Westerly

Abstract

Tom had been fighting with our parents again. When it was over, he came to my room and said, "Let's go." I didn't like it when he gave me orders, but he was in a bad mood, so I didn't argue. He took me outside, into the woods behind our house, where my parents forbade me to go unless it was with Tom. Tom was fourteen and I was eleven. He took me far into the woods, farther than I had ever been. I stayed behind him and watched his feet as he moved forward, swishing leaves. Every time I expected Tom to stop, he kept going. Mom and Dad wouldn't like it if they knew we were going this far. Kids came in here to smoke and drink and do all sorts of stuff. Tom and I kept walking. Gray tree trunks and orange leaves sur­ rounded us and I wasn't sure in what direction I'd have to walk to get back to our house. After what seemed like miles, Tom stopped and leaned against a tree. I did the same, taking the strain off my legs. " I want to show you something," Tom said and reached into his pockets. When his hands came out, they held a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "W hoa," I said. "You smoke?" I whispered the word "sm oke," as if it was a curse word, something forbidden. Which it was—Mom and Dad said that smoking would make your lungs fall apart. The image kept me awake some nights—I pictured my lungs with big holes in them, bits of lung falling out in clumps. But watching Tom smoke, you wouldn't think that anything so horrible was happening in his body. It seemed like the most natural act in the world. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. I watched with silent fascination as he smoothly performed the ritual I had only seen on TV— flicking the lighter, covering it with his hand, tilting his head down and sideways to join the tip of the cigarette with the faint yellow flame. He looked so smooth, so adult, and I thought I'd never be like Tom, no matter how hard I tried. "Wanna try it?" he said, coolly exhaling a stream of smoke. "Nah-ah," I said. Our parents would go berserk if they found out. He shook the pack of cigarettes and held it out to me. A single cigarette jutted out perfectly. "I don't want to, Tom," I said. He looked at me steadily. "W hy do you think I brought you out here?"