montana night

"I hear these put three times the amount of tar in your lungs," she said, with more than a little pride in her ability to take her own life in her hands.
"I just think they taste good. Like herbs," I said, still secretly wondering if I was doing it wrong.
We sat for a few silent minutes, admiring the Montana stars at midnight and the mountains we couldn't see.
Taking a drink, I said, "I feel like we're twelve, sneaking cigarettes and beer in the backyard," knowing full well that at twelve I was far more interested in early American poetry and the U.S. equestrian team than alcohol, that I hadn't had any alcohol until I was a month away from 20, and this was only my second time smoking cloves, having smoked hookah twice before that. I never smoke or drank at twelve, and she knew it.
She stayed silent. We had been friends since we were six, but I was suddenly unsure of myself, wondering what, exactly, she had done at twelve without me.