Local Girls by Alice Hoffman

midnight, and walked along the icy streets. Everything was dark blue and black, the road and the sky and the clouds. Gretel was so on fire she didn’t notice the weather. She was in a state of pure desire, a condition few people experience, and even fewer survive. Sneaking out her window was nothing; disobeying her mother even less. As smart as she was, she would have done anything for Sonny Garnet. If that made her stupid, so be it. There she was, the stupidest girl in the world, who wouldn’t stop until she got to his door.
    The apartment was three flights up, and when Gretel knocked, the door, left ajar, opened. Sonny was on the telephone; his back was to Gretel and his shirt was off. He was wearing black slacks and his hair was wet from a shower, and Gretel knew this was the defining moment of her life. Would she stay or would she run? Was she the sort of person who would turn away from what she wanted most, and then, forever after, live with her regret? Frankly, she didn’t know until she went to him and reached her arms around him.
    After that, she went to his apartment whenever she could. She was so burning-hot little sparks fell from her fingertips and left their marks in the asphalt as she walked the same path every night. Her secret life began to take a toll. Words escaped her; odd things amused her. When woken from sleep, she often could not remember her own name. This is what love is, she thought when she was beside him. But there were times, in the morning, after she’d climbed back through her window to get into her own bed, when she could have sworn she saw the outline of her heart rising through her chest. Try as she might to steal a few pale hours of sleep, lulled by clean sheets and the waking song of the few winter birds that were left, she would suddenly panic. Her arms and legs would grow cold as ice. I’m not ready for this, that’s what she’d think. I’m not now, and I never will be.
    Sonny Garnet kept extremely odd hours. He slept through noon, and stayed up until dawn. Gretel knew this because twice she had told her mother she was staying at a friend’s house, then had promptly gone to Sonny’s to spend the night. It was all him when she was there. They didn’t bother with dinner or small talk; there was no talk at all. Gretel let him do things she didn’t even know people did, all because of the way he looked at her, the way he said, I’m never going to let you go.
    Later, what she remembered most was that the phone was always ringing. All night long, it rang and rang. Every now and then there’d be a knock at the door, sometimes when they were in bed together and sometimes when she was fast asleep. Sonny always told her not to worry, not to bother; he’d take care of everything. And when he went out to the hallway and closed the door behind him, Gretel didn’t think twice about what he was doing or where he’d been. But there was a night when Sonny wasn’t home and someone came to the door. Gretel tried to ignore it, but the racket kept getting louder, and when she couldn’t stand to hear it anymore, she threw on her clothes and opened the door. The man who was stationed there was already furious, and Gretel hadn’t even said anything yet.
    â€œWhere is he?” the man demanded.
    â€œI don’t know.” Although this was a fact, Gretel felt ridiculous and foolish. Somehow, she had entered into a situation where the truth felt as flimsy as a lie.
    The man pushed the door open, hard, so that it slammed against Gretel’s shoulder. He could have done anything to her then—murdered her, raped her—but all he did was look through the cabinets in the kitchen and go through all the drawers. When he didn’t find what he wanted, he simply turned and walked out, but the way he’d shoved the door open had left a purple bruise on Gretel’s skin. Afterwards, when she looked at the mark, she got a