Just months before I start medical school in Boston, I decide to let loose for one night. A dark club, a loud band, strong drinks--and the attention of a dangerous-looking man who says he's in the city for only a week.
I know exactly what he is: a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
FEBRUARY 23, 1986/Boston, Massachusetts
I'm checking my blood-red lipstick in the mirror and humming along to the sound of The Cure. Hopefully the tape won't snag in the spools again. I swear, we play this album so much that we've worn the cassette out.
Just as I'm swiping a new layer of color on my bottom lip, there's a pounding at my dorm room door.
"Evan, phone call." It's the resident assistant down the hall. "Evan? You in there? I can hear the music. Evangeline?"
I let out an enormous sigh and walk over to the tape player and turn down In Between Days, which is now officially my favorite song. "I'm not here. Not taking calls. Going out."
"It's your mom. Says it's urgent. Says she has some important news."
Rolling my eyes, I turn from the stereo and look to Kerri, my best friend and roommate, who is lounging on her bed, a tiny, dark vision in black. "Just a sec, okay?"
"Be quick. We still need to get a cab and get to Kenmore Square. Traffic's bad tonight because there's a baseball game." She doesn't glance up from admiring her long, black fingernails.
"Coming," I call out while flinging open the door. The RA gives me a long, up-and-down look, and I can tell she doesn't like my outfit. She never does, probably because she dresses like a fifty-year-old preppy woman from Cape Cod in Brooks Brothers and Izod.
"Your mom sounds pissed," the RA says in an accusatory tone.
"That's just her voice," I mutter, but it's probably true. Mom is likely angry about something. My brother, my dad, me. Her job at the psychiatric hospital. Could be anything. My recent visit home to Maine hadn't been a warm, fuzzy family reunion, either. She might still be stewing about that whole fiasco with my brother, who'd conveniently chosen to vanish during Mom and Dad's anniversary weekend.
The pay phone is down the hall, and I strut over, my Docs making heavy, muffled thumps on the worn gray carpeted floor.
"Hi, Mother," I say coolly into the heavy plastic phone receiver.
"I don't even warrant a Mama or a Mom anymore? How interesting. I guess that's a milestone of young adult development." She sighs wearily, although I can detect a hint of edge in her voice. "I guess I should be thankful that I reached you at all."
I'm about to retort with something nasty — just because you're a psychotherapist doesn't mean you can analyze me — but I refrain because Kerri's waiting and I just want to get this phone call over with.
"What's going on?" I can't help but ask, because I'm genuinely curious now. My thumbnail flicks over the grooves of the metal phone cord, and for the millionth time, I wish I had Kerri's nail painting skills.
