Memento Vivere

Chapter Two: Purple Hair and Poisonous Snakes

I roll my eyes as I slam the house door shut. I don't know what the hell my parents think they're going to accomplish. This new nanny- the third one this month- they've hired for my little sister isn't going to last the week.  Gemma drives them stupid. Or perhaps more accurately, bat shit crazy.

Stalking down the driveway, mentally berating my parents, I unlock my car. Just as I'm about to get in, I hear banging from the upstairs window. I look up, and I know what- or who- I'll see.

Gemma does this every morning with me. We've created a secret language of sorts over the years. 3 taps means I love you, two taps means look here, and just one tap means okay.

Looking up at the window, I wave at her, sticking a thumb up in the air for the universal good-job signal, like I do every other time a new nanny has shown up. I'm not using it to praise her, though; I'm asking if she'll be alright.

Gemma understands, and nods, smiling, before tapping three times on the window. Grinning, I point to myself, then make a peace sign with two of my fingers- Me too.

When Gemma finally disappears from the window, I sink into the driver's seat and pull the door closed. Out of my leather jacket's pocket comes a pack of cigarettes, my trustee blue lighter, and keys, which I turn in the ignition. Before backing out, I roll down the windows, light a cigarette, and lift it to my mouth to hold it with my lips.

The drive to the school is 15 minutes, which gives me time to think about everything yet again. I didn't bother to learn the new nanny's name- what's the point when, judging by her doe like eyes that shifted nervously around this morning, she'll be gone in a fortnight, if not sooner? Hopefully she'll at least stay until I get home. Inevitably she will leave, I know, and then the parental units will be forced to scrounge up yet another one, which has been getting harder and harder lately. Word's gotten around, and now only the most desperate are willing to brave Gemma's creative evilness.

My nicotine stick disappears in a couple minutes, de-stressing me and relaxing my shoulders like it has been for almost five years. Gemma knows I smoke- I never do it in front of her, but though I air out the car, the smell will always be there, the smoky tendrils worming their way into the dark leather, baring their teeth and refusing to leave. I pull into the parking lot of the school, telling myself not to worry about Gemma, that she'll be fine. She always is. My mind clear, I smirk as I speed into an empty parking spot near the front that a rusty cadillac opposite me was preparing to turn into. A jock in the driver's seat leans out his window and flips me the bird, and I look back at him with a shit-eating grin on my face until he speeds off, looking irritated, revving his shitty engine like it's supposed to impress me.

I stuff my pack in my pocket again, along with my lighter and keys, after I shut the door and lock the car. Changing my mind, I pull it back out, grabbing another cigarette. As I place it between my lips and replace the pack, I saunter over to the crowd of people I call my friends. Lighting it, I take fewer, shorter drags so it'll last me until the bell rings for class to start in about 7 minutes. Taking a pull, I reach the group and blow smoke in Cole's face. He screws up his nose, making the rest of us laugh. Cole and his girlfriend, Emma, are my closest and only real friends.

Emma giggles, "C'mon, Cole, haven't you kissed an ashtray enough for the smell not to bug you?" Emma and I smoke, but Cole insists he's forever going to stay away from cigarettes and the like. He and Emma have pretty open make-out sessions just seconds after she's finished smoking, and we always find it funny. He mock-scowls, making her laugh, which makes him smile, joke forgotten. He and Emma have been together almost a year.

They hit it off immediately when she moved here from her last school. I did and still do envy them at times, so openly in love and not having to worry about the risks of actual feelings. Taking a longer drag from my cigarette, I feel a tap on my arm and turn around to see Amber, a small smirk on her face. Tall, slim, Amber is my on-call girl. My girlfriend at one time, the relationship shifted and ended up staying at "friends with benefits." Like smoking, a night with Amber and some physical exertion really sets me straight and helps me relax. Usually when she wants to go and have a romp, I'd be all in, but something in me made me turn around and ignore her. I don't miss her hurt expression as I start laughing with the other guys.