The Red School

(8) Because I'm In Control of Me

CHAPTER 8

Embarrassed, I run my fingers through my hair, shaking at the end, just in case there’s more grass. When I feel like it’s gone, I look up at him. “Is there anymore?” I don’t mean for my voice to come out so small, it just does.

Taking a pull from his cigarette, he moves a step closer to me and exhales the cigarette smoke, not exactly in my face, but close enough. I sort of move away from him so that I’m standing flush against the wall where he once was, and he’s directly in front of me. He moves his hand in my hair, his face still blank, and reveals to me another blade of grass. “Now there isn’t.” he says in response to my question.

I inhale at the sound of his voice. It’s got a slight rasp to it, as if he needs to clear his throat, but of course it only makes me want him to talk more. I brush a few stray strands of black hair from my face. “Thank you.” I tell him, angling my body in his direction.

He takes another pull from his cigarette and blows out the smoke, making small rings. The boy doesn’t say anything, and his eyes never leave mine. He brings his hand back towards me, but this time he has his cigarette in his hand. I start to panic, thinking he’s about to burn me with the end of the cigarette, but instead he puts it out on the wall, right above my head. I let out a breath. I mean, it’s stupid being that I’m a vampire and can very easily destroy him, but I feel like a little girl right now in his presence. Not in a weird, he’s some supernatural being way, but the way any normal girl would feel around a guy like him.

My mouth seems to be moving on it’s own accord when I say, “Cigarettes are bad for you, you know?” and I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Idiot, idiot, idiot! How lame must I seem?

He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a green pack of cigarettes. “I know,” he says, without a trace of humor in his voice, but he looks amused. He holds the pack up to my face. “It warns me right here on the box.”

As he returns them to his pocket, I can’t help but ask, “Then why do you smoke them anyway?”

Running his fingers through his hair, he takes a moment to stare at me. “That’s a very personal question to ask someone you’ve just met, Blue Eyes.” I blink and look away, not able to hold his gaze for long. “And to answer your question, I smoke because I want to. Because I’m in control of me.”

I ponder this, wondering why of all answers, this is the one he gives me. It sounds like something he’s used to saying, as if he practices this in the mirror just to tell anyone who asks him this.

“Oh.” Is all I can think to say in response.

He goes, “Are you hungry?”

And I go, “Yeah.” Because at first I just want to keep talking to him, but then I realize that I actually am quite hungry. Though, obviously not for the same food as him.

“Well, then, let’s go and get food.” He walks away from me, up the sidewalk, and after a second I realize I’m meant to follow him, so I do. But his legs are longer than mine, so he keeps getting further and further away from me, so I have to jog to keep up. Obviously I have better speed than him, but if I used it I’d be far away from him. So jogging works best. It may have me slightly out of breath, but whatever.

And apparently I’m breathing loud enough for him to hear me. I know this, because he goes, “I’m the smoker, Blue Eyes. You should be in better shape than me.”

I’m too embarrassed to respond.

We walk a couple of blocks in silence, until we’re in front of a small place, with the name “Jo’s” flashing on a neon sign. He stops so abruptly in front of me that I crash into his back, which is surprisingly hard. As I’m rubbing my forehead, he turns and faces me with a raised eyebrow. “Careful now, Blue Eyes.”