Days pass. Wake up, put on the sun cream, ride my bicycle, drink Fanta Lemon, go to sleep. Wake up, put on the sun cream, ride my bicycle, drink Fanta Lemon, go to sleep. Wake up, put on the sun cream, ride my bicycle, drink Fanta Lemon, go to sleep. It's all the same.
I'm beginning to think this will just be another usual family holiday. Part of me wants to tag along with my family and all their annoying trips out, but then I realise I'm not that bored.
It's still the same old boring routine. Nothing changes. Not for days.
On day four, I leave the grocery store with my usual 60 cents bottle of Fanta Lemon. I take a drink, enjoying the refreshing taste of the citrus soft drink.
"I told you,"
I look around to the speaker of the familiar voice. Lying back against a large tree is The Boy with the Cigarettes in his Pocket.
"You told me what?" I question.
"That Fanta Lemon is the best," he answers cockily, blowing out some cigarette smoke.
"It is pretty great," I admit.
He pats the spot next to him. "Come, sit beside Jamie."
Jamie. That's his name. I forgot it there for a while. I follow his instructions and sit beside him, enjoying the instant relief of the shade.
"Want one?" he asks, offering me his packet of cigarettes.
"No thanks, I don't smoke," I answer, turning my nose up at the disgusting things.
"Wow, no need to be such a snob."
His words shock me. It would even be appropriate to say it hurt a little. "What do you mean?"
"Just because someone smokes doesn't make them a bad person."
"I never said it did, but what's the point? It's just paying for cancer."
He blows some of his toxic smoke into my face with such arrogance I've never seen before in my life. "If I want to die, let me die."
I use my hand to wave the smoke away. "God, you're a dick,"
"And you're a twat, but I still like you."
I sigh and take another drink of my Fanta. The shade is refreshing. Jamie seems to enjoy it too. He flicks his finished cigarette away, leans back and closes his eyes. I can't help but notice his beaded necklace, with a peace sign hanging just below his collar bone.
His collar bones stick out just enough to be considered attractive, but not too much to look skelton-like and grotesque (like mine).
I can't help but notice how beautiful he is in general. Today he's wearing a tie-dye top of green and blue with his usual grey shorts and a pair of white Converse, which are now stained and worn. I look down on my own Dr Martens, and remember how he commented on them the first time he saw me. I didn't think he'd notice, as they have a floral pattern, but he did.
"Where are you staying?" he asks me.
"Here," I answer, being too deep in thought over his appearance to take in what he's saying.
"No shit," he chuckles, "but where is your caravan?"
I blush slightly at my stupidity. "Over there," I point in a north-easterly direction, "the third caravan from the left."
He nods. "I'm at the other end, near the pools."
"Cool,"
Silence looms over us again. I tap my fingers against my pale, knobby knees. I can feel Jamie's stare on me, making me feel very self-conscious. After two minutes of quiet, I stand up.
YOU ARE READING
The Boy With the Cigarettes in his Pocket
Teen Fiction15 year old Robyn Benson is forced on holiday with her family, even though she feels she's too old for family car trips and being called 'Ro'. Much to Robyn's surprise, her parents offer her 5 miles of freedom and a bicycle, which is all Robyn needs...
