Cally only ever smoked when she hated herself, when she wanted to do herself harm in some way. Then she would breathe in the nicotine as deeply as she could, watch it stream out of her nostrils in two little threads and shatter against the bright Upstate stars. The smog that surrounded her kept others away, or perhaps it was just a certain aloofness — that subtle touch-me-not attitude that made others so nervous.

So Anne would yell at her and then she would smoke, and this would happen over and over again.

Cally watched the orange ember burn down to a stub, until it sparked her finger and she dropped the butt, grinding it out against the cold, bare mud.

Edit: Why does everything I write sound like chick-lit right now? Bleh.