Teenage Graces

There were two things I liked when I was 15; the boy next door and cigarettes. We would wander down the sun-dabbled back road under a canopy of birch trees inhaling forbidden acrid smoke into our lungs and stealing shy glances. I knew my mother would ream me out if she caught me smoking but the illicitness of the activity was half of the fun. The thrill of a secreted pack of cigarettes in my jean jacket pocket as I came home from school only added to my teenage illusion of rebellion.

The Indian summer wind would rustle the tree leaves sending the shadows dancing over our skin. We were too shy to hold hands but shared a cigarette back and forth akin in our social transgression. The sun would make his black hair shine glossy as it draped over his face hiding his dark eyes.

Some days when school let out, after the dusty bus ride down the long country road, we would sneak behind the shed with a lighter and the menthol cigarettes I spirited from my grandmother's purse as she busied herself in the other room. The thick, sticky sweet smoke would linger in my throat as I tried not to cough to maintain my air of rebel girl coolness. "I am a cool girl." I thought to myself. "I read heavy metal magazines. I smoke cigarettes. I want a tattoo. I dyed my hair black." But I knew it was hard to be a teenage rebel when you lived in a farm town of 700 people and the craziest thing you could do was drink yourself stupid on a weekend in front of a bonfire as the local boys started fights with each other.

I wanted a switch blade. I wanted a leather jacket. I wanted to stand on the corner in LA and score heroin. I wanted to be a character out of a movie or one of the books I read. I wanted to be a greaser. I wanted to be a rock star. I wanted to be dark hero. But what I really wanted was to have my 15 year old crush realize just how cool I was and lean over to kiss me behind the shed.

I wanted him to hold my hand down the school hallway. I wanted that stupid teenage grin the popular girl and her jock boyfriend always had when they made-out by the lockers. Instead I was the strange girl. The smart girl. The girl from a poor family. The girl who wore thrift store fashions and whose dad would pick her up in a beat up old truck. And behind that shed we never kissed. Only shared one cigarette planning our escape from this place if only we could just grow up a little faster and be just a little bit cooler.