All too quickly, the gentle warmth of spring segues into the blistering heat of summer.

The end of the school year gets closer and closer, marking an end to the past few glorious months you've spent walking by Amy's side. The temperature rises higher and higher with each passing day, making each afternoon walk home less pleasant.

Still, no matter how hot it gets, Amy doesn't take that coat off.

You've been vigilant since that day in class. You try to catch every fleeting opportunity to see her skin, looking for more traces of blue.

A few times, you do see them.

When she stretches her arms up into the air after sitting down for a long while, causing her sleeve to fall down again.

When she pulls her hair up in a ponytail on a particularly miserable afternoon, revealing a series of smaller bruises on the back of her neck.

When she sweats until her foundation wears away, revealing some faint dark spot on her cheek.

Every time you see the telltale signs of something amiss, you turn away, feeling sick. It makes you feel ashamed, in a way, — you know that something is not right, without a doubt. You feel like you should be doing something about it, but, hey, what can you really do?

Who would be able to do anything about it, if you approached a guidance counselor or a cop to tell them that your friend was being hurt, — you just didn't know by who?

Furthermore, what are the chances that she's past the point of being saved?

These are the thoughts that cloud your head as the two of you walk past the nearly-identical houses at the entrance of her neighborhood.

Even lost in your own head, you are keenly aware of the way that she looks over to you, — like she's the one trying to figure you out.

"You've been really quiet lately," she remarks, reaching out to squeeze your hand.

This shocks you back to reality, — very seldom does she initiate any sort of meaningful touch.

Seeming to be aware of this, too, she pulls away quickly, as if she had experienced some sort of electric shock. Her hands go back into the side pockets of her coat as she continues speaking. "Is something wrong?"

You will yourself to shake your head. "No," you tell her. "I've just been thinking a lot."

She smiles that hollow smile that you've grown so used to. "Yeah. Me, too."

A block away from her house, your steps slow down. You always draw this last part of the walk  out, the last moments you have together before you start the cycle all over again in the morning. Considering you won't have the opportunity to walk her home again when summer break starts, you're even more aware of this now.

You're starting to believe that she is, too.

You think that maybe you should say something  else now. With every step that Amy takes, you can see her retreating into herself more.

Now you can't stop wondering about those bruises, and the fact that you've never met her parents, and her sneakers scratching against the concrete, every second dragging.

Desperately wanting to stop these spiralling thoughts, you clear your throat. "You know, some of my buddies are having a party this weekend..."

Her head snaps up. "Your buddies?" she asks. "Like... those band guys?"

"Yeah," you reply. "At Todd and Clark's place. I was wondering if..."

You look her in the eye and see her hesitance immediately. Still, you swallow your pride and finish your question. 

"Well, would you want to come with me?"

She stays frozen in her tracks, gnawing on her chapped bottom lip. "I don't know," she says quietly. "Those guys are a lot older than us..."

You shake your head. "Not by a lot. And they're harmless. They're really good guys."

She stays quiet for a long while, still chewing her lip. Her eyes look glassy as she thinks.

Finally, she offers you an answer. "Sure. But I'm gonna have to sneak out."

Though your gut tells you that's a horrible idea as soon as you hear it, you nod. "Yeah. Okay. I'll be here at eleven Saturday night."

"Sounds good."

Slowly, the two of you resume your walk towards her house. Finally, the yard comes into view, the mess of unmowed grass unmistakable in the sea of well-manicured lawns.

She takes a deep breath as if attempting to work up courage before moving away from your side.

"Well," she says. "See you tomorrow, I guess."

"Yeah," you reply. "See you tomorrow."

She waves at you, then heads towards the door, drawing her house keys out of her pocket. Every step she takes seems slower than the last, an air of dread hanging around her like smog. Then she disappears through the doorway, locking the door behind her.

You turn around and head towards home, remembering how ghostly she looked on that first day.

-

Saturday night arrives. As carefully as you possibly can, you creep into Amy's backyard.

You watch as she lifts her bedroom window open. She sticks her head out, looking down at you through the dark like the mythic Rapunzel from her tower.

She waves at you before holding up a finger, signaling you to wait. "Just one second," she whispers.

The next thing you know, she's lowering herself onto the tree branch that brushes against the window, moving towards the bottom of the tree as if it's something she's been doing her whole life. Finally, she reaches the ground, her feet making a gentle 'thud' against the grass.

Her eyes meet yours, and she smiles. "Alright. We've got that part down," she says. "Now we've just got to get to the party."

