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and he hopes he doesn’t sound like a pussy.
    Cigarettes are magical for Jon right now. He enjoys the taboo of smoking more than the actual act of smoking itself. The secret. The knowledge of doing something inherently wrong flowing through his blood, making it pump hot in his temples. The leaves crunch underfoot on the green suburban sidewalk, loudly so they step into the road. There is no one on Blakefield Avenue but them and the light from the stars; the black tar stretches away from them like an endless river. Jon does not know why but he wonders if every road is connected to every other road. Maybe if he touches it, someone, somewhere, in London, Paris, or New York will know he has touched it and they will touch it too.
    They are by the park now and they hop over the low wall separating the park from the rest of the world and they walk over to the swings, simple things made from old tires, where the three of them, Jon, Emily, and her friend sit and swing slowly back and forth. Emily slowly unwraps the clear plastic, then the gold foil, and then takes three cigarettes out and gives them one each, keeping one for herself. She looks at Jon expectantly. He reaches into his pocket and grabs empty air. He has forgotten the lighter. Jon feels a cold bucket of fear and failure pour over him. Fucking typical Jon. Way to fuck it up.
    “I think I’ve got one,” says Emily, seeing him patting his pockets furiously.
    “Cool, I hoped someone else had otherwise we would’ve been fucked,” says Jon. Just being casual. Nonchalant. That’s all. He does this all the time. Sure. She takes out a cheap plastic lighter and passes it to him. Steam and smog from the industrial part of town where the coal fields and the tannery are throw a haze over the stars on the edge of the horizon and the cicadas just make noise. He lights his cigarette and inhales, the smoke filling his lungs. He does not cough. He’s ever-so-slightly proud of this. He goes out every night with girls to smoke—he does this all the time. He keeps telling himself that. He passes the lighter back to Emily and she and her silver-haired friend light up.
    And then, silence.
    “Call me rude but if I’m going to be giving you cigarettes, I’d like to at least know your name,” says Jon, forcing the words out. Saying things in front of the silver haired girl feels like jumping off a cliff.
    “Do you usually go to the park with girls you don’t know to smoke cigarettes?”
    Jon laughs and says, “All the time, you’re the third lot tonight.” She laughs back. Nice one, Jon.
    “I’m Michelle,” Michelle says.
    “Hello, Michelle, I’m Jon,” Jon says.
    They shake hands, awkwardly. Jon isn’t sure why but shaking hands does seem like the right thing to do. You can’t hug someone you’ve just met to say hello to them. Do people do that? Jon doesn’t know.
    “Michelle’s just moved here, she’s in my class,” says Emily.
    “I see,” says Jon. Jon strokes an imaginary beard.
    The girls giggle at this and then there’s another one of those moments of silence when the only sound is the swings creaking. Jon feels he is far too good at creating silence.
    “What test are you writing tomorrow?” Emily asks.
    “Maths,” says Jon.
    “Don’t you mean, ‘math’? Thank God you aren’t writing English,” says Michelle.
    “Whatever,” says Jon.
    The girls giggle at him. He inhales smoke again and still, he does not cough. Lately, Jon is becoming conscious of the fact that he goes through phases of wanting everyone to notice him. He would try and be funny when he wanted that to happen and then he would very quickly find himself wanting everyone to forget him and he would be quiet when he wanted that to happen instead.
    “Aren’t you guys also writing tests?” asks Jon.
    “No, we finished today, that’s why we’re out,” says Emily.
    “That’s lucky,” says Jon.
    They are quiet again and they all start to swing slowly. The world slows for one