Ashlae and The Notebook

Ashlae is a dark silhouette against the wispy clouds and a trail of grey cigarette smoke fading into the blue on the rooftop.

I stand beside her, staring blindly into the periwinkle sky.

"It's so much more beautiful during the day," she says, her sharp almond eyes closed so she isn't seeing anything. She feels the blue of space in her skin. She's a grey-blue trail of cigarette smoke fading up and into the wispy nothingness of the clouds. Effortless.

"You have the notebook?" I ask. But, it sounds like a statement. Ashlae raises her eyebrow, lips hovering hot over the bud of her cigarette. Her eyes are closed.

"Maybe." She's all shoulders.

"Why did you steal our project?" I ask.

Her face goes sour. She's not in the mood for any of this. "It's not your project! It's mine, kid. Billie stole the notebook from me. So, I stole it back. She couldn't film a movie if her life depended on it."

I feel it again: red hot anxiety pulsing at the speed of lighting to my heart. Burning. I'm scared. "That's not true."

Ashlae flickers the bud of her cigarette off of the rooftop, an orange-red star falling, sinking, down to the earth. She sucks in a breath, holding the notebook in both of her hands. "It's the truth. And, you're stupid if you don't believe me."

She flips and flips and flips. She's not looking for a particular page. She's checking to see what Billie has done more than anything. "Goldfish?" she asks, looking at me through her lashes. "Who came up with that stupid idea?"

And I stand there and think about how terrible Billie is. But, Ashlae's no different. She hates everyone, too.