Free The Poison Apples by Lily Archer

even know that I’ve lied—I mean, said something that’s not exactly true—until after I’ve already said it.
    So when I leaned over and told Kristen that I needed to go outside and have a cigarette, I didn’t anticipate that I’d actually have to go outside and … have a cigarette. I mean, I don’t smoke. I took one puff at a party in seventh grade and almost hacked up a lung.
    But all of a sudden Kristen was leading me out of the building and over to a shady tree next to our dorm.
    â€œWe can eat here while you smoke,” she said cheerfully, and plunked her tray down onto the grass.
    I patted my pockets. I think I was half-praying that a pack of cigarettes would mysteriously appear inside of them.
    â€œAw geez,” I said, “I’m out. I’m out of cigarettes.”
    â€œOh no!” she said, a concerned look on her face.
    â€œYeah. It’s okay. I can survive.”
    â€œWell, you must be dying for one.”
    â€œUm, well—”
    â€œI mean, you must be, like, totally addicted, right?”
    I nodded, my stomach churning. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
    She stared at me.
    â€œUm,” I said. I looked around the lawn. Agnes, my extremely weird Residential Advisor, was lying on the grass about twenty feet away, chatting with a guy wearing leather pants. I peered over at them. The guy was holding something small and white in his hands.
    â€œHold on a minute,” I said to Kristen, and marched purposefully across the lawn toward them.
    â€œHi, Agnes,” I said.
    Agnes squinted up at me in the sunlight, her arms crossed behind her head. A slice of her stomach was exposed, and I saw that the skin below her bellybutton was pierced with a small silver barbell.
    â€œHey, Nina,” she said.
    â€œIt’s Reena.”
    â€œRight. Reena.”
    I swallowed and smiled at Agnes and her leather pants–wearing friend. “Um, I was just wondering … do you … do either of you have a cigarette?”
    The guy raised his eyebrows at Agnes. Agnes sat up.
    â€œYou smoke?” she asked, staring at me.
    â€œUh, yeah.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “No way. Not you.” Her eyes seemed to penetrate into my very soul.
    â€œOh, yes,” I said.
    Agnes sighed and turned to her male companion. “God. Smoking doesn’t mean anything anymore, does it?”
    I had no idea what she was talking about. Neither did he apparently. He shrugged, withdrew a red pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and held them out to me. I took one, tentatively held it between my thumb and forefinger, and stared at it. One end was light brown. The other end was white. Which part did you put in your mouth?
    â€œCool, thanks,” I said to the guy in leather pants.
    â€œYou need a light?” he asked.
    â€œUh, sure,” I said.
    I held out the cigarette. Agnes chortled.
    â€œYou put it in your mouth first,” she said. “Are you sure you’re a smoker?”
    I nodded, and looked across the lawn at Kristen. She waved at me. I waved back.
    â€œYup,” I said. “We just, uh, do it a little differently in California.”
    â€œLike, how differently?”
    I pretended not to hear. I put the white part of the cigarette in my mouth.
    â€œWRONG END!” shrieked Agnes, and then she fell back onto the grass, laughing hysterically. I prayed that Kristen couldn’t hear.
    I put the brown end in my mouth. The guy in leather pants held out his silver lighter. A blue flame leapt up. I put the cigarette in my mouth, leaned over, and dipped it into the flame. What next? I glanced up at the guy. It looked like he was wearing mascara.
    â€œInhale,” he whispered.
    I inhaled.
    What felt like a brush fire went through the cigarette, into my mouth, and down my throat. I started choking. Some kind of phlegm rose up in my throat. Before I even knew what was happening, I’d spat out the cigarette onto