Oliver Ausman Lives Again

ten

Kat's leaning against the wall in front of us when we exit the bathroom, forcing my brain to go over everything I just said. Shit, who knows if you can hear through these doors? She could've heard me talking, she could've heard me say that I like her. Yes, it's paraphrasing, but there's no doubt that's what I was insinuating. She'd have to not speak English to not pick up on that. 

"Do you think I should get chips or a granola bar?" she asks, looking completely absorbed in the question, which helps dissolve my paranoia.

Still, I'm not focused enough to give anything more than a confused, "Huh?"

"I dunno, I just... chips will last longer, but a granola bar is healthier, and will probably make me feel a lot fuller." She's looking towards the aisles of snack food and gnawing at her bottom lip in a way that holds my attention like nothing else I've ever seen.

"I'm getting chocolate," Charlie announces, coming out from behind me.

"Hmm... chocolate..." Kat sighs softly, shaking her head. "Just what I needed, a third option."

At the end of a five-minute decision-making process, Kat ends up buying trail mix, an option that wasn't even on her list to begin with. I end up with a hot pretzel from the warming rack, and Charlie settles with the ever-so-healthy Snickers bar and a small bag of Doritos. I can only imagine Mom's face if she ever saw us eating such junk.

Charlie mentions the chilly air when we step outside again, and once we're at the car he opens the door and climbs into the back, bringing the bag of all our snacks with him. I'm not sure if he's honestly cold, or if he's just doing it so that I'll be alone with Kat again. Knowing him, it's probably a little of the former and a lot of the latter.

I take out the gas pump as Kat reaches into the pocket of her flannel, which blows slightly in the breeze. She pulls out a small white and red packet of cigarettes, flipping the top open and taking one out before her gaze darts up to mine. "Will this bother you? I can do it somewhere else."

I shrug as I place the pump into the gas cap and hold the trigger. I don't mind, but I am a little surprised by the revelation. "It's fine."

"You don't have to worry about me asking to stop for a break or anything, either, so don't worry," she says, placing the cigarette between her lips and pulling out a lighter from the opposite pocket. She flicks it twice before the flame appears and lights the cigarette before tucking the metal object back into her shirt. After she inhales, she turns her head to blow the smoke away from me. "I'm in the process of quitting, so I'm down to one a day. Start using patches on Tuesday."

"Why'd you start?" I ask. I can get why my mom smokes, or why Peter smokes-- it's a product of their generation. But people our age are usually abusing some other substance; cigarettes haven't really kept their appeal now that everyone knows the consequences.

She raises a shoulder, taking another inhale before staring at the burning drug between her thumb and forefinger. She looks both upset and reminiscent, with a small smile on her lips that doesn't meet her eyes. "Wanted to fit in in high school. The group I hung out with was a bunch of rebellious girls, you know, all potty-mouthed and bad behaved-- I'm sure you have just the type at your school. Anyway, they all smoked for one reason or another. Mostly I think it was just to annoy the shit out of their parents and teachers, but I can't act like my reason was any better."

"I go to an all-boys school-- a very strict all-boys school," I admit. "So I'm not exactly familiar with the type, but I can imagine. Are you still friends with them?"

She looks to the pavement, shaking her head. "Can't say I am. Your school sounds way different from mine-- what kind of friends do you make at a place like that?"

"None, if you're smart."

Her laugh breaks through the quiet outdoors. It's the type of laugh you can't help but smile at, so I do, grinning with her at the dumb joke. She drops her cigarette to the ground and stomps it out, and I can't help but noticed it isn't even half-finished. The gas has been done pumping for a good thirty seconds, but I'm too engrossed to break the conversation, so I leave it where it is and hope she doesn't notice the numbers on the machine.

"Do your parents know you smoke?" I ask, not even able to imagine how my mother would react if she ever caught me with something like that. Hell, she'd probably send me right back to the psych ward.

She shakes her head again, giving a half-smile. "They don't know much about me."

I recall the beaten-up trailer and her short trip inside. "Did you tell them you were leaving?"

"No." She looks away, pressing her lips together. "I don't know. I didn't want to argue about it, and it was such an impulsive thing that I was barely even thinking straight. I have a while to figure it out though-- they're used to not seeing me for a few days since we work opposite hours."

"But you got fired," I remember.

"Like I said, they don't know much about me."

I raise my eyebrows. "That's cold," I tease, surprising myself.

She laughs shortly in disbelief, mouth falling open with the hint of a smile. "Oh, really? This coming from the kid who basically abducted his eight year old brother and left nothing but a note?"

I hold back a glare, but I can tell it gets through a little when she raises an eyebrow. "I'm not a kid," I explain my sour expression with words that only serve to make me sound younger.

"You know what I meant," she says as she rolls her eyes. But her gaze settles on me, lingering in a way that makes my face flush. It's only a second before she squints at me, tilting her head ever so slightly, the hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "That really bothers you."

"It's-- I don't like being patronized." It's not a complete lie, but it's definitely not the truth. Coming from her, it's mainly a stab to my ego, an unwanted reminder of how she sees me.

"Well then I guess I shouldn't tell you that you've been done pumping gas for the past two minutes."

I can already feel the heat blossoming behind my cheeks, warming my face in the cool weather. She noticed-- of course she fucking noticed. She's smiling in a way where I know she doesn't mind, but I can't tell if she knows I was staying on purpose or not, and I also can't tell which is more embarrassing. 

I yank the pump from the gas cap and turn, shoving it back into its holder. But there's one problem with the action: my sleeve rides up. 

I kind of freeze in place for a second-- it's like my brain is overheating, trying to process too much at once. I'm freaking out and it's like my limbs have forgotten what they're supposed to do and in what order. Do I pull my arm away from the pump first, or fix my sleeve first, or turn to see if Kat is looking, and if she's looking, does she see?

I guess my mind finally stops buffering and my body plays catch up, doing everything at once. As I turn to see Kat's brown eyes following my arm as it retreats back into the safety of its sleeve, I know my answer.