“Donnie, fuck off.”

He keeps tightening his grip until I can’t keep the pain off my face—it hurts—so I bring my foot down on his foot and watch that happen on his face. It bursts red and I’m free. I rush to the door, but before I can open it, he’s on me, crushing me into place from behind and breathing so hard in my ear, I can’t even hear the vague sounds of the music outside or in. What turns a moment into this—me against the door, him against me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me around roughly, and I’m afraid.

I’ve never been afraid of Donnie Henderson before.

He forces another kiss on me, lips working overtime, trying to get something out of mine. I grab a fistful of his hair and pull. He shoves me, but I stumble past him. The brief space I put between us makes me think it’ll be okay, that this is as out of hand as it gets, but it’s too close or it’s not close enough and he lunges for me and we both go down.

We’re on the floor.

He pushes me into the carpet. I glimpse Anna, tangled red hair, eyes closed. Anna, wake up. What turns a moment into this—he’s on top of me, panting, and my face is smashed against the rug. I focus on the strands of hair laid gently across Anna’s face. This isn’t happening.

But he turns me over and slides his hand up my skirt, and this is really really really really happening. “No—”

I reach out and grip one of the table legs. His hand up my skirt. One hand up my skirt. Touching me. And the other clumsily feeling every part of me it can. His mouth on my neck. I yank the leg. The table tips and the pitcher rolls off, vomiting water all over us. Wet. Hands all over me.

I grab the pitcher and bring it up and then down on him. It’s hardly a hit, but he feels it. I raise it up again and he dodges me and I’m crawling away. Last shot, Regina. Get out. I grab the chair and pull myself to my feet while he tries to stand, but the last of his coordination is gone on his hand up my skirt. Anna’s skirt.

“Anna!” I turn to her. “Anna, help!”

But she just lays there, and Donnie’s blocking my path to the door, swearing, trying to stand, and my heart is trying to race me out of this room before that happens. I stumble over to the sliding glass door and yank it open. I step outside, into the heat, into the party, the last of the party, but the music is as loud as it was at the start of the night.

I need to tell someone, but everyone is wasted.

I walk fast. I walk forever, blind, numb. I wrap my arms around myself. I need to tell someone. I lick my lips and taste salt: I’m crying. How long have I been—

Kara.

I’m standing in front of Kara’s house. My feet walked me here. Kara. Kara is someone. The walk to her door sets off the motion sensor, soaking me in artificial too-bright light. I knock and wait, fighting the urge to throw up. I wipe my eyes and pull at Anna’s skirt. It’s torn.

A minute later, the door opens. Kara’s there, a fevered doll with blond curls hanging in front of her flushed face. She crinkles her snotty nose.

“Jesus, Regina. What part of ‘designated driver’ don’t you understand?”

The contempt in her voice almost tricks me into feeling normal. For a second. And then she looks closer and I remember the skirt— Anna’s skirt—and his hand up Anna’s skirt. And I’m still crying.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

A million words fight their way up my throat, all lobbying to be first out of my mouth. They pile up, stuck. Only one manages its way out: “Help.”

She lets me inside, and the rest of the words come, falling from my lips, a stupid, stuttering truth. By the time I collapse in a chair at the kitchen table, she knows what he did to me. And then it gets really quiet while I wait for her to tell me what to do.

I need someone to tell me what to do.

Anna always tells me what to do.

“God,” Kara murmurs, pressing her fingers against the angry spots on my arm where he grabbed me. The skin is tender and marked, but by Monday it will be splotchy purples, browns, and yellows.

“The police?” I ask. My voice cracks. “Do you think? Do I go to the police?”

Kara stares at me, and then she stands and goes into the fridge and gets a bottle of water. I can’t read her expression.

“You really want to put yourself through that?”

“I could put Donnie through that.” I rub my forehead. But I don’t really want to go through that. I don’t want to talk to the police about his hand up my skirt. And then—my parents. It’s not like you can do that and not tell your parents, and I don’t want them to know. I don’t want them to think of me on the floor, with Donnie’s hands there. Kara sets the water in front of me. “Maybe Anna—”

“You’re going to tell Anna?”

“She has to know—” I swallow. “That’s her boyfriend. She won’t let him get away with it.” She’ll take care of him. Me. She takes care of everything.

