Where the Staircase Ends(29)

I slid the window open and leaned out, leaving room for Sunny to follow. The dollar bought me one cigarette and a book of matches, but I should’ve asked for a lighter. I had to scratch my way through most of the book before I finally managed to get the thing lit.

Sunny shook her head when I offered to let her try it first, so I braced myself against the window sill and sucked on the end until smoke filled my mouth, then leaned out farther to release the cloud into the night. I sat back to look at Sunny, pleased with myself. My mouth tasted gritty, but otherwise I didn’t feel any different.

“You didn’t inhale,” Sunny said, fanning the window with a pillow to keep smoke from coming into the room.

“Yes I did. At least I think I did. How do you know if you inhale or not?”

“It should come out of your nose. You blew the smoke straight out. I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

I tried again, pulling the smoke into my mouth and gulping it down my throat, like I was swallowing an oversized piece of meat. My lungs immediately exploded, wracking my body in a series of choking coughs so violent that I forgot to lean out the window, releasing plumes of smoke into my bedroom.

“Lean out the window!” Sunny hissed, pushing me toward the night air and taking the cigarette from my hand so I wouldn’t drop it. She passed me a glass of water, and I sipped it gratefully, sliding back into my bedroom once I was sure I’d expelled all the smoke from my lungs.

Sunny watched me curiously and held the cigarette as far out the window as her arm would allow.

“That was awful.” I said in response to her questioning look. My voice was raspy, and my mouth felt like the inside of an ashtray.

“I think you inhaled that time,” she offered. I gave her a duh look. “Try it again, only this time don’t inhale quite so hard.”

“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “That was terrible. You try it.”

“Why would I try something you think is terrible? That’s like saying, ‘smell this, it stinks.’” She made a disgusted face and moved to flick the cigarette out the window, but I grabbed her arm.

“Not in the front yard! My mom will find it. Here, give it to me.” I scraped the cherry against the brick ledge, then hid the remaining evidence at the bottom of my trash can.

We lit a few scented candles to mask the remaining smell and left the window open to dispel any smoke that might have wafted back inside.

“That’ll teach you to trust Tracey Allen.” Sunny gave me a pointed look before grabbing the nail polish from my nightstand. “Give me your foot.”

She was applying a topcoat to my newly bright-pink toes when we first noticed the smell. I thought it was from the candles, but the look on Sunny’s face told me otherwise.

“Shit, Taylor. Shit!” Sunny jumped to her feet. I spun around to see what she was gawking at, smearing my freshly polished toes across the carpet.

Puffs of smoke billowed up from the small metal receptacle where I’d trashed the cigarette, and I could just make out the tip of a small flame licking up the side of the can.

“Oh my God!” I shouted, shrinking back toward the opposite side of the room. “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!” I stared dumbly at the scene, unable to make my brain work through what to do. Stop, drop, roll. No, that wasn’t right.

Sunny let out a squeal and dumped her glass of water on the smoldering can, then ran to the bathroom to refill the glass.

“Don’t just sit there!” she scolded, dousing the trashcan with another blast of water. “For crap sake, help me!”

I stood on spindly legs and ran after her, vaguely aware of the “ohmyGods” still spilling like vomit from my mouth. We filled every container we could find and drenched the can, one after the other, until the air was filled with the scent of wet ash and we were certain any hint of fire was stamped out. It probably took all of thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity before we finally collapsed against each other in relief.

“What in the world is going on in here?” My mother’s voice boomed through my bedroom doorway, her face creased from sleep. Her tired eyes surveyed the room, taking in the smear of florescent polish on the floor, the open window, and the blackened ring surrounding the scene of our crime. “Why does it smell like smoke?”

“A candle fell in the trashcan,” I said, thinking quickly. “We put it out with water. It’s fine now. You can go back to bed.”

Her eyes darted back and forth between our faces, suspicion replacing her sleep-filled scowl.

“Let me see,” she said, motioning for us to step away from the mess. She sifted through the wet, charred remains inside the trashcan. “Is that a cigarette butt?” Her head snapped up to give us a look that could start a forest fire. “Were you ladies smoking in my house?”

I gulped when her eyes settled on me, stunned beyond speaking. I was no stranger to my mother’s wrath, but this was something different. Her usually warm brown eyes looked dark and vengeful, as though she might climb aboard a broomstick and drop a house on me.

“I asked you a question.” Her teeth were clenched when she spoke, making the statement sound more like a snarl.

“It was me, Mrs. Anderson.” Sunny stood up and met my mother’s steaming eyes. “I bought the cigarette from a girl in my neighborhood. Taylor tried to stop me from lighting it and then made me put it out. It must have caught something in the trashcan on fire. I’m sorry.”