If Santa Claus had suddenly moved his workshop into the basement, no little boy could have evinced such an immediate and incredible change as Jared, after that first episode with his new babysitter, Melanie.

He'd been lazy. On Monday, he set the table without being asked.

He'd been surly and truculent. On Tuesday, he helped all the ladies in Momma's bridge club with their coats, brought them Cokes on ice, responded politely to all their silly questions for him, and spent an hour helping Momma clean up afterward.

He'd been rather mean in the past to Scarface, the family cat. On Wednesday, he fed the beast and changed its litterbox.

His parents worried. Did the child believe he was going to die soon? They sat him down, exchanging glances, probed gently. He just smiled and said he was just happy to be alive.

Truth was, he had discovered something wonderful in the world, and he was desperate to drown himself again in the vision.

Friday came. He fetched Daddy's slippers, poured him a beer, listened for the magic words. They didn't come. But he resisted the urge to go insane.

Saturday came. So did the magic words.

"Honey, let's go out for dinner tonight. Let's all go -- Jared has been such a good boy this week."

The first sentence he'd been dying to hear. The second part could have killed him. Swiftly he thought of a response.

"No, you and mom go this time. You never get time alone."

True it was. Usually, that was because no babysitter in the neighborhood, no matter how well paid, would agree to spend an evening with him, the brat of brats.

Until Melanie came along.

"All right," said Dad. "If we can find a good sitter."

Old habits died hard. He wasn't used to anyone providing a return performance in the care of his son.

"Melanie," Jared said. "She was all right, I guess."

Couldn't seem too eager. His parents were on edge enough, wondering whence the change in their son. He didn't wish to provide any clues.

"If she'll come," his father said, sounding doubtful.

She would. She did. They left, looking somewhat dazed.

She closed the door and smiled at him. He melted like a popsicle on a BBQ grill.

"Had a good week?" she asked.

Had he had a week? He couldn't remember.

She wore ribbons in her hair, a white sweater, tight blue jeans that hugged her shapely bottom and pretty white sandals from which her painted toes peeked out.

They stood awkwardly for a moment.

"Let's go into the living room," Melanie said. No mention of smoking. Maybe he had dreamed the whole thing.

She plopped down on the couch.

"Damn, I had a hard day at school. Come sit here and talk to me."

He meekly sat down beside her, feeling again faint and dizzy. What the hell was wrong with him? She was just a girl, some girl.

Some girl.

She leaned against the back of the couch and he could see the outline of her firm, high breasts pressing against her sweater and he felt his hands shaking.

"Don't ever smoke," she said. "They give you hell at school for it."

This she said at the same time as she reached in her purse for what he knew would be a pack of cigarettes. Out it came, VS Light 100s this time. She tilted the pack to her lips and let one slide out, catching it carefully between them. It wobbled like a twig as she searched for her lighter.

In a moment, she had a flame flickering in the air before her and bent it towards the tip of the cigarette. Her blue eyes half-closed and her lips tightened, holding the cigarette still as the flame bit into it. Now her face seemed to cave in as she inhaled, and the cigarette tip glowed like a tiny Halloween pumpkin.

With a soft pop, she completed the inhale and swung the cigarette away. Her open mouth was filled with smoke, creamy and white as milk, swirling like fog around the pinkness of her tongue. She swallowed it down as if she were drinking it, licking her lips like a cat. As her lips sealed shut, a thin "O" of escaped smoke danced into the air, wiggled its way towards him, hit his nose, making him sneeze.

Smoke still in her lungs, she laughed.

Now she opened her mouth,again filled with smoke, this time being propelled out in a thick stream shaped by her lips. It poured over him and he opened his mouth and took a breath so deep he could hear it, tasting her smoke in his mouth, the smoke from her lungs now filling his throat and lungs, burning, stinging where smoke had never been before.

The last of her exhale had left her lips and she smiled, flicking spent ash onto the saucer he'd brought out for her. His blood was pounding in his ears, his throat burned, but he was exhilarated.

Again the cigarette rose in her fingers, smoke curling from its tip, rose to her lips which opened to accept it, clamped firmly to trap it in place. He leaned forward, his own lips a dangerous hairs-width from the burning end; he felt its glowing heat as she dragged another mouthful of smoke.

Again, the cottony whiteness opened up before him, again the tiny "O" escaped. This time, he took a deep breath and inhaled the little shape himself, ignoring his nose's plea to sneeze. It didn't hurt as badly this time.

He saw her throat working, swallowing down the lungful of smoke; and suddenly he found himself following some buried urge within him, kissing the smooth skin as the smoke went down behind it, tasting the bitterness of some perfume she'd put on there.

She did not push him away, just laughed again. Opened her lips again and blew the stream out, a long, creamy swirl of smoke that he again inhaled from her as best he could, breathing it as deep and as hard into his lungs as he could stand as it spilled from her lips.

"That's probably enough," she said suddenly, breaking the spell. "Poor thing, you look like you're going to pass out."

He felt like he was about to.

She rubbed out the cigarette in the tray.

"Besides," she said. "We gotta let the air clear before your folks get home. What movies have you got?"

