“I’m Doing This for You”

by Elizabeth Katz

Andie was sitting across the booth from me at the 24-hour diner when she told me her step-dad had stolen from her again. She was used to it. He snuck into the bedroom she shared with her 12-year-old sister Ashlyn while they pretended to sleep and rummaged through the sock drawer, where she hid her earnings from babysitting. She could smell whiskey from across the room, so she kept her eyes closed — it wasn’t worth the fight. There was a slammed door, then footsteps, then the murmur of his truck, and just like that, all her money was gone.

In those days, Andie frequently made disturbing admissions, laughing, feigning indifference. I knew it was her way of coping with the shitty cards she’d been dealt, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle.

“$250,” she said, smacking an empty ketchup bottle to no avail. “I was saving up for a new phone, but fuck me, I guess, huh?” She clambered onto her knees, reaching over the back of the booth to the next table. She turned back triumphantly, a fresh bottle of Heinz in hand.

I sipped my milkshake and shook my head, “That’s really scary, Andie. I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. Kurt acts tough, but he’s a pussy.” With one hit, the ketchup splattered all over her plate.

“Okay,” I started, taking her greasy hand in mine. “But I’m still sorry.”

“It’s whatever,” she said, her eyes dull like flat cola. A piece of blue hair came loose from her ponytail. She’d recently dyed the front strands with a box from the Dollar Tree. “I could take him if I wanted to.” She winked, always flippant and frustratingly casual.

“But look, if you ever need a place to stay —”

“—What, Jess?” She laughed incredulously. “You’ll ask your parents to have a sleepover with your secret girlfriend?”

I chewed on my lip, wishing to be a different kind of person; someone bold and unapologetic who did what she wanted, despite the consequences. Andie was right, it was an empty offer.

She nodded to herself, “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” then turned her attention to flagging down the waitress for another Mountain Dew. I looked out into the parking lot.

The Oasis Diner was off the highway, nestled between a Dunkin’ Donuts and a strip club, in a corner of Kentucky no one cared about. Redneck country, as my parents called it. The diner had sticky tiled floors and backless swivel barstools with long gashes in the cushions. There was a rotating display of days-old fruit pies and a pervasive sulfur stench that I’d convinced myself was just an omelet eternally frying on the grill. Tammy Wynette played from the radio. No one else was inside, except a biker my grandpa’s age, and still, I was on edge. Anyone could walk in at any time — our principal, a friend of my mother’s from Bible Study — and everything would be ruined.

For the first few months, Andie acted like she didn’t mind us being in the closet. We snuck out of class to kiss in the bathroom, we shoved love letters into each other’s lockers. It was fun sharing a secret, and in some ways, it brought us closer. But increasingly, I could feel that she wanted more — holding hands in the hallway and pictures together on Instagram and maybe even Prom, as a real couple. She made these proposals jokingly, with contempt, and I laughed because there was nothing to say. I knew I was failing her.

...

On Valentine’s Day, just a few days earlier, Andie had led me through the backstage of the auditorium, up an uneven set of stairs, and out onto the roof of the school.

“Woah,” I said, “I didn’t know this existed.” I walked to the edge and peered down at the

coveted senior parking spots.

“Yeah, nobody does,” she said, coming up behind me, snaking her arms around my waist.

“What if someone catches us? What if we get in trouble?”

“Then we get in trouble, who cares.” She squeezed me and I inhaled her scent — honeysuckle body spray from a mall kiosk, unwashed hair, cigarette smoke.

She shook out a blanket and smoothed the edges, and I realized, panicking, that this was intended to be a romantic moment. Unsure of what else to do, I unpacked the lunch my dad made me every morning, passing it off as a picnic offering. Andie didn’t eat. She opened a bottle of Welch’s Sparkling grape juice and poured it into two crushed water bottles. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jess.” We clinked plastic.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I murmured into my drink.

She fiddled with the zipper on her JCPenney puffer. “So I have something for you,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She reached into her backpack and drew out a pink-striped Victoria’s Secret bag that she placed before me.

I stared down at the package, the tissue paper crumpled and a crease running along one side. I didn’t want to open it. In my tote, I had a single rose and a box of chocolates from Walgreens for her.

“Go on!”

I unwrapped it slowly to find two lingerie sets, one in black lace, the other red sequin. The numbers on the tags had been marked out, but I knew this was entirely out of her price range. “Andie...Wow.”

