Playing Nice Read Free

the ground. With her blue eyes and red lipstick, she looks like Snow White. A smoking, combat boot-wearing princess.
    The whole time we sit there, I try to think of what to say, but what's appropriate when she's already said "tight thighs," "virgin" and "getting laid" in our first five minutes together? And I'm entranced at how her hand holds the cigarette like it's an appendage and her mouth curls around the end, making out with the filter, as if she's been smoking for years.
    I wonder if her parents know. The one time I tried a cigarette, I hid next to the dumpster in the alley behind Rite Aid on Main Street so no one in town would see me. When I went home, I covered myself a layer thick in plumeria lotion and mouth wash to mask the odor. I was worried my parents would be able to tell. My mother scolded me for smelling like a hooker and told me to stop buying that lotion. I haven't worn it since.
    Once Lil finishes, she puts the cigarette out, sizzling the lit end into the earth. My hand reaches out to pick it up and put it in the trash can. Cigarette butts take forever to biodegrade. But I stop myself. It wouldn't be kind and Lil needs to know that I'm nice.
    The second before I decide to start a conversation, she gets up and walks away, the chains on her black combat boots clanging with each step. Nothing is spoken between us. I watch her cross the street back to school, her fresh smoke smell lingering in my nose, and a weight hangs in the air. It presses on me, like each word I thought about saying is a boulder on my shoulders. I realize I'm disappointed. No one has ever talked to me like that before; no one's ever been so honest and brash. Now that Lil's gone, I'm left sitting on the ground, dirt on my favorite pink dress and an annoying pinch in the back of my chest reminding me how foolish it was to follow her.
    I get up and look around. Until this moment, I hadn't thought about what people would think if they saw me sitting with Lil while she smoked. I was too focused on her mouth. Luckily the first bus is just starting to unload a pack of students and no one's looking.
    I dust off the back of my dress, giving it an extra wipe clean. I wear a dress to school every day but Friday. My mom says people know the type of person you are by what you wear. Some weeks I'm so tired of crossing my legs so no one can see my underwear that I can't wait for Friday to roll around. But then I remind myself that boys like dresses, probably because it's easy access to my lady parts, and leg cramps are just the price I have to pay.
    Brushing out the wrinkles that have formed, I look for my best friend in the crowd of students exiting the busses. If Lil doesn't want my help, I can't force her. That's another thing we talked about in WelCo at the beginning of the year. If someone is lost and they don't want help, it's not our job to save them. I tell myself that over and over until the uncomfortable jabbing in the back of chest eases to a dull poke. I decide it's better that Lil walked away silently. My mother always says, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.
    I find Sarah lingering at the back of the crowd, headphones plugging her ears. She's always listening to classical music. Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky. I tried to get her to listen to a musical once, one of my favorites, but she covered her ears. This shit is terrible , she screamed. Sarah plays flute in the Minster orchestra. First chair, of course. We've been friends since kindergarten, when her parents moved from one side of Minster to the house directly across the street from us. My mom and I brought a cherry pie over as a welcoming present. Sarah came running to the door, her hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head, like a ballerina.
    "Do you want to play Barbies?" she asked, waving around a blonde-haired Barbie and a brunette.
    "Sure," I said, grabbing for the blonde one.
    "You can't have either of these." Sarah yanked her hand away. "You can