181 Days of Madeline Jesty

Chapter 3: Act of Rebellion

"Three more minutes," I whispered to myself as I leaned against a wall near the entrance to the bar, patiently waiting for . . . Who was she again?

It dawned on me that I didn't even know this person, but here I was, excited to continue my night with her. Worse, I told her we'd go to my place next, but truthfully, I didn't want to. If it turned out that everything that had happened minutes ago was just a short-time glitch, then I'd know when she'd die, and by then, she had learned where I lived.

The thrill of finding an escape to this curse slowly faded, and the anxiety of this night failing took over. Who was she? Why was her hourglass different? Did she trigger the glitch? Was she human? A god? I had so, so, so many questions. This caused me to pull out a cigarette stick from my purse, which I also hurriedly kept after seeing the woman exiting the bar, still holding a can of beer.

"You smoke?" she asked.

"No," I replied. "But I've been wanting to."

"That could kill you."

I smiled. Then better, I thought, thinking of that one time the nuns at our school caught me with an unlit stick and called Mom for a one-on-one parent-teacher conference to remind her that I shouldn't be holding cigarettes at the age of fifteen. The first time this happened, she came, and I was excited to see her come to school. Hearing her explain that I was asthmatic and that I wouldn't dare breathe smoke was music to my ears because, well, I was surprised she knew something about me, given that we had few to no interaction at home for the past decade.

She was alive but was as dead as Dad.

Unfortunately, the next time I was caught—which I did intentionally—it was Suzie who came to school and presented herself as my guardian. I was caught in the chaotic dilemma of wanting to see Mom attend to me at least once and realizing that the only way this would happen was for me to be involved in a near-death experience. Too bad I didn't have the strength. I knew—and maybe Mom knew too—that those were only empty threats.

Even if I told her I was with a stranger now, she'd only text "Take care." That's how lenient she was—way too lenient to her seventeen-year-old daughter. Of course she wasn't initially overly tolerant; it was as if she stopped acknowledging my existence when Dad went missing.

"You know how cigarettes make someone cool in movies? And mature but rebellious and . . . hot . . ." My words trailed when she reached something from her back pocket—a vape, of all things—and drew vapor into her mouth, holding it for a second before breathing in and then exhaling it. For a moment, the air smelled like cotton candy.

"You were saying?"

"You smoke? You don't look like you smoke," I remarked, not wanting to inflate her ego because of my previous comment.

"Vapes are different from cigarettes, but I started smoking in grade six—"

"Grade fucking six?"

She laughed at my shock before adding, "But I got into vaping soon after. It smelled better anyway. Why do I look like I don't?"

"Baby face," I quickly responded. "Smokers should look old, shouldn't they? And you said a while ago it could kill me, and then there you are!"

Her smirk made her a hundred times more gorgeous, but I waved it off my mind and added, "How old are you exactly?"

"Oh, so we're starting with our ages, not with our names?"

"We can introduce ourselves when we're at the motel."

"Motel?" she asked. "I thought we'd be staying at your place."

"Change of plans. My mom's there," I lied and hailed the first taxi that passed by. Without any questions, she had one last blow before keeping her e-cigarette.