“Hey, what is that?” Chala asked, pointing her painted fingernails at my burns.

“It’s a little burn, don’t worry about it.” I muttered.
“How’d you get it?”
“Did you know that you ask too many questions?”
“Nah, it’s okay. Why is it so round?” She inquired and I sighed.
“It was from a cigarette.”
“You smoke cigarettes?”
“Sometimes.”
“You could die from cigarettes.”
“You could die from being annoying.” I so cleverly shot back.

“You’re a rude boy, did you know that?” She screwed her face up. “My mommy is a doctor. She could save your hand.”

“I don’t need anybody to save my hand. It will heal in a couple weeks.”

“Whatever, Calvin.”
“Whatever, Chala.”
And she held my dying hand.