“If she believes you.”

I open my mouth and nothing comes out. If she believes you. I should’ve known Kara would do this. There’s a reason we hate each other. If she believes you.

“Look, I believe you,” Kara says, reading my mind. “I know you hate Donnie, and I can see him doing something like this, but…Anna’s always thought…”

You’re like, this close to hate-fucking.

I pick at the hem of Anna’s skirt. The jagged rip in it finally hits me. She’ll kill me. She will kill me for ruining her skirt. “Shit.” I stand and try to force the ragged sides together, like that’s how you fix these things. “I need to—I told her I’d be careful—”

“Regina—”

“I told Anna I wouldn’t—”

“Regina.” She snaps her fingers twice. I let the skirt go and sink back into the chair. I need to get it together. Kara stares at me, concerned. I never thought I’d live a moment that could exist outside our hate for each other. I could go my whole life without one. But this feels…safe.

“What do you—so what do I do, Kara? What…?”

She sits across from me, quiet, for a long time. My stomach knots itself up while I wait for her to speak. If I have to live with this, I don’t want it to be hard.

“Donnie’s not going to tell Anna,” she finally says. “And Anna’s not going to believe Donnie would do that to you. She’d think you were screwing around behind her back. It’s not fair, but that’s Anna.”

My best friend.

“I mean…” She taps her fingers along the table. “He was really wasted, right? It’s not like he does that all the time….” I don’t say anything. “And I feel really bad for you, Regina…but there are some things worth keeping your mouth shut for.”

“She’s my best friend.” A tear manages its way down my cheek. I wipe at my eyes. “I mean—”

“But you know what she’d do to you if she found out, right?”

I nod slowly. I know. And then I nod again: I know, I know, I know.

“And I’m totally here for you,” she says. Kara. Totally here. Nothing makes sense anymore. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

Kara presses her fingers against my arm again. Her touch is cool and strange.

I wake up, and the bruises on my arms have turned really yellow and brown, so I have to wear long sleeves, even though fall is doing its best impression of summer and the air is sticky and hot. Anna decided we’ll all wear tank tops and miniskirts for as long as the weather holds—before winter confines us to less revealing outfits— and I agreed, so I don’t know what I’ll tell her when she sees me today and asks what my deal is.

And I’ll have to tell her something, because I can’t tell her the truth.

I debate various lies over breakfast, a pale pink antacid with coffee. I’m a pretty good liar as long as I’m talking to an easy sell, but Anna is not an easy sell. If she finds out I’m hiding something, she’ll want to know what. Maybe she’ll be mad. Maybe she won’t give a damn. Anna is funny like that.

I decide to tell her I’m having a fat day.

“Little warm out for that shirt, isn’t it, Regina?” Mom asks, setting a plate of eggs and toast in front of Dad. Her comment draws his eyes up from the paper.

“You’ll melt,” he says.

I shrug and drain my coffee. “Whatever. I’ll see you later.”

Halfway to school, I feel like I’m going to throw up. I fan my face with my hand, and the air that meets my skin is hot. My shirt clings to my back, pressed uncomfortably into place by my book bag. A pay phone looms on the horizon, the closest thing I’ve got to a cell phone, because my parents kind of suck. I drop my bag and rifle through my pockets for change until I find a quarter. I use it to call Josh.

Pick up, Josh. Pick up. I imagine the song that plays when someone calls his cell, exploding from his pocket until he picks up, but he never does, which is weird because Josh always picks up, and he’s always good for a ride. He’s my boyfriend.

Hallowell High: The parking lot pulses with scantily clad life, and I’m in the middle of it all, wearing a sweater. My scraggly black hair is plastered to my forehead, and a couple people point and stare at me because I look that ridiculous, but I don’t care. I’m still better than them. It’s not hard. Hallowell is one of those in-between towns, stuck between a city and another city, and everyone here knows everyone else. It’s too small for a social landscape more complicated than this: You’re either someone or you’re not. I’m someone.

I’m Regina Afton. I’m Anna Morrison’s best friend. These aren’t small things, and Kara’s right: They’re worth keeping my mouth shut for. So I kept my mouth shut the whole weekend, and I’m still Regina Afton and I’m still Anna Morrison’s best friend.