doing? Don't tell me that you finally went insane."

In the many years I'd known Sam, I had never seen Sam cook or attempt to cook. According to Sammy, after last time (whatever that meant), he was never again allowed near a kitchen or pan. Frankly, I wasn't quite sure if Sammy's wonderful cooking creations were actually edible or if his "eggs" would land me in the ER (although at this point, I don't think that I'd even mind if it meant skipping Carter's do-gooder program).

Sammy spun around, with a gleeful smile. His apron was even more ridiculous than I could have imagined. Surrounding the ditzy hearts and kissy signs, were the words: Kiss the Cook! in bold sparkly pink letters.

I really had no idea what drug gave Sammy the idea that an apron with the words Kiss the Cook! would be a smart investment. Because really, you're totally just going to get all the girls with that apron.

Sam sassily put his hands on his waist, "Problem?" he asked, faking a tear, "I just wanted to make today special. It is your first day as a police officer, gosh, this day is just too emotional for me, sweetie! Ah, little Chase is finally growing up!"

Let's just say that the urge to pummel Sammy was pretty freaking strong.

I shook my head, stifling a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it is," I responded, rolling my eyes, "Although, sweetie, I'd rather not die today, and FYI, this is merely a training program, not a fucking life commitment."

Sam chuckled, "Whatever you say, big boy! Look, sweetie, I even made your toast just the way you like it!"

Big boy? Sweetie? What was that supposed to mean? What was I, six years old?

Scoffing, I peered down at the quartered toast,  a huge smiley face strewn with strawberry jam. "Yeah, when I was four."

"Aw, come on, you love it," Sammy defended, with a sheepish smile.

I shook my head, but couldn't stop a grin from forming. When was the last time I'd had a smiley faced toast? I guess it just gave me a feeling of nostalgia, when my mother used to make me her special toast, and for lunch, how'd she would always make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with the crusy cut off, just like I liked them. "Thanks, Sammy," I finally said.

"Don't thank me! Just Kiss the Cook!"

***
"Alright, boys," Carter began, walking up md down the row of students. A girl yelled in protest and Carter quickly added, "And girls."

It seemed as if he was trying to size us ip by seeing all tough and mighty, but really, it just made him seem like some fatty red tomato. I sniggered at Carter's constipated expression, which Carter instantly heard. "Something funny, Forrest?" he barked, sternly.

I smirked, "Ah, nothing, please continue with your enlightening speech."

He gave me one last murderous glare, but didn't pursue the topic. Clearing his throat, Carter puffed out his chest and spoke loudly, "Today, we are gathered here today as fellow comrades, seeking the greater good of our community."