May Kill Me

Nineteen

Andrea and I have to walk up a dirt road to the ranch. 

We're both too broke to get an Uber. 

While I know more about Abigail than I may have wanted to know, Andrea is still a mystery. Her clothes are expensive, and her face is always meticulously made up. And yet, she can't afford an Uber and attends a community college.  

Something about her didn't compute. 

"We're here!" Andrea sped up, pointing at a white-walled two-stories ranch-style house surrounded by plains upon plains of tall fescue. 

The closer we get, the more evident it becomes that the house has seen better days. The white paint is chipped and flaking, making it look practically grey. I can spot a porch swing swaying gently in the cold November gusts. And then, there's a dead tree: a massive tree the height of the house sprouted from the ground, its branches gnarled and bare. 

If I didn't know better, I would have thought we were on the set of The Hills Have Eyes: East Coast. 

It was hard to imagine anyone leaving here. Not only was this place very isolated, but it also looked nearly abandoned. 

I was about to say how creepy it looked, like something out of a horror film, but stopped myself last minute. I figured that calling a friend's house spooky (especially when they weren't there to defend it), didn't seem like a thing a friend would do. 

I follow Andrea up the stairs and toward the screen door, and just as she raises her hand to knock the front door swings open and Abigail bounds at us. 

"I saw you out my bedroom window! I can't believe you came!" She first pulls Andrea into a tight embrace (before Andrea can even say as much as a hi), and then pounces on me. 

Abigail smelled like a strawberry shortcake. 

"Come in, guys!" Abigail motioned us to follow her into the house, "My parents went to Costco, so we'll have the place to ourselves for several hours. My mom always makes it into this thing..." Abigail's voice faded as the two of us walked through the front door and into the house. 

"Would you like some snacks? I'll get us some. Wait for me in my bedroom, okay?" 

"Sure," Andrea nods, and we exchange looks. 

I wait for Abigail to go to the kitchen before I say, "What the hell? I thought she's, like, depressed." I expected Girl, Interrupted, not Suzy Homemaker. 

"So did I," Andrea whispered pointedly, "Maybe she's experiencing some kind of psychotic breakdown..." 

"Great," I mumbled, going up the creaky steps. 

***

Abigail's room, in all honesty, creeps me out. 

It looks like a set from a sitcom, designed by someone who Googled 'teen girl's bedroom': faded floral bedsheets on a twin bed, posters of 1D, Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, and BTS. Old plush toys are sagging on the bed, shelves are decorated with sparkly stickers and plastic toy horses. 

The pink wallpaper looked even more faded than the bedsheets. 

The room smelled of old wood, baked cookies, and nail polish. 

It's a room arrested in development; nothing about it indicates it belongs to a young woman, a college student. 

Andrea takes her backpack off and plops down on a mountain of colorful cushions by the bed. 

She took out her cell phone, already busying herself by texting away. I can tell she's probably been to this room many times before. 

I sit down next to her and try to take everything in, noticing for the first time the many certificates decorating the walls.