My Nicotine Romance.

I didn’t bother reading through the double page spread on the crap on cigarettes and smokers and stuff. I knew most of it already. Of course cigarettes harmed your lungs. Of course nicotine was addictive. Of course smokers die younger. Of course the tar has stuff that causes cancer in it. I don’t need to reread my eventual fate.

“See?” Frank grinned. “You shouldn’t smoke.”
“I know I shouldn’t.” I laughed. It was bad how I could laugh at my impending demise like this.
“Quit,” he said. “For me.”
“Frankie, darling, I’d do almost anything for a friend.” I paused. “But I love my cigarettes. They relax me.”

He sighed and gave up. I wanted to tell him that I’d try, that I’d push my willpower to the boundaries, that I’d tear all my hair out before I even went to the store to get my next packet, but I knew I’d fail with my resolve to give up. There was no use trying the impossible, really. Plus I liked the current length my hair was, and I didn’t fancy going bald prematurely.

Miss Benjamin was going around the class, getting everyone’s opinions on cigs. She had spared the class of writing, just yet. We were having ‘class discussion’ – until such time as too many rules got broken and she told us to copy out and answer questions.

Debbie was jabbering to Linda, out of the class discussion, but still loud enough to hear.

“I like the smell of the smoke, it’s warm. And nice. Why does everyone hate that smell?”

Ah, see? Some one agrees.

“Because it’s gross. You’re gonna be such a chain smoker when you grow up.”
“No I’m not. I’d never have the guts to smoke anything. You know me – innocent as sin.”
“You’re special, Deb.”
“Special needs, you mean.”

Miss B heard their conversation, laughing quietly at them. She turned to the front desk, and started asking them about their views. They all just laughed and shrugged the questions off. Probably social smokers, or they just didn’t care what other people did.

“Gerard, your views, if you will.”
“Um. It’s fine, really. It’s people’s choice if they want to damage their lungs.”

Well, it was. Free will, of course.

“Very interesting, Gerard.” ‘Okay Gerard, whatever you say. Don’t fuck up too many lung cells later with the pack of cigarettes in your pocket.’

Miss B told us to answer the questions in the yellow box. Wow, how fun. Copying and completing a paragraph. And designing a leaflet to give to 11 year olds to tell them not to smoke. Well, that’s hypocritical of me. Ah well. At least I won’t have to write much. I can just draw and say it’s for the less able ones.

I copied the stupid little paragraph. Well, really, it was too late. We should be doing this in like, 5th grade. For most, it’s really too late at this age. They either already smoke, have tried it and given up for whatever reason, got caught, or it disgusts the fuck out of them, so they won’t.

Try earlier, school.

I wandered up to the front and picked up a bit of paper off the inch thick pile. I wandered aimlessly back to our desk, but took the long route around the classroom out of boredom. Miss B started muttering about wasting time, but I ignored her.

Once I was sat down again, I silently grabbed Frankie’s pencil case to steal a pencil. No doubt he’d have more than one. Eh, new kids always do.

Well, I was right. I folded the paper so it was wider in the middle than on either side, so it opened like a window. I folded the end bits towards themselves and wrote on the front, ‘Dying For A Smoke?’ Yeah well, puns like that rock.
I drew cigarettes and a pair of smoker’s lungs, which I copied out of the text book. I sat, colouring and drawing for the rest of the lesson. When the bell rang, I threw Frank’s pencil at him, playfully, and told Miss B about Mrs Wood’s memo.

“Okay, Gerard, I’ll sort you one now.”

She started scrawling a sentence out on blue paper. She wrote her large signature, and folded the paper in half, before handing it to me. I gave her my work, and then Frank and I headed back up to our English classroom.

We gave it to her, the stupid psycho bitch, and then legged it off to the head’s office.

Miss Chevart was nowhere to be seen, and I was half glad, half horrified that there was a panel of wood across the foot area of his desk. He looked a little agitated, and I heard Miss Chevart’s soft giggle. Coming from under the table. I think I am scarred for life.

He signed something, and shooed us out of the office. We ran out of school after that – or rather, he ran, and I coughed. Stupid cigarettes.

“So, where now?” he asked, sounding like a retard.
“Home, maybe?” I said, sarcastically.
“Oh, yeah.” He paused. “Cool.”
“Wanna come over mine?”
“Won’t your parents mind? My mom won’t, but, what about yours?”

I paused, smiling.

“My dad is in Britain, doing some job for a couple of years or whatever, and my mom will probably just be glad I’ve got a friend who’s not my brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“Mm-hmm. Mikey.”
“Cool.”
“No, nerd.”

I laughed, and he looked like he was choking back a giggle.

“Well, more popular than me, anyway.”
“Aw, poor Gee-gee.”

We walked out of the school gates, and we were free. Free of the feel of the institution. Free of the teachers, pupils, free of everyone we wanted to be free of. We were released at last from the prison.

We walked to my house, not really talking about much interesting. I learned that he was an only child, and he lived with his mom.

He had phoned his mom, and half asked, half told her that he was coming over my house. From the sound I could hear, his mom was really pleased that he’d made a friend. Sounded like he’d not had very nice friends in his old school. I really hate bullies, y’know.

Once he was off the phone, we both crashed down on the sofa. Well, it was a long day! I mean, come on! Science, English, Maths and whatever else, all in one day! And, now we have piles of homework to do. I wouldn’t do it, but Frankie will, and it’s gutting on him if he does it and I don’t. Plus, I usually didn’t mind the detentions, they were an excuse to get away from the torment of lunch and breaks, but Frankie will be on his own if I get held back.

“Can we put the telly on?” he asked, smiling.
“Yep. What d’you wanna watch?”
“See what’s on?”
“Yeah.”

Wow, we have retarded conversations. That made no sense at all. Like, totally.