Page 7 of Mad Girl

And that someone, of course, was you.

But you didn’t spot me sitting there, hidden in the shadow cast by our townhouse, so I stayed still and silent enough to observe you.

Like me, you lifted your face to the sky, drew in a deep breath, and slowly released it.

After muttering what sounded like a string of profanities under your breath, you reached inside your jacket and pulled out a cigarette, along with a silver lighter that caught the reflection of the moon. When you placed the cigarette between your lips and went to light it, I cleared my throat, alerting you to my presence.

You snatched the cigarette from your mouth and drew back, peering through the darkness until I stepped into the light. We studied each other for one long, heart-stuttering moment before you sighed and asked, “What are you doing out here, all alone in the dark?”

What an odd question, I thought. What an odd, familiar way to address someone you’d just met. In some inexplicable way, though, you were familiar to me. I’d felt it earlier, too, when we were introduced, unable to shake the feeling I already knew you. Like we’d crossed paths before, maybe, or I’d conjured you from a dream. A feeling similar to déjà vu.

“I hate those things,” I said, nodding toward the house.

“I’m not a fan of them myself,” you admitted. “Is it okay if I smoke out here?”

“Do whatever you like,” I said, shoving both hands into the pockets of my coat.

Again, you put the cigarette to your mouth, cupping your left hand around the tip to light the end. I caught a flash of the tattoo between your thumb and forefinger: a symbol or curlicue of some kind, or maybe a letter of the alphabet. I couldn’t tell without asking, and I didn’t ask, too busy taking in other details. Like a bracelet made of black and white beads on your wrist, right below the tattoo. You held the smoke inside your lungs for several seconds before blowing a large plume of it out into the night.

“Can I have one of those?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” you said, dark eyebrows lifted. “What are you, fourteen?”

“Are you serious?” I snapped, making a mental note to wear eye makeup. Or stuff my bra. Or something. Did I really look that young? Jesus. “I’m seventeen.”

I stepped close, snatched the cigarette from your fingers, and took a drag. I liked the way you studied me as I drew the nicotine into my lungs and expertly held it there for a few seconds before freeing the smoke from my mouth. You plucked the cigarette from my lips, and sparks went off. Bright. Hot. Crackling in my chest. It felt like you’d touched me, even though you hadn’t.

Chin tilted, you asked, “What would your dad do if he caught you out here smoking?”

“He would get mad and send me to my room. Probably ground me.” And I could’ve left it there, but I wanted to test you. Wanted to feel you out. Wanted to tell you something private about myself and see how you reacted to it. “Then he’d take me back to therapy.”

“Therapy,” you repeated. “Bit…extreme for smoking, isn’t it?”

“You would think so. But that’s what he does when I do something bad. If he caught me out here smoking, he’d know for sure that I lied.”

“Lied about what?”

“The nanny.”

Your eyes narrowed in confusion, so I explained.

“A few weeks ago, he had to fire my last nanny, because he kept finding cigarette butts out here on the ground, and she swore it wasn’t her, even though they were the same brand she smokes. You see, one of my dad’s top rules for any nanny who’s ever worked for him is that she doesn’t smoke on the job, doesn’t smoke anywhere near this house. My dad hates cigarettes. Like, really hates them. As in, if he finds one on this property, he loses his shit. And this nanny swore she’d never broken my dad’s rule. She claimed I was the one leaving the butts behind.”

You pulled the cigarette from your lips, a ribbon of smoke curling into the night air. “And it was you.”

“It was me,” I said with a smile. “For one whole month, I bummed cigarettes off one of the seniors at school who’d stolen them from her mom. And for one whole month—even though I actually dislike the taste of cigarettes—I cracked open a window upstairs and smoked in the super creepy bedroom across the hall from my dad’s room while that nanny was downstairs embroidering cats onto pillows, and⁠—”

“Why’s the bedroom so creepy?”

“What?”

“You said the super creepy bedroom across the hall from your dad’s. What’s so creepy about it?”

“I don’t know. It used to be my bedroom when I was little, but it creeps me out. Whenever I walk in there, I feel like I’m suffocating or trapped or something. I can’t explain it.” I shivered just thinking about that room. “Anyway, I smoked in there—despite how freaked out I was—so I could drop the butts out the window and they’d land out here on the terrace, where he’d find them when he came home from work. Plus, I wanted that room to reek of cigarettes when he eventually walked in there, and it definitely did, because he went into that room one day and totally lost it. He confronted the woman, and she claimed it wasn’t her, but it kept happening. And that’s when she blamed me, because everyone knew I didn’t want her here.”

“So this went on a while, then,” you said. “If the rule was so important to him, why didn’t he fire her immediately?”

“Because I’ve chased off…several nannies over the years. So my dad kept giving her the benefit of the doubt. He even ransacked my room, searching for evidence I was the one lying and she was telling the truth. But I was very careful. I hid those cigarettes in a spot he’d never find them, because I know how my dad operates, and when he didn’t find anything, he had no choice but to fire her.”