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Sometimes I wish Ma was still here to be the ray of sunshine she always was. But the spirits wanted her to go to the underworld sooner than expected. Cancer’s a bitch.
Maybe that’s why my papa hates cigarettes so much.
He even refuses to smoke the pipe, despite it being tradition in culture. But he’d chastise me for not following traditions, like when we had to smear ash over our bodies and wear moccasins to prepare my ma’s body for burial. My papa didn’t want anyone else to do it, and I couldn’t say no.
God, that feels like such a long time ago.
I take another drag of my smoke to temper my emotions.
Papa always said never to cry—at least, not for Ma’s death—because it would stop her from passing over. But I guess that time’s long gone too.
“Hey …”
There’s a voice coming from down below. I push out the bud of my cig against the tiles of the roof and peek over the edge.
“Yeah, you there.”
It’s Dixie.
A beaming smile forms on my face.
Funny. No one’s ever spotted me up here. But of course, she does.
“Hey. What’s up?” I say.
“Nothing much. Can I come up there?” she asks, kicking her heels.
“Um … it’s a dangerous climb,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “There’s no window here so no other way up but the ladder.”
I don’t wanna sound mean, but it’s very high up, and it doesn’t have a railing. She could get severely hurt.
“It’s okay. I can handle it.” The wicked smile on her face makes my heart beat faster.
She grabs the ladder and immediately starts climbing without looking down. She’s steadfast and quick too. Before I know it, she’s reached the top of the building and crawls up to the roof. Courageous, if I say so myself.
“Whoa, that was fast,” I say as she walks up to where I’m sitting.
“I used to climb the trees in our backyard when I was little,” she explains, rubbing her lips. “Can I sit?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say awkwardly, scooting up a bit to make room. “Be careful, the tiles are cold and wet.”
She snorts. “Can’t be as bad as the toilet seat in our bathroom with the windows open 24/7.”
Now I’m smiling too. This girl has a weird sense of humor, but I like it.
“So what are you doing up here?” she asks.
“Oh, nothing … just staring at the sky,” I reply. “Maybe trying to catch a UFO.”
“Thought you looked like the brooding type,” she says. The grin on her face is infectious.
“I’m just kidding,” I add. “Those UFOs would never show themselves here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m surprised you believe in aliens,” she says, and we both laugh.
She ogles the cig I put out on the tiles, and says, “Thought I smelled something.”
“Yeah, sorry.” I scratch the back of my head. If I’d known she was coming to my house, I would’ve never lit one up. I know some people hate the smell.
Instead, she holds her hand out, and says, “Got one for me?”
With a smirk, I pull out my pack and take one out for her. When she takes it from me and slips it between her lips, my eyes focus on her mouth. For a second, all kinds of images run through my mind. What I wouldn’t give to touch those lips. What would they taste like? Cherries? Strawberries? Sweet apple pie?
Fuck.
I fish my Zippo from my pocket and light her cig.
“A Zippo? Where’d you get that?” she asks.
“My papa sells them in his shop,” I reply. I kinda stole it, but I don’t tell her that. I don’t wanna sound like a delinquent.
“Nice,” she says, grinning. “My brothers would probably kill for something like that.”
I wonder if she’s serious. It wouldn’t surprise me if they end up becoming murderers. Not that I’d ever say that out loud in front of her.
She takes a good long drag without coughing.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I say, impressed.
“Couple of times,” she replies. “You smoke regularly?”
“On and off.” I shrug and put the pack of cigs and lighter back in my pocket. “Whenever I feel like it, basically.”
She takes another drag. “Same for me, but mostly when my brothers are being dicks.”
“You must smoke every day then.”
She laughs out loud. “I’m surprised I don’t, to be honest.”
“Because you know what’s good for you,” I say, which makes her face light up.
I’m normally not the type to easily dish out compliments like that, but I know she appreciates it.
“Do you think sitting up here in the dark, smoking a cig with the school outcast is ‘good for me’?” she taunts, making quotation marks with her fingers. I’m sure she heard the term from Derek. Now I know what he calls me when I’m not around.
“Maybe not, but maybe you like going off the path a bit,” I say, and we both snort again.
