Allison slid down in to the front seat of her step-mom's car, slamming the door, listening as the sound echoed off the roof. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, sighing deeply and clutching her bag more tightly to her chest. Soon, the only sound in the car was the constant sound of wind rushing past the window and, on infrequent intervals, her step-mother's exhale of cigarette smoke. Allison opened her eyes slightly and glanced at her step mother, a tall, leggy woman with blonde hair piled atop her head and a red halter dress and plunging neckline. A cigarette dangled precariously from her lips, the ashes growing longer and longer until Allison was surprised that they hadn't fallen off. Allison set her head back against the seat and closed her eyes again, feeling relief fill her bones as they pulled in to her driveway. She was always glad the ride was so short. The two got out of the car and shut their doors simultaneously. Allison plowed past her step mother and her father who was standing in an apron over a boiling pot on the stove. Neither said a word to her, and she didn't say anything to them either. She charged her way up the stairs, walking quickly towards her room stationed at the end of the hall and shutting the door with a force behind her, locking it with one fluid motion.

Allison sighed as she dropped her bag to her feet, kicking it to the side. She flopped herself down on her four-poster bed, painted white with pink flowers. Allison hated her room. Everything was pink. Bright, cotton-candy, five-year-old-girl pink. And Allison hated every inch of it. Even the carpet, what you could see of it, was pink. Allison had done her best to cover it up over the years, but it was a favorite topic of argument in her household. Her walls were covered with as many posters as she could, and her floor was littered with piles and piles of black. But the pink still shone through in places; flashes of sickening sweet in a dark and musty world.

Allison reached a hand under her bed and pulled out a small cardboard box. She opened it with one hand, supporting herself with the other. She rummaged around for a split second before she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out and slammed it down in front of her, pushing herself back on to the bed at the same time. She flipped through the dusty pages of last year's yearbook with abandon, as if she didn't know where she was going. And then, there she was. His face shone out from the sports page. He was highlighted for wrestling, of course, but also for football, basketball, track and field, and even as manager of the swim team. He was everywhere. And she loved it. In each picture he looked the same. His head was tilted to the left, and his hand was on his hip or holding some kind of sports ball. He had a cocky grin on his face, and he looked happy. Happier than he had been earlier that day.

Allison hated to admit that, as much as she didn't want to care, she had felt her heart strings tug when she had seen Andrew break down. When he began to sob and the tears began to run down his face, she had urged so deeply – so deeply that it scared her – to reach out and just touch him. To pat his shoulder, play with his hear, kiss his cheek. To just do something to comfort him. But she had stayed back, wrapped in more than her layers of clothing. She tried to relate to him. But it had taken them so long. By the time he got to her – or she to him, because she still wasn't sure which one happened first – it had been time to go. And she knew that she had to look away, walk away. She knew that he wouldn't look back, so she couldn't look back either. At least, not as his actual face. But there he was, well documented in the pages of her yearbook. Hers for the viewing whenever she wished. She didn't know how long she had been looking at the picture, but then the phone rang. When Allison put the book down and picked up the phone, she glanced at her pink wall-clock, realizing it was already ten-thirty.

Allison rolled over and picked it up, holding it gingerly to her ear. She could hear street sounds, but no people. She sighed deeply in to the phone, knowing that she wouldn't be the first to speak. Finally the awkward silence was broken.

"Um....hello?"

"Hello?"

"Allison?"

"Yeah," Allison sat up on her bed, crossing one leg over the other. She switched the phone to her other hand and picked the yearbook back up, examining it more closely.

"Hey Allison. It's me, Claire." Allison dropped the yearbook, and it went clattering to the floor.

"Claire?! How did you get this number?"

"Phonebook. Look, do you have a car?"
"No...," Allison picked the yearbook up and put it back on her bed. Her interest was caught. The most popular girl in school was calling her and asking her if she had a car. Something was up.

"Do you think you could get one?"

"Probably. Why?"

"Good. Pick us up at the corner of Troost and 16th street. In twenty minutes. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I guess. But why? What's up?"

"Just be here, please."

The line went dead. Allison shrugged her shoulders and hung up the phone. She grabbed another coat, knowing how much colder it was now that the sun had gone down. She walked down stairs and grabbed the keys to her mom's car off of the counter. She walked right out the front door and didn't bother trying to be quiet. She knew that her parent's didn't care and wouldn't try to stop her. That would involve talking to her, and they always tried to avoid that if possible. She knew that most kids would think she was the luckiest kid in the world – she could do whatever she wanted, go anywhere, hang out with anyone she wanted to. But she knew what they didn't – they were so much luckier to have been grounded and yelled at.

She slid in to the front seat of the car, slid the car in to reverse, and punched the gas to the floorboard. She pulled out of her neighborhood, and slammed in to all of her turns. She got there in ten, when it probably should have taken her fifteen. She pulled up to the corner and was surprised when both the passenger's side and the back door opened immediately. She wasn't surprised to see Claire slide in to the front with her. After all, it was Claire that called. But when she looked in to her rearview mirror and saw a set of deep brown eyes and handsome dimples, she gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white. She cleared her throat and tried to get a more composed grip on herself.

"So...um...what's up?"

"Drive."

"Listen here, Claire. Just because you're prom queen or some shit, this is my car and it's my ass on the line if we get caught doing something we're not supposed to. So tell me or step back outside."

"I'll tell you why we drive, okay. It's just important. GO!"

Allison slammed her foot down reluctantly and pulled back out in to the street. "Okay. Now tell me why you called at almost eleven."

"We need to find Bender," said Andrew's sultry voice from the back seat. Claire nodded in agreement.

"We were with him and we went back to his place. His dad...freaked out, and he took off. We don't really know where he is, but he's really pissed and he's got a lot of drugs on him, so Andrew and I were worried." A small, disagreeing cough echoed from the back seat. Claire shot a glare back at him, the turned back around. "We're worried about him, and you're the only person we could think of to call. Can you think of any place he could be?"

Allison racked her brain, but could think of only one place. "He had a lot of drugs on him, eh?"

"Yeah. He went back in to grab his stash. We think he brought it all. And knowing John, that's a lot."

"And you don't think he'd be in the mood to hang out with anyone?" Both teens shook their head. "I can only think of one place to be alone and smoke that much weed." Both teens looked at her expectantly.

"Well?" Andrew probed, leaning forward so that Allison caught a whiff of his cologne.

"McCarvers Point."

The two teen exchanged a worried look. They all knew about McCarvers Point, and they all knew, as though it had just occurred to them, that Bender couldn't be anywhere else. Claire nodded at Allison, and so she cranked the wheel, slammed on the gas, and pulled a U-ey.