Cigarette smoke has always been a comforting smell to me. My grandfather smoked for 50 out of the 75 years of his life, and he was what I associated that smell with; which was safety, love, and comfort. But, as this disgusting specimen blew his cheap menthol smoke into my direction I wasn't comforted. I was forced to stand by the door, and watch Taylor move all of her stuff into boxes, while this idiot rambled on about the stupid landlord, and everyone else being the problem. I had been to this place many times. It was our crash spot after parties so our parents wouldn't find out we had been drinking. In the morning, when they had left for work, we would all go back to our normal suburban life, and sleep until the next party. All of us, except Taylor. She lived in that crash spot. No parenting, no rules, no curfew; we all told her she had the perfect situation. Little did we know, it was all vacant. Freedom always comes with a price, and no one understood that better than her. But now, that crash spot was being taken away, her whole life ripped out from under her because of a stupid financial mistake. And her home on Anderson Street was moving all the way to Fort Worth, then later Michigan. However, she wasn't invited to the final crash spot with her former family in Michigan, and all of a sudden, I gained a new roommate, a sister, and a best friend. It was really hard trying to understand why Taylor was the way she was. We were polar opposites. Me, the average middle class white kid that lived with overbearing parents and a spoiled rotten younger sibling; and Taylor, the tossed around lower class black girl with a rotten attitude and a tendency to show up to class stoned. I don't know how we managed to come together, but something connected us in a way no one will ever understand. We formed a group, her and I. We were full of rebellious teenagers trying to fill a void with drugs and alcohol. What that void was from, I still don't know