“They had a sale after Christmas. I had a gift card.”

“And you spent it on me?”

“Maybe,” she said, acting coy. Our desire for one another was not something we discussed out loud. Occasionally we sent each other seductive pictures, which I supposed was the intended use for the lingerie. “Do you like it?”

“It’s great,” I said, unconvincingly. “Thank you.”

“Try it on!”

“Now?” I looked around at the cold aluminum, the vents and exhaust fans.

“Please?” On all fours, she leaned into me; her cheeks stippled pink. “For me?” She kissed me delicately and then harder, so I could feel her teeth against my anxious mouth. Her hands grasped at my hair, the nape of my neck, the collar of my sweater. I kept thinking about my half-assed gift, dreading how it would abruptly end the moment.

“Andie,” I said, gently pushing her off. “Sorry, I just...”

“What?” she asked, exasperated, her lips red, slick with saliva. “What’d I do wrong?” An

ugly twang edged into her voice when she got defensive.

“Nothing.” Her eyes probed mine; she must have seen my discomfort, and mistaken it for a lack of desire.

“If you don’t like it, I can take it back.”

“No, it’s not that.” I hesitated, thinking of the lunch bell, wondering if we’d hear it, hoping it would ring soon. “Um, here,” I said, presenting her with the wilted flower and off-brand candy.

“Oh.” Her mouth twitched. “This is...sweet.”

I nodded and rubbed my palms on my jeans. Andie rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Well, should we go in?” Andie offered. I packed up my peanut butter sandwich, then followed her back down the treacherous stairs. We parted for our afternoon classes with a hug, her disappointment palpable. And when I texted her a photo in the strappy, complicated outfit later that night, she responded haha. We were to laugh off this awkward confusion. I was to make it up to her somehow.

...

In the diner, I watched in awe as Andie shoveled fistfuls of soggy fries into her mouth, barely chewing, then washed it all down with big swigs of electric yellow soda. She was ravenous and greedy, almost barbaric with her food. It was a pleasant surprise.

Usually, she avoided eating in my presence. When I tried asking about it, she predictably told me not to worry; she could take care of herself. But I did worry, all the time. Because though I had never seen her naked, I knew Andie was dangerously thin. I was afraid of how she deprived herself, of how far she might go. So to see her devouring a double cheeseburger now was curious, but much simpler than the alternative. I wanted to believe there was nothing to worry about after all.

“Do you want anything else? Dessert? My treat.”

“I’d kill someone for some chocolate chip pancakes,” she deadpanned, then grinned her gap-toothed smile.

“Really?” I looked at this new version of my girlfriend hopefully, admiring the sheen on her smooth forehead, the length of her pale eyelashes, the birthmark on her chin. She really was pretty. After we ate, we would park at the abandoned church where we’d had our first kiss. We would fool around and I would make Andie feel wanted in the way she deserved. I’d even worn the sparkly red thong, to show her it hadn’t all been in vain.

“Yeah, sure, if you’re buying.” She grabbed her purse and started scooting across the squeaky red leather. “But first I have to get rid of all this crap.” She rubbed her belly, stuck her tongue out, and let her eyes roll back in her head.

“What?” I looked at her, disgusted. “You can’t be serious.”

She started laughing, shifty eyes scanning the diner. “Of course not. It’s a joke. Relax.”

“Andie.” I grabbed her hand. “It’s not funny.”

She snatched her hand away and finally looked at me. “I have to pee. I’m fine.” With that, she turned away. Her dirty white Keds flapped as she walked; the sole of the right sneaker, which she’d glued back on, was coming loose again. They were the only shoes I’d seen her wear since we’d met last October.

...

She showed up on a cool Friday night at the local coffeehouse, Etcetera, where they hosted a weekly Open Mic. The employees were young and tattooed, with vibrant, ever-changing hair colors. The walls were decorated with student artwork, the menu hand-written on a giant chalkboard. It was a mishmash of thrifted chenille sofas and local artisan wicker chairs and boldly patterned carpet. They made inventive drinks like s’mores yerba mate lattes and crème brûlée breves. I studied there after school most days, absorbing the atmosphere, feeling bohemian. I liked to think that I had found Etcetera by some miracle. It was the only place of its kind — an oasis for artists and artist-adjacents. I didn’t consider myself one of them then; I hadn’t yet discovered any discernible talent, but I figured proximity to eccentricity might rub off on me. I was curious, to say the least.

