Cheetos Never Prosper

by Kelly Murashige

By the time I arrive at the scene of the crime, all of the Cheetos have already been cleaned up. Either that, or there were never any Cheetos in the first place, and the inside of the truck was as hollow as your oversized head.

“Thanks,” I say to my CabU driver. He said absolutely nothing the entire ride, and though I always appreciate someone who refuses to engage in mundane conversation, I’m even more grateful, given the circumstances. I can’t imagine talking about the weather when I’ve just been caught in another one of your storms.

After a long sigh, during which I question whether our years-long friendship is really worth all the hassle, I step out of the car and make a beeline for you.

“Thank you so, so much,” you’re saying to a woman, your eyes wide with false sincerity. “I’ll be more careful from now on. I promise.”

I have to clench my jaw to keep from rolling my eyes as the woman—the one whose car you nearly hit—practically swoons where she stands.

In the last text I sent you, to which you did not respond, I asked how you managed to convince the driver you could have killed not to call the police. Had I known the driver was a forty-something-year-old woman who still touches her bare finger like she’s spinning an invisible ring, I wouldn’t have wasted my energy.

You and your stupid charisma. If you weren’t so charming, I never would have been your friend in the first place, and we both would have been better off. At the very least, I wouldn’t have had half as many headaches or near-heart attacks.

Before the woman can ask for your number, and before you can offer it, I place a hand on your arm. I realize I’m probably giving her the wrong idea, but at this point, I don’t care.

You turn your attention to me. Breaking into a grin, you say, “Oh, hey.”

I don’t even bother returning the greeting.

“Get in the car,” I say through my teeth.

You raise your brows. “Mom? Is that you?”

“Get in the car,” I hiss at you again.

After throwing me a cheeky grin that makes my nostrils flare, you swivel back around to the woman.

“Thank you again,” you say. “I really appreciate your understanding.”

She says nothing, her pinkish lips pursed, but I have a feeling she’s fighting the urge to scream, AND I APPRECIATE YOU AND YOUR FACE, YOU ABSOLUTE DREAM OF A MAN.

He’s more like a nightmare, I wish I could tell her.

You head for the driver’s side. I block your way.

“Are you serious?” you ask. “This is my car.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The one you almost crashed. Get over to the other side before I murder you.”

Your eyes stretch wide. You glance around for a moment, as if you’re hoping someone might swoop in and rescue you. As if rescuing you isn’t exactly what I’m doing, for the thousandth time this year.

Once we’re in the car, I start the engine and adjust the seat.

“Don’t,” you say. “You always pull the seat too close.”

“We can’t all be almost six feet tall,” I reply. “Plus, you sit way too far away from the wheel. You look like you’re lounging on a sofa, not operating a potentially deadly vehicle.”

Sighing, you lean back against the headrest and buckle your seat belt.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” I say, guiding the car back onto the road.

You turn to look at me. “Thanks. Really. You’re my hero.”

I shake my head. “What were you thinking?”

You purse your lips, a small dimple forming just above the corner of your mouth. “I don’t know. I guess I was just…”

You stare out the window, your expression pensive.

“I was wondering what would happen, you know? If I hit a Cheeto truck, would a bunch of Cheetos come flying out? Would it be, like, a Cheeto free-for-all in the streets?”

If I weren’t in the driver’s seat, I would close my eyes. I would also strongly consider opening the door and performing a tuck-and-roll just to get away from you.

“That doesn’t make any—”

“Before we head back,” you say, interrupting me the way you always do, “could we stop by StarMart?”

I shoot you a look.

“What?” you ask, entirely undeterred. “That’s where I was heading, before—”

“Before you almost killed yourself trying to drive into a Cheetos truck? Yeah, I don’t think someone that stupid deserves to be catered to.” I flex my fingers along the steering wheel. “Though it seems like that woman back there would have done just about anything for you.”

You tilt your head. “Jealous?”

I ignore the pang in my chest. “Yeah. You wish.”

You turn your head, your expression blank. The corner of your mouth flicks up when I start steering the car toward StarMart, but otherwise, you maintain a perfect poker face.

To be honest, I hate StarMart. I loved it once, as everyone around here does, but now that I’m older, it’s lost its charm.

You know this—or, at least, I told you. I’m not sure you remember. I said I miss when I could buy a strawberry slushy, essentially just a cup of sugar and food dye, and take long, greedy sips until it was all gone.

You could still do that, you pointed out.

It just wouldn’t be the same.

Once I reach the lot, I swerve into the nearest stall, pulling off a maneuver you could never do.

When we were in college, a lifetime ago, you were so bad at parking, one of your passengers would have to clamber out of the car, head to the back, and signal you forward so you wouldn’t stick out.

