the time i smoked my first cigarette
by Lindsey Maple
Tyler cornered me in the hallway before we had to go to rehearsal for the spring musical. Sitting on the cold, title floor beneath my locker, nose buried in my beat-up copy of Wuthering Heights, I hadn’t noticed him approach. Gently tapping my leg with his Nike clad foot, he got my attention, mentioned at me to follow him outside to his car.
He told me it’d help my voice, make it sound scratchier and sexier and more sophisticated, and I wondered why he cared because I was a chorus member, and it didn’t really matter how I sounded. He was the lead— the perfect Danny Zuko, and I wanted him to think I was cool. He handed me the pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Reds, of course, because it was 2014, and in 2014 everyone obsessed over the girls on Tumblr who smoked Marlboro Reds, and listened to Lana Del Rey, and wore oversized flannels that somehow always perfectly drooped off one shoulder of their “heroin chic” bodies and dyed a strand of their hair blue or purple or pink. Only I couldn’t dye a strand of my hair pink because I went to Catholic school, and I couldn’t wear a flannel most days because I went to Catholic school. But I could sit in Tyler’s car and listen to Lana Del Rey and smoke Marlboro Reds, so I did.
It was a fresh pack that he handed me. Crisp, and I chose one straight from the middle. Setting the white stick between my lips like I’d seen in the movies; I took the yellow Bic from Tyler’s outstretched hand and flicked my thumb over the small metal knobs until it ignited. I moved the flame close to the end of the cigarette, and cupped my hand around it, again, like I’d seen in the movies, only my cigarette didn’t light like they did on TV, so I tried it a second time. Nothing.
“You have to inhale as you light it,” Tyler chuckled. “Let me show you,” he said as he took the Bic from my hand and lit his cigarette with a relaxed ease that, if I was being completely honest, made me hate him. How was it that he always seemed to float? He floated through Algebra II last semester, barley studying, and doing his homework 10 minutes before class, whereas I struggled to keep my head above water, and had to go to Mrs. Morris before school on Thursdays for secret tutoring. He floated through the hallways of St. Michael’s, hello-ing and what’s up, bro-ing his way onto the Homecoming Court, and although, he wasn’t voted King because that right of passage went to a Senior, I had no doubt he’d win next year.
He floated his way to Danny Zuko.
“I’ve barely practiced my lines,” he whispered to me during Spanish class on the morning of auditions; sure to keep his voice at a low volume so that Señora Robins couldn’t hear him. Or maybe she did and pretended not to care. “Guess I’m just crossing my fingers and winging it. How hard can it be? It’s Grease.”
Tyler exhaled, and I watched as the smoke billowed out of his mouth, and through the cracked window of his 2007 Camry that was parked in the back of a lot behind the school so that we wouldn’t get caught. He handed me the lighter back, and for the third time that afternoon, I attempted to light my first cigarette. Flick, light, inhale, I repeated to myself. Flick, light, inhale.
The smoke caught in my throat, and as I coughed, gray clouds rippled out of my lips and out of my nose; engulfed me in a dark embrace; and left me with a bittersweet burn. I waved my cigarette-less hand in front of my face with the intention of wafting the smell of the burning tobacco away from me; yet, I couldn’t deny that I felt exhilarated. Would the others smell smoke on us when we went back inside for rehearsal? Would they say anything? Would they tell Mr. Corbin?
“Can I tell you something?” Tyler asked, taking another drag.
“Sure,” I said, still attempting to stifle my cough.
“You should’ve been Sandy.”
“What?”
“You should’ve been Sandy,” Tyler repeated. “Becca is good, but you have a better voice. Honestly, Corbin probably only gave her the part over you because she’s a senior.”
“Oh,” I said. “I, uh, I actually didn’t audition for Sandy.”
Tyler’s gaze shot to me; shock painted his face.
“What do you mean you didn’t audition for Sandy? Who doesn’t audition for Sandy? It’s Grease.”
Nodding, I took another drag of the cigarette. That time, I was able to inhale without a cough.
“I auditioned for Rizzo,” I admitted. A wave of silence flooded the car, and I turned my head to look at Tyler, who had shifted his body in the driver’s seat so that he was now fully facing me.
“Rizzo?” he laughed. “You’re so not a Rizzo.”
Photo of Lindsey Maple
BIO: Lindsey is a third year Fiction candidate in the NEOMFA program. She teaches English Composition at the University of Akron and works as the Associate Editor of Rubbertop Review.