I puffed on the cigarette, letting the smoke float away. I couldn’t help but stare at the ember. People laughed and joked, some slurred their words, and others were dancing. Someone turned up their speaker, drawing out the noise of the night when some timeless Paramore song came on.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help but look for her, Eliza, to see how she would react to this. I didn’t bother stifling a laugh when I saw her hunched over by the side of the bonfire, a little perspiration on her brow as she dominated the small section of coals while she roasted marshmallows. I tried making my way to her through the throng of people but lost sight of her.
“Stop it,” a voice said. My ears always perked up at that, especially when there were stupid people and alcohol around. Maybe I was just itching for a fight.
“I saidstop it.” The voice was coming from a small group of guys and girls.
“Seriously, Eliza,” a woman’s voice sang. “You need to lighten up. Here—” And then I saw her in a small group of people, a paper plate with several s’mores balanced on it, trying to make her way through the people. The girl had blown a full face of smoke on Eliza.
“I don’t smoke anymore, Erica,” Eliza said. “You know that.” Even quieter she added, “You know why.”
“Oh, it’s not like anyone will find out,” a man’s voice said. He blew a mouthful of smoke at her.
I grabbed Eliza's arms and pulled her to me. She tensed and nearly tripped over her feet in the process. “Don’t touch me—” but she stopped when I stepped in front of her, completely ignoring her protests.
“She doesn’t want a hit, move on.”
“She’s not your friend,” the girl, Erica said, slurring her sentence. “We know what she likes, sometimes people just need a push.” She reached out and pressed a weak hand into my chest.
I pushed through the crowd and past the booming speaker, still holding Eliza's elbow. It was like there was an invisible barrier and as soon as we hit it; the music was quieter, and it was cooler without the bodies and fire. The air was fresh and clean.
Eliza was busy tripping over the uneven sand and trying not to drop her plate of s’mores.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “I know them, they get pushy when they’re drunk. I would have been fine.”
“You didn’t look fine,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, eyeing the plate.
“You want one?” she asked.
“I’m good.”
She nodded, biting her lip, and pushed the flyaway hair from her eyes. “Well, thanks.”
“You know you don’t have to do that.”
She only looked at me for a second before picking up a s’more. “Elaborate,” she said before taking a bite.
“Writing essays for people. I’m sure you could tutor people instead, you’d make more that way, make some honest money.”
“Honestmoney, huh?” She blew the hair away from her face.
“What’s your major?” I asked.
“Creative literature or something.” She took another bite.
“I think you could get a proper job.” I was about to offer a connection I had, let her know I’d put in a good word for her, but she interrupted my train of thought.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” She turned to go, but I caught up. The wind caught her, and she had hair sticking to her eyelashes. I reached out to fix it, but she flinched. I held up my hands in mock surrender.
“Fine, fair enough,” I said. “But I want your number.”
“No.”
“What if I want to hire you?”
She studied me carefully, biting her lip again. “Fine. But only call me. Don’t text about my littlebusiness. I only make deals over the phone.”
“Why?” I asked, pulling out my phone to create a new contact.