|| WHITE PLAINS, ALABAMA || NOVEMBER, 1964 ||
"Dorette, just what do you think you're doing?"
The red-haired, leanly built fourteen year old fell back against the floor of her father's truck in alarm, the unopened pack of Marlboros flying half a foot into the air before falling right back down on her flushed face. Her heart racing, she pulled the hair from her eyes and blinked up at the boy's face hovering above hers.
"Jesus, Frank, I thought you were my poppa."
Though a grin seemed to take form on his chapped lips, the boy stifled any sign of amusement and instead, leaned over and snatched the cigarettes from the floor. "Where'd you get these?"
What did it matter? Frank smoked just as much as her father did. "Maybe I got it from your sock drawer, you'd never know." She crossed her arms in defiance, annoyed by the suddenly austere tone shaping his words. "I don't know why you're so surprised. You smoke almost every day."
"Yeah, but I ain't a girl. And I ain't fourteen," he muttered, stuffing the pack into his back pocket and sitting down beside her.
"You're sixteen, it ain't much of a difference. Besides, maybe I wanna try it. Don't mean I'll keep on doin' it," she huffed. Her gaze fluttered up to the blanket of navy blues above her, scattered with small stitches of glittering stars and planets. The night was cold as it usually was, but Dorette's been sitting in her father's truck almost every day now, and she'd found herself greeting the cold more often than not that it became a part of her.
Frank's hand shuffled in his pockets and he leaned back against the edges of the truck, his head falling back and staring at the sky as well. "If this is about Walt-"
"It ain't about Walt."
"So it is." He sighed. "Dorette, that kid's a little bitch. He's probably at home cryin' his eyes out 'cos he let go of gold."
Dorette found it difficult stifling a laugh. "Don't be silly, Frank, I ain't anywhere near gold. My momma can't even afford-"
"You know that's not what I'm talkin' about."
She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and sunk into his arm slung around his shoulders, the feeling of his leather jacket much more than just "familiar" against her skin. Frank made her feel safe, and she didn't wanna leave him. "Don't matter. I'm leavin' in a few days anyway."
The side of his head fell against the top of hers and his eyes fluttered shut, the autumnal winds blowing through his nostrils. "You know you won't be gone for too long. Just 'till things get sorted."
"Nothing's gon' be sorted in my lifetime. There's always gonna be some problems between them." Dorette's eyes flitted down to her plaid skirt she'd had since she was thirteen and picked at the frayed hem. "It ain't fair, Frank. It's not- It's just not fair." Her voice cracked between the words- a sign for Frank to get off his ass and do something.
And he did.
His arm sliding from around her shoulders, he rose back onto his feet with a bright grin on his face, and held out his arms. "I'll tell you what. I'm gonna make your last few days here the best your life will ever be in New York. And we'll start it off with a cigarette."
"You're joking," she laughed, furrowing her eyebrows at him.
It appeared that he wasn't. "By the way, you need a lighter for these things."
"I knew that."
"Then do you have one?" His grin grew along with the silence and he ripped open the pack. "Thought so." His fingers wrapped around the stick and he lit it, the smell of smoke calming him while it slightly startled Dorette.
"Smells funky."
"Smells great." He took a puff and handed it over to her. "Tastes just as fine."
"You sure about this?"
He shrugged. "Not really."
Dorette laughed before placing the stick between her lips and taking in a breath. It tasted disgusting.
Frank laughed, watching her double over in coughs. He reached over and took the cigarette from her, playing with it between his fingers. "That fun?"
She shrugged with an enigmatic smile. "Not really."
"Good."
His arms took a hold of her waist and she stumbled into him as he chuckled.
"I'm gonna miss you, ladybug."
"Gon' miss you, too, Frankie."
Then he leaned over and kissed her, the strawberry taste of Dorette's lips mixing in with the drugging taste of his as they stood on her poppa's truck in the middle of November, the autumnal winds rushing hastily around them.
It was the start of something, well, odd and for Dorette, it didn't matter. At least it was a start to something in her life.
