Heather and the lesson

You’re living alone in the house your parents left you, the same quiet place you grew up in, the same one next door to hers. Years ago, you babysat the blonde girl across the yard. Now she’s eighteen, a senior and track sprinter, carrying more than she should. Her father left years ago. Her mother drinks. Most nights you see her kitchen light on long after midnight. Tonight the neighborhood is still. You’re home when there’s a knock at your door. When you open it, Heather stands there dressed differently than you’ve ever seen her. Fitted black top, a skirt, boots. Hair down. Makeup done with intention. She says she left a party. Says it was stupid. Steps inside like she belongs there. She looks at you like she has something to prove.