Andrea in the Moonlight

His lips remind her of liver. But she lets him kiss her anyway, knowing people are watching. She has become “interesting” and “hot” instead of the girl nobody wanted to date. She likes this. She briefly wonders why he was so sought after, with his too-round face and bulbous chin. Still, he was the prom king and captain of her high school football team, so she kisses him back.

They two-step to The Chattahoochee, the №1 country song that Christmas.

Later, she knows she’ll lie and tell people that she chose to come back because she misses her family. She’ll say, of course New York is the place to be for a career in fashion, but it’s so far from home and not at all affordable. She’ll pretend she’s only staying with her folks until her new job starts in Chicago.

When he asks if she wants to ride with him to Thom’s place for an after-party, she says yes, telling her friends the plan, inviting them, too, as if she has that authority now.

She has had too many Jack & Cokes, so she hopes he’s OK to drive.

They’re quiet in the car, at first, cold, waiting for the heat to kick on. The sign on the bank says the temperature is 30 degrees.

She lights a Camel and cracks the window.

After a while he says, “You’re so different now.”

“I’m not really,” she replies, watching the smoke twirl out of her mouth.

“No, you are Andy. You’re sexy and fun.”

“Maybe I was and you didn’t see me.”

“I see you now.”

She looks out of the window, suddenly bored, wishing she were going home to bed.

She notices that he has turned onto a snow-covered gravel road.

“What are you doing? Does Thom live in the country?”

“I wanted to take the scenic route.”

She pretends to laugh. “The icy route, you mean. Be careful.” She remembers she doesn’t know if he’s sober.

The car slides a little. Her heart skips. He corrects and slows down.

Silence again.

She expects him to speed up, but she feels the car roll to a stop.

“Is everything OK?”

He puts the car in park and turns toward her. “I thought we’d have a little fun.”

She coughs smoke into his face. “Oh. I thought Thom was expecting you. And I have friends who are expecting me.”

“They’ll understand.”

“Well, I don’t need to have fun first.”

He grabs her hand. “C’mon. Don’t be like that.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Kyle. No.”

He squeezes again, hard. She considers burning him with her cigarette.

“Ouch!” She wrenches away and gets out of the car. She slams the door and starts walking. The moon reflects off the snow. She hears her steps crunching on the ice. She shivers. Her purse is in the car.

The car moves forward with her. The door opens.

“Get in. I’m sorry. Let me take you home.”

She continues to walk.

“Andy. It’s cold. Please get in.”

She considers leaving her purse, but it has her license, her money, her cigarettes. She gets in and puts her purse strap around her shoulders. She stares straight ahead.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I thought you were into it.”

She wants him to like her. She knows how dumb that is, but despite everything, she wants that. But more than that, she doesn’t want him to tell anyone else she’s still the outcast.

She weighs her words. “I’m not not into it,” she lies. “Just not right now. I’m tired.”

He ignores her, turns on the radio. Meatloaf is singing I’d Do Anything For Love. Andrea hums along. She doesn’t know the words.

“I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks.”

He turns onto another dirt road. She doesn’t know which direction they’re going now. The silence is uncomfortable, but she doesn’t speak.

She shifts in her seat and remembers to put on her seatbelt. It clicks into place.

The car stops.

Again.

Her reflexes are half a second too late.

He pulls the seat belt tight, which forces the air out of her lungs. She gasps, straining to breathe. She tries to push his hands off. She squirms and hits at him. He holds her down with ease.

He laughs. “We’re having fun after all.”

She shakes her head. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“I want to.”

She yells: “Help!”

He slaps her face.

She stops moving and squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to cry. She takes a deep breath, the seat belt loose again.

“OK,” she nods, defeated. “I can’t fight you. I’ll do what you say. Just don’t hurt me.”

He cuts the engine and she feels the cold air seeping in.

He slides over and smothers her mouth with his. She kisses him back. Makes what she hopes are the right noises.

His hand moves under her shirt.

She lets out a moan, watches his face. Her fingers find the seat belt release.

She strokes the back of his neck and mumbles his name.

He moves his head back to look at her.

She smiles and opens her mouth to let him back in.

One second goes by.

She wants to gag. Her hand moves to the seat belt release.

A new song comes on the radio. “All for Love.”

She gently pushes the release as she chomps down on his tongue. Hard.

He jumps back, knocks his head on the mirror.

In one move, she kicks him in the stomach, unlocks the door and rolls out of the car.

