Abroad by Katie Crouch

to take responsibility for your own problems. Everyone has some sort of awful thing happen. I couldn’t be happy at the house in Lucan. Your mother and I—”
    “Agh. Da, I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “The point is, it’s your sister’s turn to take care of herself. She’s twenty-six. She gets plenty of money from me. Speaking of which.” He slid over an envelope. “I already had it changed over from pounds.”
    “What?” I peeked in to see euros, lots of them. “Dad, I’ve got plenty from my summer job at the movie theater. And I have the Enteria scholarship.”
    “I get it, brainy. We’re proud as hell, yeah. But your scholarship’s not going to pay for the next thing you want to buy over there. Or a trip to Florence. You can’t miss Florence, you know.”
    Humbled, I twirled my pasta into a spoon.
    “I’m proud of you, Taz,” my dad said.
    “Thanks.”
    “Oh, what a life.” He patted my hand. “It’ll pass in the blink of an eye, though—mark my words—and then you’ll be an old codger like me.”
    “Daaa aaad. ” I hated it when he got sentimental. Not just because it was cringy, but because he didn’t deserve to be sappy as hell. You can’t just swoop in once a month with all of these feelings, I wanted to say. You can’t just ask about the “lads.” You have to be there. I mean, don’t cry over my leaving when you never really see me to begin with.
    But I didn’t say that. And you know what? I’m glad.
    “I know, I’m awful. All I’m saying is, make sure to make the most of it. You know? Enjoy it.” He took out his wallet to pay. Just then the sun hit the window, momentarily blinding me. “Look at you. An angel. How could I ever have created anything so beautiful?”
    “Ew. Dad. ”
    He laughed and waved at the waiter. “Right you are, my darling. Shall we go?”
    He had a surgery waiting; residents were scrubbing in, and just then his cell rang and beeped with a text at the same time. My father kissed me hurriedly, barely grazing my cheek as he focused on the glowing numbers in his hand. I reached for my phone as well, not wanting to be bested. And in this way, we parted: him looking elsewhere, me slipping into the streets, sure as a trout in a late summer river.
    Goodbye, Da.
    *   *   *
    The night Jenny asked me to wear the white top was a different sort of evening. Jenny had suggested we slum it at the Red Lion, a basement bar always crowded with a particularly vicious blend of students and tourists. Having grown used to a more elegant scene, I was disappointed at the idea, but the others seemed keen enough. Luka was on a weekend trip to Athens, but we still met up at the Club before heading out in order to drink and preen. Anna brought a special curling iron, so all of us wore our hair in goddess ringlets. We smelled nice, wore clothes that sparkled and underwear that coyly showed through our shirts or peeped over the tops of our jeans. Delectable; that was the general idea.
    Thanks to the social frenzy at Nottingham, I had come up in pubs and gone home with men; I was plenty used to that sort of slippery, shoulder-to-shoulder club scene. Though I was a good soldier, I never enjoyed these nights. The heat, the crowded floors, the shouting. The more of it a girl managed to survive, it seemed, the harder she became.
    We took a table and watched the floor. Jenny was keenly aware of our competition, and just as she predicted, they began arriving from all over. It was amazing how much the other groups looked just like us—best friends of a few weeks, coy, an air of game if entirely unearned confidence. There was a German group, and then a pack of French girls. And the Israelis, breathtaking in their brief clothing. Jenny cut her eyes at them and proceeded to order another round of special Enteria shots, which that night were something sweet and green.
    “It’s so cheap here!” she cried, delighted. “A true shithole. He gave me two of these ghastly things for