I could never verbalize exactly why I hated her. Maybe it was the fact that she was a “gifted kid,” or her perfect memory, or her stupid cigarettes, or the way she flaunted the rules, or how she was, by social law, too cool to hand out with us. Maybe it was how she always went out of her way to touch me, or how she always wore the boy’s uniform and never kept it tidy, or how she would slip me hand-rolled cigarettes with wrapping papers she’d written poetry on.

I know she wants me. She’s said it straight to me, granted she was drunk. I remember that night, breath warm on my neck, something in her cup that was definitely spiked. She got me alone, pressed herself against me. Her hands were calloused, but they were soft with me. I remember how strong the urge to kiss her was, but I suppressed it. People like me don’t associate with people like her.

My parents would be so disappointed in me. Then she slipped away at the call of Tristin and some of their other boys to go smoke cigarettes on a balcony. And she went, with a final glance back at me, before she sighed and murmured “Forget it,” under her breath. I don’t think she knows about how I dream about tracing her shitty stick ’n poke tattoos and touching tanned skin so different from my own.

I lapse into such dreams every night, wondering what it might be like to listen to her play guitar, or watch her kiss my fingertips. I want to smell smoke in her long, dark hair, and have her tell me the stories her mom told her. I want to smoke a cigarette for the first time in her arms, and have her rub my back when I cough and kiss my shoulder until my eyes don’t water anymore. I’d give my whole heart to feel even just a minute of the comfort I know she’d give me.

But that didn’t happen. It never does. I started smoking by myself, forcing myself through it until I liked the burn. Now here I am, slumped against a brick wall of Yale, fishing in my bag for a light. “Fuck!” I curse, and I feel someone bump my shoulder. She’s taller now, but she’s holding out a lighter, a pair of headphones around her neck and connected to a CD player that must be in her pocket.

She smiles at me, lip piercings moving when her lips stretch into a smile. We recognize each other instantly. Later that night, I’m stumbling into her place with my hands fisted in her hair. I press her against the door to shut it, and she scoops me up into her arms. I pull away to glance around and her head thumps against the door. It’s small and messy. She takes me to the bed and we have sex. Afterwards, she flops down next to me in her bed. I get up and start dressing immediately, and her face falls.