Waiting for ... dough

Four junior high school boys sitting on a bench. Killing time.
Spiky, tousled hair. Shirts hanging out. Big basketball sneakers with laces slack enough to trip them up. The odd punch and push. A lot of laughter. A maelstrom of mirth. But waiting for what?
A scuffle. A bag flung across the floor. A groan and a moan and a reluctant retrieval. More laughter. Flicks of the hair. Jutting of jaws. But still waiting. For girls?
Cracking suntans. Three buttons undone on their shirts. A snatch of pop song. Some drumming on the wooden slats of the bench. Youthful exuberance barely held in check. The wait goes on. Must be for girls.
Movement to their right. Their heads turn in unison. The elderly shopkeeper stoops. Then places yellow stickers on the crackling wrappers of pizza slices, azuki bean jam rolls, and assorted baked goodies. The stickers bear the best of tidings - 20% off!
The boys swing themselves off their perch. They're in there like a shot - the change in their pockets jangling. The wait is over. There's nowt like stale pastries.