Everyone in this story is dead except me. “Going up to bed now,” I lie. Dad doesn’t hear: He’s off to Legion for crib night. Ma doesn’t hear: She’s twisting her hair in pin curls. I sneak out to meet Wally and Paul Gauthier to do drugs or something. I’m thirteen. They’re nineteen. Behind the dark A&W we strike the path, but a Dracut cop turns in and shines his high beams. Wally pushes me forward. I pitch into a ditch. He says, "You were out cold for five minutes." Leg bruised. I’m dizzy. Cop gone, so we stumble on.
Susan April is a poet, essayist, and visual artist. Born in Lowell, Massachusetts, she now calls Maryland home. susanroseapril.com.