It was usually Hollis who did the signaling. He had been putting up with you for longer than anyone and therefore knew how much guidance you needed. It was only later, once I had gotten comfortable with you two, that I began volunteering to be your assistant.

Hollis thought that was so cool of me, as if it took some immense amount of bravery to open a car door and ensure it didn’t look as though a child had parked your car.

I genuinely think my decision to help was what gave him the courage to ask me out. A sort of If you can do something that intrepid, so can I.

I know you still feel bad about everything that went down with him. I do too. Sometimes, I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. Nothing happened between you and me until he and I were over, but it was clear that there was something there. Something you and I were desperate to explore.

We’re halfway to the entrance when you ask, “What’s on your mind right now?”

I open my mouth, preparing an honest answer: that I’m thinking about Hollis and how guilty I feel.

“Besides how much you love me,” you add.

I glare at you. “If anything, you should be thinking about how much you love me.”

You think for a moment, then bob your head. “You’re right. Thank you. Seriously.”

I take a breath to respond, only to let it out as you stop dead in the middle of the parking lot.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

You ignore me, extracting your phone from your pocket, unlocking it with one finger, and dialing what appears to be a random toll-free number. I wouldn’t know this if I weren’t working to secure a toll-free number for my own company, something you’ve never had to do because you can’t hold down a job for more than a couple of months at a time.

“Hey,” I say, dragging you over to the sidewalk. “You can’t just—”

“Hello,” you say into your phone. “I’m just calling you say your driver did a fan-tas-tic job pulling into a stall just now. I mean, really clean work. You should give the guy a raise. Okay, thanks. Bye.”

I stare at you as you end the call and slip your phone back into your pocket. Before you can resume meandering over to the store entrance, I raise a hand and gently push my palm against your chest.

You glance down, your brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

You point to the nearest truck, parked in a stall by the road. When I give you a look, you jog over and point to the how’s my driving? sticker on the vehicle’s bumper.

“It encouraged me to call,” you say.

Shaking my head, I grab you by the collar and start hauling you over to StarMart.

We’ve just reached the entrance when the glass doors slide open. An older couple shuffles out, their arms linked together.

You stop. Watch for a moment. Then you turn to me.

“Do you want that?” you ask. “A relationship like theirs?”

I clench my hands at my sides. I’m so busy trying not to burst into flames, the question slips out before I can stop it.

“With you?”

You blink, a thousand thoughts flashing in each of your eyes.

I remember the last time you got that look on your face. It was during an argument. Our last argument. The reason we broke up.

We were fighting about your flirting again. How you seemed half in love with just about everyone. I didn’t have evidence that you had actually cheated, but your eye had wandered, and it was killing me.

DON’T TURN ME INTO THE JEALOUS, IRRATIONAL GIRLFRIEND, I shouted.

THEN DON’T BE THE JEALOUS, IRRATIONAL GIRLFRIEND, you yelled back. You can’t put all the blame on me when YOU’RE the one too scared to venture out of your own incestuous friendship circle.

I sucked in a breath like you had punched me. What is THAT supposed to mean?

Some of us can have friends without sleeping with them, you replied.

It’s a miracle, I think, that we managed to stay friends after that. It didn’t happen immediately, the two of us avoiding each other as best we could, given the terms of our shared lease, but then, right before the lease was up, and against the advice of all those around us, we somehow managed to reconcile.

It’s a toxic situation, I know.

I’m just afraid to live in a world without you.

I guess that’s why I’m furious. Why I hate you so much.

“You could have died,” I tell you.

“I know,” you reply.

If we were to be honest—and God, how you love being honest—what I hate most about you isn’t your philandering. It’s how little you care about anything. Even yourself.

“Hey,” you say, your face somber. “Thank you. For… I don’t know. Thank you.”

I turn my head. “Yeah. Of course.”

We’re quiet for a minute, listening to the ambient sounds of the StarMart parking lot.

“Hey,” you say again “I could have crashed but didn’t. So would you say I Cheeto’d death?”

I close my eyes.

“You get it? ‘Cheeto’d’ death?”

Instead of responding, I enter the store. “Hurry up. Get what you need and let’s go already.”

You stride over to the slushy machine and gesture to a spigot. Behind the glass, the compressor churns the slush to keep it from freezing solid.

“My treat,” you say. “It’s the least I can do.”

I narrow my eyes, my arms folded over my chest.

Then, against my better judgment, I soften just for you.

BIO: Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novel THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN and Adam Silvera’s July 2025 Allstora Book Club Pick, THE YOMIGAERI TUNNEL. Her 2025 short fiction has been nominated for Best Small Fictions.