I was never really into the school scene. When I started my high school career, some popular upperclassmen were intrigued by my style. They attempted to take me under their wings and give me the world class high school experience of some kind of John Hughes heroine. I think they just liked telling people they had a blue-haired friend. After a couple years of light and lovable hazing I found some semblance of acceptance there, but it wasn’t the academics or the parties. It was the leads.

You may already know this, but kids can seriously put candy away, and high school kids are no exception. They’re just adult-sized children. They have the metabolism of toddlers, the bodies of full-grown humans and the brains of jungle monkeys at the height of mating season. Basically, as long as I was hanging out around the high school, I had the perfect market for my candy sales.

Halloween was always cleanup time, Christmas bells sounded more like a cash register’s ker-ching ker-ching, and Valentine’s Day gave me an opportunity to play on the lust, guilt and insecurities of my peers. I loved the holidays, but they were just a little extra. Candy was a 5-days-a-week habit for most of these kids, and I was the pusher. I gave them the sweets they wanted at a reasonable price. I was the Candy Queen.

Second semester of senior year was mostly blow-off classes, just going through the motions. The Candy Queen was nearly free!

Improv, Pottery, Creative Writing… You know, things that would never make me a real living. Not like candy. Candy was my pride, my passion, and most importantly, my paycheck. I had a totally free Friday schedule for that whole semester, so I rented a local commercial kitchen over the weekends to expand my operation. The equipment was old and the building was a heap, but I got a good deal (partial gum drop trade) on the rent, so it became my first “location.” I had the production and the ingredients, but I started getting orders from all over town and I had never learned to drive.

One day in early spring, a hot rod sped into the school parking lot with rock n’ roll blaring out the open convertible top. In a fluid movement that looked completely effortless, the car spun around with a squeal and backed straight into the spot that was reserved for the vice principal. Without opening the door, the driver hopped out and removed his driving gloves.

He was a tall, cool guy with black shades and dark, moussed-up hair. Hanging casually out of his mouth was a stick that I’d recognize anywhere. It was a Weststone Excalibur — the Cadillac of lollipop sticks. I found myself wondering for a moment what delicious flavor was on the other side of that stick.

The car was incredible. My eyes took a walk over its sleek body as visions of my candy’s future filled my mind. Delivery. Delivery was the answer to my expansion issues.

I staggered toward the car as the dude approached it from the rear. Taking a firm grip with both hands on the metal wind-up handle, he gave it a few good turns. I remember the first time I heard that satisfying click sound like it was yesterday. Once he’d wound up the car, he looked straight at me and took off his shades. In a voice like hot silk, he spoke his first words to me: “Gotta be ready to run.”

His name was Pop. At first, I didn’t know who I loved more: Him or the car. It didn’t matter. They both filled my world like a blinding cloud of sugar dust. I had never met anyone else as passionate about candy as I was. We were a perfect team. I showed him the ropes of my candy-making biz and he hooked all my customers up with free deliveries all over town.

The Candy Queen had found a Candy King. Lolli & Pop’s was born.