THE MENTHOL display next to the register in the gas station had all kinds, light and regular and ultralight and short and long. He dropped a handful of five-cent pink chewing gum at the counter. The old man went slow counting the pieces. Terry got two packs at his beltline. He went back the next afternoon. After four days he had ten packs, six days he had twenty
Curtis Rigby came over to buy some. Terry stood at a small fire he built in the backyard. He tossed one shoe. It caught, the canvas bent the fire blue, and he let it go a few minutes. Curtis stood beside him. Terry got a stick and poked the shoe in the fire. He scratched the back of his head. He scratched it some more.
Something is wrong with you, Curtis said.
Probably.
He tossed the other shoe.
It’s good luck dammit, Terry said.
Who told you that?
I can’t remember.
My legs hurt. They’re sore.
Must have run somewhere in your dream.
Can I get those smokes, man?
Terry took the stick from the fire and pointed it at the porch, the tip coal orange.
Up there, he said.
Curtis went up to the porch and rustled the paper bag. He came back to the fire, carried one pack at his armpit, thumped another against his forearm.
How old are you? Terry said.
Fourteen dammit. Same as you.
I’m fifteen.
Oh.
Curtis gave him two dollars. He charged double on the risk. Curtis started off from the yard, and Terry watched him leave. He scratched his head some more, and then he went up on the porch and got another pack of cigarettes. He went fast down the steps and yelled at him in the road. Curtis turned around and started to come back.
That’s all the money I’ve got man, he said.
Terry held the pack to him, and then he went to his pockets and gave him back the two dollars. Curtis looked at him confused, and then he said thank you, and Terry nodded at him, and didn’t speak, and then he left Curtis in the road and went back to the yard and the fire.
Terry cut a deep gash on his index finger messing with the knife. He pressed the finger hard against his thigh for a few minutes to cap the blood but it wouldn’t stop. He pressed the finger some more and still the cut stayed open. He cut the sleeve from an old shirt and then he cut a strip from that and wrapped it tight around the cut. He was out of cigarettes. He went up to the filling station. It was almost eleven at night. The night clerk was there. He didn’t see her much. He pointed at the cigarettes in the rack behind her and she turned around and got them and then she put them on the counter. Terry held over a dollar. She rang the cash drawer open. She put the change in his hand and looked at the cloth bandaged on his finger.
What’s wrong with your finger? she said.
Nothing’s wrong with my finger, he said.
You got that wrap on the end of it. It’s all bloody.
A shark bit it, alright?
When?
When I was in the ocean.
Oh.
When I was swimming around in the ocean.
I tried to poke it in the eyes with my thumbs. I saw that on television.
But it bit you on the finger.
Yes.
You’re brave.
I know.
He got his cigarettes and left the store.