Every Friday, I told my parents I was going to the high school football game, then ran off to mingle with the hippies and liberals they feared would warp my precious mind. Some took Open Mic seriously — slam poets trying out new material, siblings playing as a Fleetwood Mac cover band — and some used it as a hunting ground. Grown men in snapbacks leered at teenage girls in short skirts and knee-highs. Baristas slept with their underage customers. In just a few months, there’d be allegations of pedophilia, arrests would be made, and Etcetera would be shut down for good. But back then, I sat a few tables away from unfathomable danger thinking nothing of it, believing all adults looked out for children, assuming every kid felt secure in this presumption.

I was in the front row, sipping a Dirty Chai, when Andie took the makeshift stage. She wore black jeans and a shredded t-shirt, likely a beloved hand-me-down eaten up by the wash, disguised now as trendy. But she looked cool in an understated way, like she didn’t have to work for it. She cleared her throat, put her hands in her pockets, and said, “This is a poem I wrote about feeling shitty and not being able to do anything about it. It’s called ‘My Mania Is Bringing Me Down, Man.’” People chuckled, and I pretended to understand the joke.

I don’t remember the poem so much as I remember her lips, wet with nervous spit, rounding to make the words blue and crude and wound, and the way the reverb on the microphone made her voice sound underwater. We made eye contact and she stumbled over the word pussy, then recovered to finish the piece. I felt a sharpness rise in my throat. Suddenly, my knee was bouncing, my fingers were tapping; there was an all over fizziness flooding my body. It was unrecognizable, and yet I followed it. Everyone snapped when she finished, and I left my seat to tell this stranger that I liked her poem, but mostly just to see her mouth again. She complimented my skirt in a low, raspy voice that immediately felt intimate. It turned out we went to the same school, but our paths had never crossed since she was a sophomore. She was smart and sure of herself, or at least good at faking it; we liked the same bands, we hated the same celebrities, and I guess I thought that mattered. I was warm with the feeling of doing something I wasn’t supposed to, especially come Sunday morning Mass, kneeling between my parents. I had never kept secrets, good little Christian girl, and I was beginning to see the appeal. My own private life was unfolding before me; a special world I could escape to when I was tired of playing the perfect daughter. Andie and I stood in the back of the Open Mic, receiving stares from perverts and punks, for the next five Fridays. Finally, she asked if I wanted to do something together, just us, and I suggested the roller rink so we had an excuse to hold hands, even though I was terrible on blades. She said okay, and I said, “We can’t tell anyone,” so we skated around, avoiding the slippery spots, and I prayed I wouldn’t fall and bring her crashing down with me.

...

Andie had been in the bathroom for eight minutes when the biker got up, leaving a $5 bill and half a slice of pecan pie. The waitress winked and waved goodbye. As the leather-skinned man passed my booth, he made a kissy sound at me and licked his lips. I thought of giving him the finger, but too late; he was halfway out the door, a cigarette between his teeth.

Andie’s mom and step-dad smoked in the house. I could smell it in her hair whenever she got in the Nissan my parents had given me for my eighteenth birthday, always parked three blocks from her home. The rule was made after an encounter with Kurt. I’d pulled into the driveway and honked, thinking no one but Andie was home. I was listening to music, applying lip gloss in the visor mirror, when he tapped on my window with a hunting knife.

“You lost, little girl?” His silhouette was looming, his skin was red and mottled; a beady-eyed vulture menacing. I slowly rolled down the window.

“I’m a friend of Andie’s.”

“Andie doesn’t have any friends.” He stumbled, jerking his jeans back up. A patch of coarse hair peeked out from under his camouflage shirt. His eyebrows wrinkled together, and I thought for a moment I saw a wave of recognition. Then he burped, grabbed the top of my car, and leaned in. “Now, what do you want?” He flashed the knife again, glowering at me like his prey.

Andie came running out of the house, screaming, “Get away from her, you fucking psycho.”

He started to throw the knife at her, then faked out when she flinched. “Ha! Scared you, didn’t I?” She flipped him off and slipped into the passenger seat. He started back up the drive, twirling the knife between his fingers, and returned to a flayed animal in the yard. “See you later, loser.”