This time, she runs.

….

Andrea stood in the window, transfixed by New York’s holiday preparations. Lights were strung between buildings and a man pushed a cart stacked with what looked like plate-sized sequins down the street, ignoring the cars honking at him.

“Hey, Mrs. Penrose is here for her appointment.” Mattie leaned on the counter and rolled her eyes at Andrea. “MRS. Penrose.”

“She’s so weird,” Andrea said. “Like, she’s what, 24 or 25, maybe, basically our age. Mrs. Penrose. Jesus. And she calls me Ahn-DRAY-uh, like I’m Italian or some shit. Did you see that? Sequins. I love this city.”

Mattie chose a rose-colored bottle from a row of $400-an-ounce colognes. “I’ll bet that she mentions your skirt first, but she’ll for sure slag on the Docs, too.” She spritzed Andrea over the counter and reached to tuck a wayward auburn curl behind her friend’s ear. “Five bucks?”

“Three.” Andrea smoothed her skirt and made sure her shoelaces were tied. She walked into the sunny, marbled foyer to greet her customer.

“Hello, Mrs. Penrose.”

“Oh, Andrea, hello.” The young woman wore a white Channel suit with black trim and gold buttons, her shiny blonde hair in a high ponytail secured with two tiny out-of-place butterfly clips. She looked Andrea up and down and waved her hand. “That’s an interesting ensem. It’s rather, hmmm, plaid, isn’t it?”

Andrea stifled a smile. “ It’s from the new Perry Ellis. The Marc Jacobs.”

“Oh. Well, isn’t that fancy?”

“I suppose.” And it was, for a cheap knock-off, Andrea thought, stiffening, waiting for Mrs. Penrose to notice.

“At least you smell good.”

“Thanks?” She relaxed her shoulders.

“What is it?”

“ I’ll have Mattie grab you a bottle on your way out.”

“Mattie? Is he a homosexual?”

‘Mattie, in Perfume and Makeup. You’ve met her.”

“Ah, yes, her.” Mrs. Penrose looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers and glancing at her wedding ring, an ostentatious diamond. “What do you have for me today, Andrea?”

“Well, Mrs. Penrose, we just got in the most fabulous boots — ”

“ — Oh,” Mrs. Penrose wrinkled her nose. “Not, I hope, like those.” She nodded at Andrea’s Dr. Marten combat boots.

“No, no. Vivienne Westwoods. Black. They’d go great with your Channel. And we set out a couple of Calvin Klein dresses, for everyday, a few shirts, and some slacks.”

The two women walked to the pale blue dressing room lounge where a rack of clothing and boxes of boots awaited.

“Do you want any tea?”

“No. Water is fine.” Mrs. Penrose settled into a velvet chair emblazoned with the Bradley Powell logo and unscrewed the Perrier bottle sitting on the side table.

Andrea opened the boots and held one up. “You can see how pretty they are, with this slouch here near the ankle but sleek on the top. And the gold buckle of course. But, feel them. Calfskin.”

Mrs. Penrose touched the boots lightly. “How much?”

“$1,249.”

“I’ll take them.”

“You don’t want to try them on?”

“Are they 8s?”

“Yes.”

“Do they fit you? I know you tried them on.”

Andrea had tried them on. Sometimes Mrs. Penrose preferred that; other times she would berate Andrea.

The boots were comfortable, sexy, surprisingly warm and completely out of her price range. Andrea had spent two full minutes examining herself in the full-length mirror. The boots made her feel rich and confident and like she belonged in this world.

“Perfectly,” she admitted, blushing.

“Then I’m sure they’ll fit me.”

“Very well, Mrs. Penrose.”

The Perrier remained untouched.

…

“Andrea!” he calls. “Come back. Don’t be like this.”

Because of the snow, the cornfield’s terrain is hard to gauge. She has a good head start on him, but her running has slowed to a fast trot.

She is able to stay on top of the rows, stepping on every other one. The moonlight is bright enough she can see, which also means he can see her. She stops, turns to look back at him. He’s about 50 yards away, chasing after her, uneven in his gait, but gaining steadily.

Ahead, a row of trees is silhouetted against the indigo sky. It’s a shelterbelt. She sees the outline of a building, and, yes, a light.

“Andy,” he yells. “I’ll take you home if you promise not to tell anyone what happened.”

Andrea ignores him and pushes on.

