liked variety, and she seemed to thrive on impermanence. She was the
Bad Girl of the senior class, and some of her exploits were legendary
among her peers. She didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her.
Amy was drawing two frosted mugs of root beer from the soda fountain
when Liz breezed up to the counter and said, Hey, kid, how’s it going?”
“I’m frazzled,” Amy said.
“You get off soon?”
“Five minutes.”
“Doing anything after?”
“No. I’m glad you came in. I have to talk to you.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“It’s important,” Amy said.
“Think the house will treat us to cherry Cokes?”
“Sure. There’s an empty booth over there. You stake a claim to it,
and I’ll join you as soon as I get off work.”
A few minutes later Amy brought the Cokes to the booth and sat down
opposite Liz.
“What’s up?” Liz asked.
Amy stirred her Coke with a straw. “Well . . . I need to . . . ”
Yeah?”
I need to . . . borrow some money.”
“Sure. I can let you have ten anyway. Will that help?”
Liz, I’ve got to raise at least three or four hundred bucks.
Probably more.”
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
Jesus, Amy, you know me. When it comes to money, my hands have grease
on them.
The stuff just slips away. My folks give it to me pretty much whenever
I ask, and then, next thing I know–zip! It’s a fuckin’ miracle that
I’ve got ten bucks I can let you have. But three or four hundred!”
Amy sighed and nodded. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Listen, if I had it I’d give it to you.”
“I know you would.”
Whatever other faults Liz might have–and she had her
share–miserliness was not one of them.
“What about your savings?” she asked Amy.
Amy shook her head. “I can’t touch my bank account without Mama’s
approval.
And I’m hoping she won’t find out about this.”
“About what? What do you need big bucks for?”
Amy started to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. She was
reluctant to reveal her awful secret, even to Liz. She sipped her
Coke, buying time to reconsider the wisdom of sharing her misery with
her friend.
“Amy?”
The Dive bristled with noise: clicking, beeping, ringing pinball
machines, hard-driving rock and roll on the jukebox, a babble of
voices, bursts of laughter.
“Amy, what’s wrong?”
Blushing, Amy said, “I guess I’m being ridiculous, but I . . .
I’m just . . .
too embarrassed to tell you.” “That is ridiculous. You can tell me
anything. I’m your best friend, aren’t I?” aYes.”
That was true, Liz Duncan was her best friend. In fact Liz was just
about her only friend. She didn’t spend much time with any of the
other girls her age.
She hung out almost exclusively with Liz, and that was odd when you
thought about it. She and Liz were so different from each other in so
many ways. Amy studied hard and did well in school, Liz couldn’t care
less about her grades.
Amy wanted to go to college, Liz abhorred the idea. Amy was
introverted, downright shy on occasion, Liz was outgoing, bold, even
brassy at times. Amy liked books, Liz preferred movies and Hollywood
fan magazines. In spite of the fact that Amy was in rebellion against
her mother’s excessive religious fervor, she still believed in God, but
Liz said that the whole concept of God and life after death was a
crock. Amy didn’t care much for booze or pot and used them only when
she wanted to please Liz, but Liz said that if there was a God–which
she assured Amy there was not–he would be worth worshipping just
because he had created liquor and marijuana. Even though the two girls
differed in countless ways, their friendship flourished. The main
reason it flourished was that Amy worked very hard to make a success of
it.
She did pretty much what Liz wanted to do, said what she figured Liz
wanted to hear.
She never criticized Liz, always humored her, always laughed at her
jokes, and nearly always agreed with her opinions. Amy had put an