When we were younger, I remember sitting on the monkey bars in the snow. We took off our hats and scarves, one at a time, to see who was the strongest, the bravest. I always won because you’d freaked out when your hands stuck to the metal – you were afraid they’d never come off. I’d call you a little girl and you’d throw your hat at me.
The snow would fall and we’d talk about kid stuff, and I’d wonder why I liked you so much. We would talk about things we thought were so important: Pokémon and Digimon, and all of the other “mon” type things that I can’t even remember anymore; you were always better at them than me.
The snow fell and the soft glow of the streetlights made each flake seem like a fallen firefly, a lightning bug processional that I could never tear my eyes from, except to look at you. Our breath would hold the light as well. You would put two fingers to your lips and pull them away, exhaling and pretending that you were smoking a cigarette. I was afraid to do that because my mom smoked and I knew it was only for grownups.
Now it’s snowing again, and we’re sitting outside on the hood of your white compact car. It’s dark – three in the morning. The only light comes from your headlights and sends a dull pain through my eyes. I like the darkness.
Well, that’s not true. The second light comes from a small orange ember between your fingers, between your thin lips. Now your breath mingles with real smoke, creating a ballet of young and old, of mature and immature, of ignorant and just plain stupid. My legs are crossed and I watch you, wondering when exactly we grew up, or if you ever really grew up at all. Am I sick of the burning of secondhand smoke in my throat, the smell it leaves on me … or does it only intrigue me more?
You smile at me, your ball cap flattening your hair into your brown eyes. Your free hand grasps mine comfortingly. I inhale deeply and cast my eyes down, knowing that I was never going to be strong enough to remove the particular layer that led to nicotine. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, and I’m the winner again.
The snow would fall and we’d talk about kid stuff, and I’d wonder why I liked you so much. We would talk about things we thought were so important: Pokémon and Digimon, and all of the other “mon” type things that I can’t even remember anymore; you were always better at them than me.
The snow fell and the soft glow of the streetlights made each flake seem like a fallen firefly, a lightning bug processional that I could never tear my eyes from, except to look at you. Our breath would hold the light as well. You would put two fingers to your lips and pull them away, exhaling and pretending that you were smoking a cigarette. I was afraid to do that because my mom smoked and I knew it was only for grownups.
Now it’s snowing again, and we’re sitting outside on the hood of your white compact car. It’s dark – three in the morning. The only light comes from your headlights and sends a dull pain through my eyes. I like the darkness.
Well, that’s not true. The second light comes from a small orange ember between your fingers, between your thin lips. Now your breath mingles with real smoke, creating a ballet of young and old, of mature and immature, of ignorant and just plain stupid. My legs are crossed and I watch you, wondering when exactly we grew up, or if you ever really grew up at all. Am I sick of the burning of secondhand smoke in my throat, the smell it leaves on me … or does it only intrigue me more?
You smile at me, your ball cap flattening your hair into your brown eyes. Your free hand grasps mine comfortingly. I inhale deeply and cast my eyes down, knowing that I was never going to be strong enough to remove the particular layer that led to nicotine. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, and I’m the winner again.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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