The People We Keep(64)

“We haven’t fucked yet.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on. I know what this is.”

My whole body shakes. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re all the same. Aren’t you?” he says, straightening his next line with the guitar pick. “You fuck for drugs. You’ll be gone in the morning. You’ll take the rest of my bag while I’m sleeping. I have to get mine now, so at least it’s a fair trade.”

I stand up and rest his guitar on the couch.

“I’m gonna go,” I say. I start walking to the door. He gets up and grabs my wrist so quickly.

“Don’t play games with me, April. You know how this works.”

His grip is tight. I twist my wrist to try to find a weak spot, but he squeezes harder and gets so close that I feel like he’s taking all the air away.

I back toward the door. He grabs my other arm.

“You look so young.” He tries to kiss me. I turn my head away. My back hits the wall. I can see my guitar and my bag by the door. I think it through. Picture it all in my head. It has to be quick.

“This could be so dirty,” he says. His breath smells like booze and burnt plastic. “I get the feeling you like it that way, don’t you, April?”

“You know what?” I say sweetly to throw him off guard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “You’re right. I like it dirty.” I take a deep breath, like the extra air will make me bigger and stronger, and then I knee him in the groin as hard as I possibly can. My kneecap feels like it could crack in two. He lets go of my wrists and reaches for his crotch. I push him over while he’s off balance. Grab my guitar and my bag, open the door, and run as hard and as fast as I can. By the time I’m at my car, I have my keys out of my bag. He’s in the doorway. He’s hobbling out to me.

“Get away,” I scream, hoping neighbors will hear. “Get the fuck away from me!”

I unlock my car, throw my guitar and bag on the passenger seat, and climb in, closing the door just in time. He smacks my window. His face is right there. His glasses magnify his eyes, big and bulging.

I start the engine. Lean on the horn. Flash my lights. I hope someone will notice, that one of his neighbors will come help me. No one does.

“Bitch!” he screams. “You goddamned bitch!”

He raises his fist like he might try to smash it through the window. I throw the car in reverse. Feel a bump. I hear a crack. He screams, like maybe I ran over his foot. He’s doubled over on the ground. I have to keep going. I back down the driveway to the road. My tires screech as I speed away. I don’t know which way to go, but it doesn’t matter as much as getting distance. I make turns on gut feelings, and eventually I’m out at the highway and I have no problem keeping my eyes open.

I drive until daylight, until I can’t stay awake for another second. I sleep in my car in a playground parking lot. There are kids playing and moms waiting with juice boxes and the sounds of all of it make me feel safe enough to close my eyes.



* * *



When I wake up, everything feels too bright and too loud. Like another world, totally different from the one I was in last night. I wish this one felt real and that one didn’t, but it’s the other way around. These moms in the park, their kids, they aren’t even close to being a part of my reality. I don’t know them. I don’t remember anyone ever sitting on a bench with snacks and band-aids in their purse while I played on the swings. I could never be like those women. I wouldn’t know how. I sit in my car, watching them all. I feel like an alien.

Scribbling with a broken golf pencil, scraping back the wood with my fingernail when the lead gets too low, I write on the back of one of the flyers from the show. I write it all down. Everything. I always do.

At night, when it’s dark, when I’m in a strange motel room or parked at a rest stop, when there’s enough light to see by—a streetlight, the TV flicker—I write. When I have a pen and the back of an envelope, a receipt from the gas station, or a motel postcard, I write lyrics, thoughts, flashes of things I could use in a song.

Mostly I write to Carly. I’ve been doing it for years. Since I left. Vows and proclamations have evolved into confessions. Sometimes you need to feel like you could tell someone everything if you wanted to. That there’s someone to tell.

I, April,

have loneliness so large it’s like a frostbitten explorer

I have to drag down the mountain.

I, April,

ate an entire plate of chili cheese fries at a diner

on Rt. 9 at three in the morning.

It’s the first thing I’ve eaten in days.

This will not end well.

I, April,

think red maple leaves against grey skies are some kind of sweet magic.

You should go to Vermont, Carly.

You’d love it.



I never send my confessions. Almost never. After I write one, I keep it in my pocket, thinking when I round up an envelope and a stamp I’ll tuck it in the mail. But the next time I do laundry I add the note to the mess of napkins and receipts hidden under the lining of my guitar case. As long as I keep writing to Carly, I get to believe that maybe someday I’ll see her again. Maybe I’ll really tell her everything. She was my first true friend, and I haven’t met anyone like her since. You don’t get over someone like that.