The group of four stood huddled together, hands groping
in pockets.
“I’ve got three pennies,” Susan said.
“I got a nickel,” the tallest girl said.
“I got seven cents,” said the shortest girl,
who looked younger than the others.
“I’ll check my pockets,” I said. “I
got a dime!”
“We got enough! Okay, who’s going?”
Susan demanded. We looked at each other, hands in pockets.
I was with Susan, my neighbor. We weren’t really
friends; she was in grade 3, a year younger. We walked
together the five blocks in the warm spring sunshine.
We were in the park, concrete underfoot with trees and
grass behind short black wrought iron fences and high
black wrought iron fence all the way around the entire
square block area. This wasn’t the park I usually
went to with my friends, the one closer to home. Like
most city parks, this one had swings and monkey bars and
slides; the sandboxes were boarded over. We met her friends
from school.
The plan was to get cigarettes. They’d all smoked
before. We stood outside the cement block washrooms, facing
the big, steel doors. Boys on the left, girls on the right,
cement wall in between, lined with mirrors and cracked
porcelain sinks set in grimy, stained pedestals.
“Who’s going?” Susan prodded.
“I went last time,” the tall girl said.
“Not me, he won’t give it to me,”
said the short girl. She was right, she looked too young.
“You.” The fingers pointed to me.
“You, your mom smokes. You go.” The tall
one gave my shoulder a shove, just enough to get away
with it. I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t
say no. I was in grade 4.
“So, what do I get?”
“Camels,” Tall Terror stated.
“Yah, Camels. We want something good and strong,”
Yelpy the Younger agreed.
“Get unfiltered,” Susan added.
They tightened their huddle as I walked away and out
of the park.
The candy store was just across the street. I didn’t
have to go very far. I’d been there before, once
or twice, maybe more, but it was outside my neighborhood.
The last time I was there I had to get cola syrup for
my sister when she had the measles. I went in and sat
at the soda fountain. My knees were too weak to stand
at the counter.
The owner came over. “What’ll ya have?”
“I need a package of cigarettes for my mom.”
He walked over to the counter, hand reaching for the
green and white package.
“Oh, Camels, please.”
His hand stopped mid-air. “Camels? You said Camels?
Your mother smokes mentholated, Kools.”
I wanted to pee. I felt all bubbly from throat to toes
and mostly nauseous.
“Ummm, well, she, she, umm, she’s switched.”
“To Camels? From Kools?”
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
I was scared silly. I promised myself I would never
go to this store for Mom for cigarettes, again.
He handed me the Camels, but scowled at me with very
strong suspicion. I tried not to grab the package too
fast. I reached, snatched, and slid off the stool. My
feet pointed to the front door, and safety.
I ran across the street, dodging cars in a beeline for
the park. The girls saw me coming and turned as one to
head for the washroom. I was the last to enter. I gave
the package to Susan who handed them to Tall Terror.
“Where’s the matches? You didn’t get
matches?”
Everyone grumbled and patted their pockets.
"S'okay, I got some.” Yelpy brought a package
from her tight hand-me-down black pants.
The Terror lit herself, then passed off the matches.
Then Yelpy held the match for the rest of us before she
tucked the package in her pocket. We puffed almost in
unison.
“Don’t cough! Don’t cough! Oh, God,
please don’t let me cough!” I took a small
breath, not even a puff. The harsh, bitter taste made
my eyes tear. I was too busy wiping tears, and holding
off the cough that threatened, to try to inhale.
The door banged open, thrown hard against the cement
wall.
“So, what’s going on in here, Susan? Since
when do you sneak around and smoke! Just wait until I
tell Theresa!” The towering figure in the doorway
was a friend of Susan’s older sister.
“She’ll tell. She’ll tell.”
We were going to be found out.
For the next several days, I avoided close contact with
my mother. With two younger sisters, that wasn’t
hard to do. She was kept pretty busy. I did my home work,
finished chores, kept unusually quiet, and spent a lot
of time in my room.
Until the Sunday night, after Dad flew out of town for
his job. The kids were in their beds. Mom and I had pulled
out the sofa bed in the living room to watch an old movie
on TV. She even made popcorn.
In the dark room, fingers greasy with popcorn butter,
Mom and I sat, good friends. The bubble of guilt rose
up from my navel. With total drama, tears, and apologies,
I confessed to my mom. I’d been smoking with some
girls in the park; we’d been caught; she was gonna
find out.
“Did you like it?” Mom asked.
“No. Well, no, I didn’t.”
“Then, it’s stupid. Don’t do it.”
The confession brought relief like bubbles in carbonated
water. Guilt absolved.
The good news was: I didn’t like smoking. It hurt
my throat, and I didn't like the guilt. I was lucky: Smoking
was cheap. Cigarettes were only 25 cents a pack.