“Perv!” She called out the window.

“Whoa,” I turned to her, my heart beating double time. “What the hell was that?”

“Oh, that’s just Kurt. Piece of shit.” She squeezed my hand and popped a piece of bubblegum in her mouth. “Let’s go.”

After that, any time Andie mentioned Kurt’s name, I got tense in my shoulders. It didn’t surprise me that he was desperate enough to paw through her neatly folded underwear for a bit of cash, but it nauseated me just the same. She didn’t seem to see how urgently dangerous he was, as if stealing from your child was a normal thing to do. My own father asked if I needed any pocket change every time I left the house. He put the alarm on each night at 9:30, and tiptoed around the house checking all the locks. That was what a father did.

Andie finally emerged from the bathroom, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and swallowing hard. I was sure she’d done what I’d feared she would. It was obvious in the way she came bounding over, humming along to a country song she didn’t know.

“Where are my pancakes?”

“Oh. Um—”

“Forget it. Let’s get out of here, huh?” I sat still, unnerved, desperate for something to say.

“Come on,” she prodded, pulling my arm.

“We haven’t paid.”

“So?” She turned to the waitress, who was babbling on her cell phone while struggling to tie a trash bag. “She’s not even looking.”

“What? No. Just give me five minutes.”

She groaned, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m going outside for some air.”

“Great,” I said, resting my head in my hands. Part of me wanted to go into the bathroom, to see if it smelled of vomit, to prove that Andie had lied to my face. But if I was right, I’d have to confront her yet again, cementing myself as the antagonist in her life. Why wasn’t her family concerned? Why was it up to me? I didn’t want to police her every move; I wanted her to be easy to love. I paid the check and left a tip, but didn’t get up. I organized the sugar packets by color, turned the ketchup and A.1. sauce bottles so the labels were centered. Eventually, the waitress came by with a broom and I left.

We drove in silence, back towards the center of our town. I didn’t feel like trying to smooth things over, but I let Andie take the aux cord. She played Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois on shuffle, which, in a way, was a peace offering. She closed her eyes, a childlike grin spread across her face as she bobbed her head along with the percussion.

“God, I love this album.”

In spite of myself, I said, “Me too.”

We passed the shuttered outlet mall, the bargain liquor store, the donut shop that doubled as a gas station. Andie sang along to “Chicago,” and I looked around, romanticizing my shitty provincial life, because I could, because I knew I would be leaving it soon.

I would venture to a new city, a big city — Chicago, when I got into my mother’s alma mater, Northwestern, as I’d hoped — where I would study art history, and comparative literature, and music criticism, and film theory; I would take a gender studies class, and there I would meet the friends I was destined to know. We would throw dinner parties, and roast whole chickens, and drink good wine, and discuss foreign politics — because that would be something we cared about. We would go to queer punk shows on the weekends, and do cocaine in the bathroom, and everyone would sleep with each other, because we weren’t precious about our love. I would adopt a chic androgynous style like a 20s movie star. I would date girls with pixie haircuts and Marxist ideals who talked loudly at parties; and girls with tongue rings, far more sexually experienced than me, but willing to show me the ropes. In the insulation of college, without the watchful gaze of my parents, I would become the person I was beginning to realize I could be.

Even then, in the car, I think I knew that my future would not include Andie. I would not invite her to visit me at school; we would not stroll through the Art Institute, get stoned at a house party, or snuggle together in my twin bed. She would be stuck, right where I abandoned her. Knowing this so plainly, I looked at her, immersed in the music, rhythmically tapping on her knees. The guilt was a chokehold, urging me to surrender.

...

We hit the back roads, where, in the day, you’d see large swaths of land, the grass stirring, nearly blue, like the state’s nickname suggests. But in the inky blur of night, it was more the realization of your isolation — and a flood of general foreboding — that overwhelmed the senses. I tried to stay calm. The roads were narrow around there, and frequented by foolishly brave deer. Andie turned down the music.

“Hey, what about your curfew?” she asked. The dashboard clock blinked 10:53.

“My parents are out of town, remember?”

“What? Why aren’t we at your house? You could’ve thrown a huge rager. We could’ve gone skinny dipping,” she said flirtatiously, creeping her fingers into my lap.

