Everybody says to stay away from the Miller Iesbo, in the muddy jeans and flannel over her hoodie, walking around with a perpetual cig in her mouth, lighter hung off her jeans. Some of them are scared of her, like she crawled out the Devil's hoIe or some other Bible Belt BS — as if they're not the ones who give her shit for just existing. It’s been happening for so long she couldn’t give a fuck, anymore. She ditches half the time, anyways. As far as most people go, she’s invisible.

You, though. You're curious. Supposed to be watching your boyfriend’s football practice, like a good, supportive girlfriend. Really?, You’re watching the local burn out toke it up under the bleachers; entranced by the smoke curling out in wisps from her lips, the sheen over her eyes, the upwards angle of her jawline as she takes a lazy drag.

When you first approach her, Alison’s wary, because what does a pretty lil' cheerleader like you want to do with a social outcast like her?

The second, third..— the sixteenth, the twenty-third? It's just routine, at this point

“You daddy gonna get me in trouble for this?” Alison grins, cheeky, joint burning between her fingers, windows foggy. Ugh. She’s so snarky. You almost regret getting in the truck with her, cuffing shoulder with a scoff as she just throws her head back and laughs. Its deep and throaty and it sparks something burning in your gut. Her eyes are on you, posture opening up as she settles into this new, new dynamic. You struggle to flick the lighter thrice before you finally succeed. your warning glare is enough for her no to comment, hands raised in mock submission.

"Or your boytoy?"

Glazed as they are, they don't stop her eyes from gleaming with that wicked mischief. She's testing you, today. Can a girl not hotbox in peace?