After a minute, she stops to take a few breaths. She hears only silence. Warily, she glances behind her, in time to hear the car’s engine come to life. She watches as the lights fade away. She slows to a trudge, noticing for the first time how cold her feet are. She thinks about the hot bath she’ll take when she gets home, relieved that he has given up.

She starts walking more slowly to the farmhouse. She will call her friends to come pick her up and the night will be forgotten.

Then she sees car lights coming up the other road. Oh god, she thinks, he didn’t leave; he’s trying to beat me to the farm.

She lurches forward, preparing to run, but misjudges the ground. She hears the heel of her boot crack as she topples to the ground.

….

“Mrs. Penrose? Hi. Where have you been?”

The woman on the stoop looked through Andrea as if she didn’t recognize her. Her hair was loose and she was wearing jeans and a wool-lined denim jacket. They were outside Andrea’s favorite Brooklyn consignment store.

It had been two weeks since Mrs. Penrose had been to the boutique.

“Mrs. Penrose, can I help you?” Andrea whispered.

She looked up at Andrea quickly. “You can’t tell anyone, Andrea.”

“I, I won’t,” Andrea jerked back. “What’s going on?”

“Not even your friend at Bradley Powell. Mattie. Nobody can know.”

“ I promise.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Mrs. Penrose put her head in her hands and started crying. “They won’t take these fucking boots here. Do you know how much I hate these boots?”

She pulled the Vivienne Westwoods out of her bag.

“You can return them to the store, of course, Mrs. Penrose.”

“I no longer have an account there. Or anywhere.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Andrea, you fool, I haven’t been Mrs. Penrose for a year and he finally caught on to what I was doing. It took him forever, the idiot. So now I have a job. As a bank teller. Can you imagine? I live in an apartment. So, I was going to treat myself to spa day, but nobody wants these fucking boots.”

Andrea looked Mrs. Penrose in the eye and took a slow, deep breath. “I want them, Mrs. Penrose.”

“Don’t embarrass us, Andrea.”

“$150. And then I walk away,” Andrea said with a bravado she didn’t feel.

Mrs. Penrose fixed her posture.

“Do you have cash?”

“I do. I was going to buy myself a dress.” Andrea counted out the bills and placed them on the stoop. She picked up the boots.

“I won’t be seeing you again, Andrea.”

“I believe you. Patricia.”

…

She swears once. A sharp “fuck” that penetrates the winter silence.

She wiggles her foot to make sure her ankle is intact before pushing herself up from the frozen ground. Her hands are numb. The car lights are getting closer.

She runs again, despite the broken heel, stumbling and falling and getting back up. She thinks this is faster than walking.

She sees the car turn. He’s now, she understands, on the road that will take him to the farm. She guesses she has a minute or two.

She starts yelling. The sound hurts her ears. She yells and runs.

A light turns on inside the farmhouse.

She’s out of the field and sprinting to the door, hobbling from the broken heel. The car, unmistakably Kyle’s Impala, advances up the driveway. The headlights are dimmed.

She reaches the door and starts pounding. “Let me in. Help me, please.”

Nothing.

He walks up, slowly, his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go.”

She thinks how easy it would be to just give in. She is exhausted. Cold. She nearly takes a step toward him.

They both hear the shotgun as the door opens.

A woman stands, framed by the light and a shock of silver hair. She takes one look at Andrea and slowly points the gun at Kyle.

“Go.”

He leaves.

20 minutes later, Andrea’s feet are warming by the fire and she’s sipping hot tea. The woman, Jean, finds an old pair of sneakers she will give to Andrea. The Vivienne Westwoods are in the garbage.

“You could have those fixed.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Do you think you’ll go to the police?”

“I don’t know what I would say. He’s leaving tomorrow anyway. Back to San Diego. What about you? Will you be OK?”

“I’ve lived on this farm my whole life. That boy, he doesn’t scare me.”

Andrea chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

A crunch of gravel announces the arrival of her friends. Jean looks out the window. “Blue Toyota?”

“That’s them.”

“Thank you, Jean. I think you might have saved my life, or, you know, other things. I’ll be out next week with cookies or something. Do you like chocolate chip?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m gonna be silly.”

“You didn’t finish your story. What happened with Mrs. Penrose?”

“No clue.” Andrea shakes her head sadly. “But, I’m almost positive she’s why I was fired. An anonymous complaint.”

Jean walks her charge to the door. “You’re going to be OK.”

“I hope so. I hope so.”