Kool-Aid on The Rocks

When I was a kid, my mom wasn’t a fan of Kool-Aid. She thought it was nothing but sugar and dye, a shortcut to bad teeth and hyper kids. If we asked for something sweet, she’d say, “There’s always water,” like it was the treat of the century. Every once in a while, though, a few packets of Kool-Aid would sneak into the cupboard, and that felt like rebellion in powder form.

I didn’t really fall for Kool-Aid until my mid-teens. Spencer, my boyfriend back then,  and I would whip up a pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid and make grilled cheese sandwiches. We’d pour our bright red drinks into glasses, carry everything out to the picnic table in the backyard, and giggle like we were getting away with something.

Spencer had this little cough syrup bottle filled with vodka. He’d pour it into the Kool-Aid while glancing over his shoulder like we were in a spy movie. We weren’t trying to get drunk, just to feel that fuzzy, secret buzz that made the world a little funnier and music a little better.

Our favorite nights were the Catholic school dances. Spence taught me to practice walking straight lines in the driveway, convinced that the priests and nuns at the door were human lie detectors. When we managed to greet them with steady smiles and clear eyes, it felt like victory.

We were cautious rebels, always following our own rules. Never ride with someone who’s been drinking. Never let Spencer drive after we’d had our “special Kool-Aid.” Beaver Dam was small enough that walking everywhere felt safe, and somehow, those long walks home, laughing in the cool night air, felt like freedom.

Looking back now, I smile at how innocent our rebellion really was. We thought we were so daring, sneaking vodka into our cherry Kool-Aid and mastering our sober walks past the priests. In truth, we were just two teenagers testing the edges of freedom, sipping on sweetness and summer nights. The world felt wide open then, and somehow, that mix of Kool-Aid, laughter, and teenage courage tasted a little like growing up.

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