I moved her hand without taking my eyes off the road. “The pool is covered, it’s winter. And I told you, Mrs. O’Rourke from church is staying in the guest room. She thinks I’m at a late movie.”

“Your parents hired a babysitter for you?”

“Housesitter. She waters the plants and stuff.”

“Jess, that’s insane. You’re a legal adult. You can do whatever the fuck you want!”

“I know. But I didn’t want to piss off my parents just to have a stupid party.”

“Fine. Pussy.” She looked out the window.

The end of the song was barely audible, a dull murmur, and still it was making me anxious. I pressed the controls on the steering wheel, flipping through the album for something softer.

“Why do you always do that?”

“What?” she retorted, that edge in her voice. I kept seeking a new song, but each one began all wrong. Repetitive trumpets. Skip.

“Why are you always pressuring me to do dangerous things? I’m trying to get you to stop doing dangerous things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Monotonous piano. Skip.

“Come on. Yes, you do.”

“No, Jess, I really don’t.” Dissonant choir. Skip.

“What did you do in the bathroom? You were in there for like fifteen minutes.”

“You timed me? Jesus Christ.” Droning synth. Skip.

“Andie, please.” I turned to her, daring her to look me in the eyes. “You need help.”

“Fuck, Jess, stop!”

She pointed to the road, where a deer stood unmoving. I slammed on the brake with all my weight, jerking us out of our seats and back against the headrests.

“Holy shit.”

The doe was motionless, her body poised and sinewy; her tail trembling only slightly in the wind. She didn’t blink as she glared at me through the headlights.

“She has suicide eyes,” Andie said softly. “It’s like she wants to be hit.”

I saw what she meant. I flashed my brights at the doe, urging her away from peril, and still, she didn’t flinch. I sighed, flicking on my hazards; I checked behind and ahead, then carefully maneuvered around her.

I went ten under the speed limit for the rest of the winding road, clutching the wheel, holding my breath.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve been watching.”

“At least you didn’t hurt her.” Andie changed the song and turned the volume up, then hugged her knees to her chest. It was a Sufjan song I didn’t know — quiet, vaguely homoerotic, and full of religious imagery.

...

On Thanksgiving, just a few months before, my parents had signed our family up to work for the Knights of Columbus, driving meals to poor families in town. Andie and I had just had our first date at the roller rink, and my secret was weighing on me. Here I was, pretending to be devout, delivering aluminum foil containers of congealed gravy.

But no one noticed my discomfort. In general, people were glad to see us. An elderly man greeted us with hot apple cider in styrofoam cups; a little girl offered us her partially completed coloring pages of turkeys and pilgrims. My parents played the Christmas channel in the car.

Towards the end of our route, when I was getting irritable from the day-long fast, we came upon a neighborhood on the south side of town. My mother uttered sighs of pity, as we passed dilapidated houses with weathered shingles, a row of busted mailboxes, a mangy mutt trapped in a crate.

“Oh, bless,” she whispered, absently fingering the gold cross at her chest.

We pulled up to a squat, gray one-story at the top of the cul-de-sac. My mom and I unloaded the dishes from the trunk and carried them through the overgrown lawn to the front door, where a girl sat, staring at us through the broken screen.

“Ashlyn, go get Mom.” I heard Andie before I saw her and nearly vomited. She appeared in the doorway looking annoyed, until she met my eyes and panic swallowed all the color in her face; she glanced away, trying to hide her embarrassment with boredom. I remember feeling caught in the wrong skin, ashamed that I wasn’t the person she thought she knew. But then, her private world had collapsed too — even more drastically than mine. My mom elbowed me to begin my script. I cleared my throat.

“Hello, happy Thanksgiving! We’re from St. Joseph’s Catholic Church and we have a delicious meal prepared by the Knights of Columbus for you and your family to enjoy today. There’s even a pumpkin pie.”

“No, no, no,” Andie’s mother came busting through in an extra-large men’s t-shirt and slippers. Her hair was frizzy and matted, as if she’d just woken up, despite it being 2pm. “I told them we don’t need this shit from y’all.” She was a short, stout woman, bearing almost no resemblance to Andie. “Every goddamn year y’all do this.”

“Sorry, ma’am, your house was on our list,” my mom said, in a polite Southern drawl.