He had only some silly kid movies; how embarassing. But she popped "American Tail" into the VCR, pulled him close beside her and they watched it together after vowing never to reveal it to a soul.

The stupid clock in the hall chimed nine. Bedtime. He would rather have died. "Come on, kiddo," she said. "Can't have you getting in trouble."

Reluctantly, he tromped upstairs. She followed him up. His room was a mess. For the first time in his life, he noticed that and felt embarassed. She picked her way around the stuff on his floor and sat on his bed.

"I...have to dress," he stammered. She smiled and turned away while he put his pajamas on. Then he climbed into bed, as slowly as he could, laid his head on his pillow.

"Want a bedtime story?" she asked.

He did not. He was not some little boy. She had to know that.

"It's called "One Last Cigarette," she said, digging into her purse.

Pure magic. That was the only explanation.

Melanie took an ordinary, dull-looking little thing, a tube of paper stuffed with golden grains, and touched fire to it, and became in an instant more than some girl from down the street, some aloof high-schooler. She became mysterious, alluring, captivating, mesmerizing, and he watched her smoke with a fascination he'd never felt before, for anything.

As best he could put it, she was like those mythical goddesses or sirens in his fantasy books, encountered by the hero in some grassy glen, at once intensely beautiful, unearthly, almost supernatural.

Now he sat in his bed, not at all drowsy, watching as she silently drew smoke in and out of her mouth. The room was so quiet he could hear the smoke rustle its way through the cigarette as she inhaled, could hear the smack of her lips sealing shut on a creamy, white mouthful of fumes, could hear the deep sigh as she spillled it from those lips again, could hear the tapping of her fingers as she flicked ash off the tip.

Cradled in a "V" of her middle and index finger, the cigarette rose toward her lips and she leaned forward and tilted her head slightly to bring it the rest of the way to them. She sealed her mouth tightly around the tip of the filter, relaxing her fingers just a little as her lips took over, gripping firmly and tipping the cigarette up as she drew in deeply. The end burned a deep orange as she inhaled, her eyes half-closed, her lips almost trembling with the exertion, her cheeks folding in to vacuum smoke into her mouth.

Now her fingers clamped the "V" tightly around the cigarette again and she drew it away sharply. For a fraction of a second, her lips opened, framed by a white circle of smoke that almost seemed as if it might escape. But the continuing inrush of her inhale dragged it back immediately back inside and it vanished down her throat like a cotton puff.

Now would come the most magical part, in his estimation. Wide she opened her mouth and forth rolled the smoke, like the spray of a garden hose, like the blast from an exhaust pipe, maybe, but a whole hell of a lot more interesting. How miraculous it seemed that she could swallow smoke, mingled with her breath, then blow it out in a fragrant, swirling cloud, shaped by her lips, seemingly endless, incredibly beautiful, the work of her lungs to expel it only betrayed by a slight sigh.

It was almost, he thought, as if she were peeing, pouring forth a warm stream from deep within herself. But this was certainly better.

The smoke gradually dispersed from its tight stream, fading into faint grey haze by the time it reached him, where he lay in bed. He inhaled what was left of it, held his breath to hold it inside himself, willing his own body to absorb what had been inside of her.

Seven lovely puffs she took, reducing the cigarette to a two-inch stub, then ground it out in the china dish he'd stolen from the kitchen for her.

"Night, night, Jared," she said, and smiled. "Your parents should be home in an hour. I've got homework to do, so I'll be downstairs."

Then, she was gone.

When her footsteps had faded, he jumped out of bed. He pressed his face against the warm spot on the chair where she had just been sitting. He leaned close to the back of it and found one long, golden hair glistening against the fabric. He brought it to his lips and kissed it and then scampered to his desk and found a book and laid the strand within the pages.

Now he turned his gaze to the china-dish ashtray, where a single cigarette lay, freshly snuffed by her fingers. He leaned in close and inhaled the strong scent of it, bittersweet. He touched the very tip of his tongue to the dark circle on the filter where the smoke had passed to reach her lips. He knelt down and gazed upon the sparkly-pink crescent where those lips had closed to capture the cigarette, leaving that beautiful mark behind.

He carried the dish over to his desk, where he gingerly tipped it into a small box in which he saved every cigarette butt she'd left behind at his home.

"Jared?" he heard her calling from downstairs. "You still awake?"

He jumped back into bed and lay silent.

But she was not to be fooled. He heard her coming up the stairs and he squeezed his eyes shut for lack of anything better to do.

Silence. She must have looked in and then gone.

He could hear her now, downstairs again, talking to someone on the phone. Probably a boyfriend. Damn, it stunk to be his age. She must think him just a stupid baby.

He lay still, picturing her in his mind as he listened to her voice, picturing her dragging on a cigarette, then blowing out soft, white clouds.

And to that beautiful vision, he fell asleep.

And the next day, it rained and Don Funk, the class bully, threw his math book in a puddle and the cafeteria served liver for lunch.

And he walked home in the rain, hating the whole world.

Until a car pulled up, a window rolled down, a woman said, "Want a ride home?" and he saw Melanie, in the passenger seat, and barely heard her introduce the woman as a college friend of hers.

Next thing he knew, he was inside the car, out of the rain, and realizing that the gray day had suddenly turned golden.