I asked him if he was staying for Thanksgiving, and watched while he lit another ciggerette, I took that as the answer I expected and nodded. He looked over my head, as if speaking to the sky and said he had nowhere else to go, I then understood everything. I saw the sad boy he still was underneath his Mallboros, fake ID, and sagging pants. Later that night, he made the mention of going back to highschool while picking at his fingernails as if he was trying to portray what he just said as a passing thought instead of something he made himself miserable over daily. Once again, I understood he was simply a product of his environment-that he didn't nessecarily want to do this anymore but it's all he'd ever known and seventeen years later it was a little too late to turn around and fix it, instantley I loved him more. However, one thing I'll never understand is the hispanic woman I proudly called TiTi, who was always the object of my affection could care more about the purple lipstick in her bathroom drawer than the child she gave birth to.
YOU ARE READING
16
Teen Fictionjust a girls opinions on things 16 year olds shouldn't have to deal with but do anyway because life has no rules.