Andie’s mom huffed in response, but despite her denunciation, she started grabbing the containers out of our arms. She handed them off to Kurt, who had emerged from the shadows, shirtless, drinking a Heineken.

The food disappeared into the house. Andie wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“We don’t want your holier-than-thou charity bullshit, thank you very much,” the woman said, taking the last of the dishes. “Take us off your damn list.” She slammed the screen door in our faces and pushed the girls into the darkness of the hallway. Kurt stood there, glaring at us, until we were back in the van and pulling out of the drive.

“Tragic,” my mom said, shaking her head, and she was right, but I hated her for saying it.

My parents and I went home and ate the meal my mother had been preparing all week. We had seconds, and thirds, until we were sufficiently stuffed.

I thought then of Andie microwaving lumpy mashed potatoes, and wished there was a world in which she could sit next to me, holding my hand at the dining room table, complimenting my mom’s cooking, licking the plate clean; after dinner, she would laugh at my baby photos, we would play a card game with my parents, then cuddle up on the couch and watch True Detective, all four of us; when it got late, we would retreat upstairs and fall into my queen-sized bed, but we would take up as little space as possible, our bodies curled into one another as we dreamt big, roving, vigorous dreams.

But I knew better. From that day on, something was fractured between us, but we refused to admit it, which of course only made things worse.

...

The curving, pitch-black road spit us out near the golden arches that marked the start of our town, once named the fast food capital of the world. On the way downtown, we passed five or six churches in the two-mile distance, with proclamations on their readerboards, like HE IS DIVINE, WE ARE DIBRANCHES, but none of them were ours. St. Francis Xavier, decrepit and forsaken, was the one that we’d claimed. Back in December, on a chilly afternoon, we’d walked around the grounds, the sun shining through the fractured stained glass above our heads. Andie pushed me against the stone wall and held my chin. My stomach turned, knowing what would come next, and I felt sure this was sacrilegious, that I would undoubtedly go to hell; but then her lips were on mine, and the sun was on my eyelids, and my whole body was alight with rapture.

I pulled into the parking lot.

“What are we doing here?” Andie asked quietly.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” I said, parking in the back, away from the road. I turned off the car and unbuckled. I looked into her lusterless brown eyes, trying to radiate the desire I felt she was due. “You look really beautiful.” She glanced down. “Andie,” I purred, fumbling for her hand. I wanted to feel her soft tongue dancing around mine, to kiss parts of her body I’d never seen before. I wasn’t sure that I was ready, but I was willing to try — for her. I leaned in and kissed her, and she tasted like frying oil and bubblegum and distantly like stomach acid; instinctively, I pulled back. She turned away.

“It’s creepy at night, isn’t it,” she said, gazing at the moonlit church. Before I could even look, she was opening her door. She called, “Let’s go,” letting it slam behind her. She ran to a high broken window, then started jumping, attempting to peer inside. I sighed. The moment was over before it even began. There was nothing to do but follow.

I ambled to the building and crossed my arms over my chest, surveying the debris and glass littering the path. The covered entryway had crumbled into a pile of rotted wood. “I’m surprised they haven’t demolished this place.”

“Don’t you want to just take a baseball bat to it?” Andie mimed smashing the windows in.

“I think I have a tire iron in my car,” I joked.

“Seriously? Go get it. This will be fun.” She smiled and practiced her swing.

“No way. This is private property.”

“Oh my god, Jess, why do you always have to be such a killjoy?” She scolded, rolling her

eyes at me, and turned the corner, disappearing into the darkness.

“Where are you going?” There was only the sound of rustling in the weeds. Around us, all the houses were dim. I was nervous a neighbor would see us moving around, trespassers that we were, and call the cops. This wasn’t what I had planned. It seemed that, with her, nothing would ever go as planned. “Andie.” She didn’t answer. I inched through the uneven grass around the side of the building, trying to keep up. She marched to the front door, and I could feel she was going to kick it down, just to spite me. “Come back. Someone might see us.”

“God, can you stop worrying about getting caught with me for one goddamn second?” She yelled at me, only her silhouette visible. “Sometimes I think you actually want to. Just for a way out.”

I stopped, looked down at my boots. Of course I didn’t want to get caught. Of course I wanted to be with her completely. But the life ahead of me was too promising to risk.

“Fuck!” She suddenly collapsed on the pebble trail. “Shit. Goddamn.”