The two of you walk through the dimly-lit streets of suburbia, taking in the various nighttime noises whispering to you from behind closed doors and through the trees.

Once you make it out of her community, you stop beneath one of the orange streetlamps overhead, waiting to hail a cab. You glance over at Amy, only to be floored by what you see.

Her hair is clean and brushed straight, her eyes lined with black, her lips painted cherry red. Most startling of all is the fact that she isn't wearing the coat, but a long sleeved T-shirt, green like her eyes.

She notices you staring and sends you a mischievous grin. "You're thinking again, huh?"

As if your mouth were cut off from your brain, you find your lips parting to tell her the truth, — or at least part of it.

"You... you look..." You pause to clear your throat, your face feeling as if it is about to burst into flames. 

"...really pretty."

You swear that you see her whole face light up then, — she looks so alive, and that somehow makes her even lovelier than she was before.

Then again, it might all be some trick of the moonlight.

Still, she can't mask the emotion when she speaks. "Thank you, Conor," she says. "You don't clean up half bad yourself."

You laugh, knowing that you didn't 'clean up' for the occasion at all. You're dressed the same way you always are, — just jeans and a T-shirt, — but, judging by the fact that Amy is looking at you like you hung the moon, you figure she just had to return the compliment.

Though you know in the back of your mind that she's already flustered, you just can't take your eyes off of the way that she looks right now.

It isn't just the fact that her hair is clean, or that she's wearing makeup. You thought she was beautiful before all that.

It's the way that she shines in the dark of night, lit up from the inside out.

It isn't that the sense of sorrow that normally surrounds her has somehow been lifted, — you can still see it, if you look closely enough, — but there's something just a bit lighter about the way she carries herself at night, as opposed to during the afternoon.

She almost seems... free.

Amy lifts her hand in the air, waving as a cab comes down the street. Once it stops, you give the driver the Baechles' address and hand over the necessary money before the two of you climb into the backseat.

If the cab driver questions what two kids like you are doing out so late, he says nothing, simply taking your money and bringing you to your destination. He pulls over at Todd's house, leaving Amy to thank him as you open the door and jump out.

"Come on." You grab Amy's hand as she steps pit of the cab and onto the sidewalk, hoping that she won't be startled by your touch. Thankfully, she doesn't, — she glances over at you and smiles.

The two of you walk up to the door. Todd flings it open before you can even knock, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of you.

"Conor!" he greets you enthusiastically, reaching out to clap your shoulder. "Good to see you made it, man."

When he glances over at Amy, and his smile only widens.

"And you brought a girlfriend," he says. "Sweet."

Though your face burns slightly at his use of the word 'girlfriend,' — you can only dream, — Amy shoots you a knowing look, shaking her head slightly before squeezing your hand. You imagine what that gesture means, — 'don't correct him.'

So you brush it off, simply introducing her by name, rather than whatever she may or may not be to you. "This is Amy."

"Amy," Todd echoes, leaving you wondering if he feels the same way saying her name for the first time as you did.

He removes his hand from your shoulder and  holds it out to her. "Nice to meet you, Amy. I'm Todd."

Amy takes his hand, shaking it with surprising certainty. "It's nice to meet you, too, Todd." She flashes him a wide, winning smile, white teeth gleaming beneath the living room light.

It takes you aback a bit.

Since when does she smile at people like that?

"Well, you guys can come on in." Todd steps to the side, pulling the door shut. "Sit down. Relax. Have a drink."

Figuring you'll take him up on the drink first, you pull Amy along with you to the kitchen.

Being who you are, you immediately reach for Todd and Clark's parents' liquor cabinet. Amy props herself up on the kitchen island, watching with a look of bemused curiosity as you pour straight whiskey into a disposable cup.

"Jesus," she says quietly. "I didn't know you were such a drinker."

"Well... only sometimes." You pick up your cup, raising it to your lips. "I don't party a whole lot, but..."

"I didn't take you for the partying type at all," sh interjects.

You pull away from your cup, grinning. "That's where you're wrong," you tell her. "Speaking of which... you want a drink?"

She swings her legs back and forth over the edge of the island for a while, seeming to consider your question. After a moment, she hops back down. "Wait..."

She heads over to the fridge and pulls out a can of Coca-Cola. Her arm brushes yours as she grabs her own cup, pours the soda in, then adds a generous helping of whiskey to the mix. She stirs it up with her plastic straw before taking a sip.

