Chapter Seven

"You lied to me," I whispered, the words coming out flat as I stared at the nearly full pack on the coffee table.

Becca didn't even look guilty. She just leaned back into the sofa cushions, tapping her ash into the silver tray. "Look, Jess. I'm sick of always having to supply you. That new pack? That’s yours. Consider it a gift, you owned me a pack anyway. After Wilson took mine."

A sharp prickle of annoyance flared up in my chest. I had just risked getting caught in a corner shop, wearing a neon pink tracksuit that smelled like cheap vanilla, all for a lie. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to throw the pack at her face.

But then the scent of her lit cigarette drifted across the room, and my anger completely evaporated. The hollow, desperate ache in my chest was louder than my pride.

"Whatever," I muttered, ripping the cellophane off my new pack with trembling fingers.

I slid a cigarette out. It felt completely different holding one that belonged to me. I struck the new plastic lighter, brought the flame to the tip, and inhaled deep into my lungs.

The relief was instant, crashing over me like a wave.

Every single bit of tension in my neck and shoulders simply dissolved. The frantic panic from the corner shop, the annoyance at Becca, the stress of the entire week, it all just melted away. A heavy, beautiful warmth flooded my chest, followed a split second later by that intoxicating buzz behind my eyes. It felt incredibly good. My whole body felt anchored, relaxed, and wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of pure calm. I took another long, slow drag, watching the smooth, thin stream of smoke glide toward the ceiling. I didn't care that she’d lied. Right then, with the nicotine humming beautifully through my veins, I didn't care about anything at all.

"Better?" Becca asked, her voice surprisingly quiet.

"Yeah," I breathed, exhaling another thin line of smoke. I knocked my ash into the tray, sitting back on the sofa. The silence between us actually felt comfortable now. I looked at her, noticing how she was slumped, looking unusually small in her oversized hoodie. "You weren't really sick today, were you?"

Becca stared at her cigarette for a long moment, the bravado slipping from her face. "No," she admitted, her voice dropping. "I faked it. We had that massive maths modules test today. I haven't understood a single thing Collins has said for three weeks. I knew I'd fail it."

I frowned slightly, a bit of my straight-A student mentality slipping out. "You know he’s just going to make you take it on Monday morning, right? You can't skip it forever."

Becca’s shoulders sagged, and she looked down at the carpet. For a second, she looked entirely vulnerable, stripped of the mean-girl armour she wore at school. The tough, blackmailing bully vanished, leaving just a stressed-out girl who was drowning in class.

Looking at her, I didn't feel angry anymore. I just felt a sudden, fierce pang of sympathy for my friend.

"Look," I said softly, surprising myself. "I could... I could come over tomorrow, if you want? On Saturday. I can walk you through the algebra modules. They're actually not that bad once someone breaks them down."

Becca looked up, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. She hesitated, as if looking for the catch, before giving a small, reluctant nod. "Yeah? You'd actually do that?"

"Yeah. I'll bring my revision guides."

We finished our cigarettes in a strange, warm silence, the boundary between us blurring even further.

A few minutes later, I went back into her bedroom, took off the pink tracksuit, and got changed back into my school uniform. The stiff fabric and the perfectly tied tie felt like a costume now. I tucked my new, pristine packet of cigarettes and the lighter deep into my blazer pocket, said goodbye to Becca, and left the house.

The walk back through the park was quiet. The autumn air was crisp, biting at my cheeks. Halfway down the path, right as I passed our usual bench, a sudden, sharp urge tugged at my chest. Just one more, a tiny voice whispered. You have a whole pack in your pocket.

I stopped, my hand instinctively hovering over my blazer pocket.

Then I shook my head, forcing my hand back to my side. No, I told myself, picking up the pace. Don't be stupid. You've had one.

But the heavy, rectangular weight in my pocket felt electric the entire way home.

The real struggle, though, came in the dead of night.

I lay wide awake in bed, staring at the shadows shifting across my ceiling. The clock on my bedside table read 2:14 AM. The house was dead silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards. I turned onto my left side. Then my right. It was no use. My mind was completely hyper-focused on the school blazer draped over the chair across my room.

Inside that pocket was my pack.

My throat felt incredibly dry. My fingers were actively twitching under the duvet. The memory of that warm, soothing rush from the afternoon kept replaying in my mind, teasing me.

Finally, I caved.

I slipped out of bed, the carpet cold beneath my bare feet. I tiptoed over to my blazer, my heart racing as I quietly slipped the cardboard pack and the lighter out of the pocket.

I crept over to my bedroom window, pushing the latch up with agonizing slowness. I opened it just a crack, letting the freezing night air rush in. My hands were shaking, a wild cocktail of adrenaline and nerves pumping through me. I slid a cigarette out, put it to my lips, and sparked the lighter. The small flame illuminated my dark room for a fraction of a second before going out.

I took a deep, careful drag, pulling the smoke deep into my lungs.

A sudden, naughty thrill shot through my veins, entirely separate from the nicotine. I have my own cigarettes, I thought, a slow, wicked smile spreading across my face in the dark. I’m doing this in my own house, right under my parents' noses.

I leaned closer to the glass, blowing the smoke out into the cold night air. It came out in that beautifully smooth, thin stream, disappearing instantly into the darkness. It felt entirely different from the park. There was no Becca watching me, no pressure, no fear of the photo in this moment. It was just me, the quiet night, and the deeply satisfying, heavy warmth settling into my chest.

I tapped the ash carefully out the window, watching the tiny orange embers fall and die in the darkness below, completely hooked on the secret thrill of it.

<<< Previous