“Andie?” I ran to her side, keeping low to avoid being spotted by passing drivers. “Are you okay?”

She was clutching her right foot in pain, muttering curse words over and over. “These fucking shoes.” The sole of her sneakers had completely detached, making her roll her ankle.

“Oh my god. Does it hurt? Is it broken?” If we ended up in the ER, my parents would almost certainly find out. They’d come back early from their beach trip to find that their daughter was a lying, cowardly sinner, and my life would be over.

“I’m fine.” Andie said, pushing through the discomfort. She tried to stand on her own and winced. “Can you just take me home?”

“I got you.” I said, pulling her to her feet, helping her hobble to the car. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Andie’s ankle was beginning to swell and she put her foot up on the dashboard. It was after midnight. She kept yawning as I drove the bending, peaceful roads. The thong was cutting into my hips, the lacy material making me itchy, and it had all been for nothing.

A single porch light illuminated Andie’s shabby front door. At the top of the driveway, a ‘93 Chevy Silverado was parked. Kurt. I immediately felt the muscles in my neck clench. Andie sat there, unbuckled, looking at the house.

“Oh, let me help you in.” We made our way up the drive; Andie giving me her weight, me trying to stay upright. “Back door?”

She shook her head, “Front. The garage will wake my mom.” I swallowed, but my mouth was dry, the memory of the last time I’d arrived unannounced glaring in my mind.

“This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go,” I confessed, waiting for her quippy, avoidant response. But she said nothing and reached for her house key; the door opened before she could find it.

“What’s going on girls?” Kurt was standing there, smiling with decaying teeth. “Sleepover?” I couldn’t bear to look at him.

“Um, Andie hurt her ankle. Probably just a sprain, but she needs ice.”

“Oh no, how’d you do that, bug?” Andie was silent, looking feverish and dazed. Kurt opened the screen door and crouched down to inspect her foot. “Does this hurt?” He touched her ballooned ankle tenderly.

“Ow, son of a bitch!” Andie’s knee jerked up, nearly knocking Kurt in the nose. “Don’t.”

“Guess that answers that,” Kurt chuckled, standing back up. Shockingly, he seemed sober. He scratched his armpit, looking sleepy, innocently doltish — like my own father before he’d had his morning coffee. “Well come inside, you should get off it.” He ushered her in, and she let herself be heaved up onto his hip, a sun-tired child at an amusement park. Kurt called to me, “Thanks for getting her home safely.”

I stood there, forsaken, watching helplessly as she slipped away from my grasp. Bugs buzzed around the warm bulb overhead. The cigarette smell seeping out of the house was making me sick. Kurt started to turn down the hall, but I stopped the door from shutting in my face, “Wait.”

He spun back around, “Something else, hon?”

“Yeah,” I heard myself saying, an unfamiliar boldness in my voice. “I want to know what you did with the money.”

Andie’s eyes grew big and she mouthed to me, No. Kurt put her down against the wall and sauntered over. “Excuse me?”

My stomach felt tight, my throat constricted with fear. I knew it was a mistake, and still I pressed on. “You owe Andie $250. Tell me where it is.”

“What’s she talking about?” Kurt asked Andie, who cowered behind him.

She shook her head furiously, “I have no idea.”

“Andie, come on, don’t let him do this to you.”

“Who the hell are you?” Kurt squinted his black eyes at me and flared his nostrils.

“Jess,” Andie said coldly, clutching to the wall, “You should go.”

It was so uncomplicated, how she chose what we knew had always been fated. It left a chasm gaping between us, in which I was the one stranded. She looked down at her hands, digging dirt out from under her nails.

“You heard her,” Kurt grumbled. I glanced at Andie, but he stepped in front, shielding her from me with his hulking frame. “Stay away from my family. I don’t want you coming around here again.” Andie peered from behind him, a brief flash of regret on her face before she turned away. Kurt snarled, “Have a good night,” and the door slammed shut.

I stumbled back to my car, lightheaded. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I watched lights turn on and off in different rooms of the house until they all went dark for good. Somewhere, a dog barked. I started the ignition.

On the drive home, I cranked the heat all the way up and my vision started to blur from the humidity. The crimson line of the speedometer tilted to 50, then 60, and kept on creeping. I ran all the red lights, thinking of Andie — how she could find respite in the abandon.