The inside of the restaurant is loud and bright. I'm not sure what to make of it. To the left of the entrance is an eating area filled with spaced-out booths against the walls and large windows that stretch from tabletop-level to the ceiling. In the center of the area, there are circular tables surrounded by metal stools with bright-colored cushions built into them. To the right, there is an ordinary station and a hall that leads to two bathrooms and an employees only area. 

I take it all in with wide eyes and a slacked jaw. These colors are neon. They're oversaturated. They're right in front of me. It's one thing to see colors like this in people walkin by or on signs, but it's another entirely to see them so present and so right in front of me. I can only imagine what Father would say.

I look up at the menu. It glows. Before, I had only really seen billboards on the way out of the city do that. It's gentler than that, though. I'm shocked. I'm amazed.

"Everything costs money," I say, my voice barely a whisper over the happy chatter of the establishment.

"I already told you, I have some. I'll pay this time if you'll pay next time."

I like that. It implies that there will be a next time. It implies that one day, each of us will be able to get out of town, and make money of our own, and maybe even be free from what's holding us back home.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. Just help me find my sister, right? And help me hand out these damn pamphlets in the meantime."

"Okay." I try not to shrink into myself with some weird sort of shame. I feel like I should have money, but I really don't. What little I do have, picked up from the gutters and ditches in increments of small copper coins, is in the back of a drawer in my room that I hope my father will never look in.

Matt directs me to a booth by pushing on my shoulders. While I take a seat, he sidles up to the line; he stands there, three people deep, with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet and looking up at the value menu. When he catches me watching him from my vinyl seat, he smiles and waves back at me.

This place is so different from what I have known. I want to sit back, to feel peace in it, and to just let myself be, but it's impossible to do that when I'm comparing my hometown to the world outside it, and when I look down at myself and see the hair already growing back, light-brown and coarse under the still-damp sleeves of my dress. I wish I weren't wearing a dress. I wish I weren't exactly who I am.

Briefly, I think about it, about what it could all mean. Why is this happening to me? Why couldn't I just be faithful like a good little Hare? I don't know. I can't interpret it.

I should have brought my razor with me so I could touch it up, shave my body once again in the bathroom of this restaurant. I want to pluck every piece of hair from my arm. I want to tear it out of my head. I want to scream. I want to scream.

Matt comes back eventually, holding a brown paper bag with red and yellow pre-printed drawings on it; I can feel the heat radiating from within. He sets it on the table and slides into the booth.

I swallow a throatful of nothing; it's hard enough that I fear it's audible. "What did you end up getting?"

"Dollar burgers, water, and a medium fry to share. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, absolutely."

"Cool. I'm going to get some napkins and ketchup. You want any?"

I shake my head. I've had ketchup. I'm not sure I want it right now. The vinegar... I couldn't. I couldn't handle it. Perhaps that makes me weak. Perhaps I'm just not used to strong flavors and bright colors.

But I would like to be.

I get my chance with the burger. When I bite into it, the taste of mustard and ketchup and the off texture of still-briny pickles fills my mouth. I can't help but raise my eyebrows, delighted and confused by the flavors. The only spices we have at home are salt, pepper, and oregano; the only condiment is mayonnaise. My father loves mayonnaise. I'm not used to the way these things taste, but it feels undeniably right. I want to live here forever, under fluorescent lights, next to windows covered in see-through decals.

I think Matt may have interpreted my expression, because he looks at me with concern, swallows down the chunk of meat and bread he was chewing and croaks, "It is okay? I ordered it without the little chopped-up onions they have because I can't stand them. I hope that's okay."

I nod. "Yeah, that is good. I just-- the flavor."

He raises an eyebrow. "The flavor?"

"It's-- it's good."

He nods, like he gets it. He does. Matt gets a lot of things that I don't know how to articulate. Maybe it's some weird older brother power he has. "It's a shame we can't get these in town, because food that tastes good is one of those things that, like, makes me believe in God. Or one of the things. There are a lot."

I nod, take another bite, and chew for longer than I should.

He keeps talking. "We go to my grandparents house for Thanksgiving every year-- the entire family does-- and when I tell you, my grandmother makes the best food I've ever tasted, I mean it. This last time, I took this plate of pie, the day after, and I sat out under a tree on this plastic lawn chair, and it was so peaceful, so vibrant, so wonderful-- how could I not love the world and whoever created it?" He hesitates, sighs, then continues, "Can I tell you something?"

"Yeah?"

"And you won't rat me out? You won't tell Bishop Stern or my parents?"

"I won't, I promise. What are you-- Just say it, Matt."

It's a little game we play. We make sure that we won't rat each other out when we know that neither of us ever would. When I finally confessed to him that I had never liked a guy (or a girl, for that matter), he told me that he had never liked a girl (but that he had liked guys). When he was the one who broke that window, I kept it a secret. I may be his little sister's best friend, but Matt and I still know a fair amount about each other.

I expect him to say something about Maryanne, but he doesn't.

"I'm not sure I believe in all this," he blurts.

I try to keep my face normal, neutral, sympathetic. I get it.

He continues, "I like the idea of some higher power, I do. But all the stuff we've been taught... I'm not sure about it."

"Really?" Something like relief floods my body and I confess, reaching for the paper cup of water, "Me too."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I've been-- I don't know." He sighs. "It's too much for me to put into words. I wasn't sure I would ever be able to tell anyone, let alone Maryanne, you know? Thank you for-- for telling me."

"I think we were both coming to the same conclusions, before all this," I muse, hands idle and fidgeting with what's in front of me. "There are some things you can only tell people who are in the same situation as you, you know? And it can be hard to tell who those people are unless there's some moment of confession. I think there's a sense of understanding there that just goes without saying."

"Yeah, for sure."

"Maryanne told me-- a while ago, she told me she wanted to leave. More than I did, more than I ever have, she wanted to. And now I'm afraid that she did, or she tried to and was stopped somehow, by someone. I just wish that, if she did, she would have told me. It's more likely that she didn't get out, and someone took her, but-- I don't know, you know? I don't know."

"Yeah. I-- I-- Yeah."

I'm not sure what else to say. Matt doesn't seem to know, either. The silence at our table is matched by the noise infiltrating from elsewhere. I look out the window for a moment, hoping that maybe I'll see some clue or deeper meaning out there. I don't. I just see my own reflection in the sun-infected glass.

After a long moment, Matt breaks the quiet wide open. "You'll keep my little secret, right?"

"Of course. If you'll keep mine."

And, if this were a story, like one of the old-fashioned Christian romance novels Maryanne loves so much, this would be a marker of love. This would be the beginning of something gooey, something ordained by God, something sweet and pure and wholesome that is always going to end at the altar.

But it's not-- not in the romantic way. Not in the when a boy loves a girl way. It's more like an understanding, and I couldn't love him anyway, even if the story called for it. Sometimes I think I should. Sometimes, this feeling of alienation from everyone gets to be too much to bear.

But this isn't a story anyway. This is my real life, and my chest is tight from something else. Fear. Terror. I don't want to get caught doing something I shouldn't. With Matt, though, away from everyone we know, I know I won't. Nobody cares to report back on us when we're out here. It's like a taste of freedom. And, to be honest, I never want to go back to where I've been. For a moment, at least. Then I'm back on Earth.

I smile at Matt, and try not to look down at my arms, where the hair is beginning to grow unbearable. I try not to think about every little thing that's wrong with me. I try not to think about the fear of letting everyone down by doing what I want with myself and my life.

It's a nice feeling, being understood. I just wish it didn't have to be like this.