At Risk Youth

Chapter 1

​"Thanks so much!" Andy called as the front door jingled closed, and then, under her breath as she stuffed the two dollar bills into her apron, "You cheap fucks."

​She bussed the table herself; Julio didn't work Fridays, and Mario was shit at everything but lifting stray quarters out of the register. Outside, the only sound was the steady patter of rain against the windows except for the odd engine revving on Route 9. It was September-slow, and she'd been there since eight in the morning. Weak white day had given way to night; through the entire dinner shift she'd had three tables, and she was holding out hope for being cut early. Craig had gotten off at six, four hours ago; maybe, she thought, she could have something like a normal night.

​Rob was doing a register count when she walked by, furthering Andy's hope. She brought the tray of dirty dishes into the kitchen, operating on autopilot. When she made the return pass Rob didn't look up, just said, "Andy, you can hang it up for tonight."

​The first thing she noticed upon pushing through the ladies room door was the new artwork. On the mirror, some budding Picasso had written: BIG FAT PUSSY. She didn't stop to consider whose pussy or why exactly its size and girth needed such emphasis, just shucked off her apron and headed for a long overdue piss. More wit on display in the stall, phone numbers, boasts of who was willing to put out and for how much, and this wasn't even the men's room.
​Andy tipped out Mario unwillingly. He thanked her with an uncomfortably long, clammy handshake. She nodded to Rob with a quick, "See you tomorrow," and then she was out in the rain, wishing she owned an umbrella, wishing more that she could be in Craig's bed at that very moment, asleep. She had no doubt, though, that sleep was hours away. Before then there would be the fifteen-minute trek through the wet and the cold, the pretending to enjoy herself while Craig and his buddies, already a rack of Bud deep, played Call of Duty, and then finally, getting what little pleasure she could from Craig's whiskey dick.

​As she finally rounded the last corner, it occurred to her to do an about-face, to go collapse in her own bed and make some excuse to Craig tomorrow afternoon, but as much as she didn't want to see him, she didn't want to be alone. Andy didn't like to think of herself as relying on anyone, especially her boyfriend, but the idea of being held on such a bitter night sounded good, or at least necessary. If anyone needed to understand the quicksand of where she'd grown up, they'd only have to look at Craig. Only three years ago he had been a hero, captain of the football team—and as ridiculous as it sounded now, there had been a time when that mattered to people, even, as much as she hated to admit it, to Andy. But football was just a game; you had to win a kind of lottery to be able to play professionally, and even if you got to those heights, there was another lottery you had to beat to have anything like a career; Craig had one year at Pace before a security guard busted him taking a shit through the provost's sunroof, and the only title he'd held since was pump jockey.
​Sometimes she hated herself for being so easily swayed by him. He hadn't had it easy, had a mom working two jobs to raise him and his little brother, but no one she'd known had had it harder than her, and even in the worst of times, when everything seemed to be going wrong, she'd look at herself and say, at least I'm surviving. So how had she been so short-sighted, not to see that today's high school hero would inevitably become tomorrow's burnout, she wondered, adding another cigarette butt to the pile she was building on Craig's front stoop. It was one thing to peak at eighteen, but it was something else entirely to choose someone who was destined to peak at eighteen, and to still be with him three years later. She was the only truly level-headed person she knew—Angelique sure said so—but she'd still fallen into the trap...unless it wasn't a trap, but a choice. A conscious choice. That was what scared her.

​The door was unlocked, and she steeled herself as she came through the threshold, ready to be her best self, her most loving, supportive self, not really a self at all, cooing placid praise while she watched Craig take drunken shots at pixelated Nazis...but there was no Craig. She came in through the kitchen, which was quiet and still, and instead of the whooping of failed frat boys on parade in the living room there was only the sound of the TV, pitched up high, blaring some old movie. She was soaked to the skin and dreamed of Craig curled up on the couch, passed out, ready to be coaxed to bed where she could, give or take a handjob, sleep at last someplace warm and dry, ready to erase the day...and again, there was no Craig. She came into the living room to find Hunter, Craig's little brother, sitting eagle-eyed on the couch in ripped jeans.