"There." She smiles at you as she backs away from the counter. "Much tastier this way. Now come on, — let's go check out the party."

You follow her through the living room. Ypu know for a fact that you're the youngest people there, — this isn't kid stuff. Todd and Clark don't exactly see you as a kid, though, — you've been in their game since you were thirteen, handing out demos and singing on stages in places you weren't technically even old enough to enter. You've grown up around these guys, and you can't imagine you'll grow apart. You don't feel alienated here, — in fact, this is one of the only places where you feel that you truly belong.

You smile in between gulps of stout whiskey, exchanging greetings with familiar faces. Every few steps you take, there's another 'hey, Conor,' another 'what's up, man,' another high five. Someone has put on a Yo La Tengo album, — the melody of "All Your Secrets" fills the room, jovial and serene as your head swims in alcohol. You look over to Amy, feeling brave enough to maybe ask her to dance, only to notice that her face has gone pale, sickly.

She grips her cup as if it's the only thing grounding her, eyes wide, face tinted greenish. You place a hand on her arm, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Hey." You raise your voice over the music, so gentle yet so loud. "You alright?"

"Fine." Her voice shakes, along with the floor beneath your feet. "Just a little cramped in here is all. Maybe we should go outside?"

You nod, reaching for one of her clammy hands to lead her back through the crowd.

-

You end up on the back porch. Amy takes a gulp of warm evening air, as if she had been suffocating inside. You're alone out here, save for a guy and a girl standing on the lawn below you. If they notice your presence, they pay you no mind, — they just keep smoking and talking, immersed in each another's company.

You lightly tug on Amy's hand, leading her to the porch swing. You take a seat, and she follows, the swing creaking slightly underneath you.

Amy laughs, — a flighty, nervous sound, like the cry of a bird with a broken wing. She leans over, hair falling into her eyes as she places her cup on the porch. "Maybe I should stop drinking," she says softly.

You keep hold of her hand, as if you're the one who needs assurance here. "I'm sorry," you say suddenly. "I shouldn't have brought you here. I knew you'd be uncomfortable..."

"Hey. No." She squeezes your hand again. You're happy that she can't see your burning face going red.

You can just barely make out those green eyes of hers in the dark, but you know for sure the moment that they meet yours.

A smile comes to her faded red lips, and your heart goes wild. "This is the best night that I've had in a long time."

You shake your head. "How?" you ask. "You looked like you were about to have a panic attack."

"It's a good night because I'm out of the house," she replies, too quick to have even thought about it. "And it's a great night because I'm with you."

A lump rises in your throat. You try your best to swallow it as you consider those words, your drunken mind flashing with a million thoughts.

The white coat, the green shirt. Her perfume, her dirty hair, now scrubbed clean. The black around her eyes. The blue of her arms in class, a seemingly endless number of broken blood vessels. The look in her eyes when she returned home earlier in the week. The smile on her face as the two of you walked away from that very same house.

She pulls her hand away from yours, only to bring her graceful fingers to rest beneath your chin. She holds you there, forcing you not to look away from her.

"I really like you, Conor," she says, voice so very soft. "I like you so much that it scares me. And I don't want to be scared anymore."

You don't even have to think about it, — couldn't think about it if you tried. You don't know who leans in close enough to break the distance, but you know that Amy's lips are pressing against yours. Her lips are chapped, but her mouth is soft, her tongue tasting of whiskey and coke. Your eyes fall closed as you kiss back, trying to turn off the whirlwind of your mind, commit this moment to memory. You want to absorb this feeling, carry a bit of it with you forever.

All too soon, she pulls away. She sighs, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Much to your dismay, her eyes break away from yours, focusing on something off in the distance.

You follow her gaze, find the guy and girl standing in the yard, now entangled in each other's arms. Feeling as though you're invading their privacy, you avert your eyes, choosing to look back towards the full white moon instead.

Then Amy's voice falls on your ears again, bringing you back to her. She's staring at the ground now, refusing to look at you as she speaks.

"What if I told you that was the first time I've been kissed nicely?" she murmurs.

In that moment, you swear your heart stops. You stay silent, trying to figure out what that means, feeling as though you're trying to fit the final piece into a puzzle. The coat... the bruises...

As soon as you think you have it figured out, you bring your fingers to tilt up her chin, leaning in again. You kiss her, slow, light, gentle.

As far as you're concerned, there's nothing left in the world but the warmth of the mid-May evening, the feel of her skin, the smell of her hair, and the taste of whiskey and tears on your tongue.