Pops — Buy Push

Leo always went for the classic Strawberry. He liked the efficiency of it—the way you could cap it, clip it to your pocket like a high-tech gadget, and save it for later. Toby, however, was a rebel. He hunted for the "Triple Tower" or the "Spring-Loaded" varieties, his eyes wide as he scanned the candy aisle.

"Trade ya," Leo said. "I’ve been wanting to try the battery flavor anyway."

They were the only candy you could wear like a pager.

It allowed for "intermittent snacking" (if you didn't mind the stickiness).

Every Saturday, their grandfather would hand them each a single, crinkly five-dollar bill. It was their "adventure fund," meant for the corner store at the edge of the neighborhood.

The summer of 1998 tasted like dusty asphalt and Blue Raspberry. For Leo and his younger brother, Toby, the ultimate status symbol wasn’t a bicycle or a video game; it was the translucent, plastic cylinder of a Push Pop.