Before I Fall

period, and Dinah pulls me behind the tennis courts so she can have a cigarette without listening to
Justin and Demi argue. That’s what it looks like they’re doing, anyway. Demi's head is bent and
Justin is grabbing her shoulders, whispering to her. The cigarette in his hand burns so close to her
dull brown hair I’m positive it’s going to catch fire, and I picture her whole head just going up like
that, like a match.
Dinah finishes her smoke and we dump our yogurt cups right there, on top of the frozen black
leaves and trampled cigarette packs and plastic bags half filled with rainwater.
I’m feeling anxious about tonight—half dread and half excitement—like when you hear thunder
and know that any second you’ll see lightning tearing across the sky, nipping at the clouds with its
teeth. I shouldn’t have skipped out on English. It has given me too much time to think. And
thinking never did anybody any good, no matter what your teachers and parents and the scienceclub
freaks tell you.
We skirt the perimeter of the tennis courts and go up along Senior Alley. Justin and Demi are
still standing half concealed behind the gym. Justin is on his second cigarette at least. Definitely an
argument. I feel a momentary rush of satisfaction: Austin and I hardly ever fight, at least not about
anything serious. That must mean something.
“Trouble in paradise,” I say.
“More like trouble in the trailer park,” Dinah says.
We start cutting across the teachers’ lot when we see Ms. Spears, the vice principal, threading
between cars, trying to rout out the smokers who don’t have time or are too lazy to walk all the
way down to the Lounge and instead try to hide out between the teachers’ old Volvos and
Chevrolets. Ms. Spears has some crazy vendetta against people who smoke. I heard that her mom
died of lung cancer or emphysema or something. If you get caught smoking by Ms. Spears you get
three Friday detentions, no questions asked.
Dinah frantically rifles in her bag for her Trident and pops two pieces in her mouth. “Shit, shit.”
“You can’t get busted just for smelling like smoke,” I say, even though Dinah knows this. She
likes the drama, though. Funny how you can know your friends so well, but you still end up
playing the same games with them.
She ignores me. “How’s my breath?” She breathes on me.
“Like a friggin’ menthol factory.”
Ms. Spears hasn’t spotted us yet. She’s making her way down the rows, sometimes stooping to
peer underneath the cars as though someone might be sandwiched against the ground, trying to
light up. There’s a reason everyone calls her the Nicotine Nazi behind her back.
I hesitate, looking back toward the gym. I don’t especially like Justin and I don’t like Demi, but
anyone who’s ever been through high school understands you have to stick together against
parents, teachers, and cops. It’s one of those invisible lines: us against them. You just know this,
like you know where to sit and who to talk to and what to eat in the cafeteria, without even
knowing how you know. If that makes sense.
“Should we go back and warn them?” I ask Dinah, and she pauses too and squints at the sky like
she’s thinking about it.
“Screw it,” she says finally. “They can take care of themselves.” As if to reinforce her point, the