13

"Hey."

"What?"

"You remember that memoir our English teacher asked us to read? The one about Jaycee Dugard?"

I vaguely had a memory of it. "I didn't read all of it."

"Don't you think it sucks she had us read it at twelve?" she said. "Like, it's one of the darkest bullshit I've ever read. Why would a grown woman ask us to read a book about an 11-year-old girl kidnapped by a married couple to become the husband's sex slave? It was all so hard to take in, I'm surprised I even finished it all."

"That English teacher had always been weird. Like, she'd ask some of us to show her our feet and shit. I'm glad she's dead."

"Woah, okay, that's a bit extreme. Anyway, she's not the point. About the memoir . . . what's your opinion about the man's wife, Nancy?"

I wondered why she would ask something so random. I was too drunk to recollect some memories about her, but I still tried. It was a bit difficult though because people outside were becoming noisier and noisier.

"Aside from she's a bitch? Her hair could be better."

"Agree, but I'm not talking about her hair," she said. "What do you think about her? Do you think she's a victim of her husband, or was she a willing accomplice?"

"First of all, she's grown. Second of all, everything was wrong in every aspect for her to simply go along with just because of her husband. She had all the chances to help a young girl, and she still did not, and she had eighteen years." I deeply exhaled. "So definitely a willing accomplice. She's as responsible as her husband."

"Right?!" Astrid exclaimed. "I don't know why people are always so quick to assume that women are victims of manipulation in these kinds of situations. They're always shown as a fearful sidekick of some bastard. But you know, they're not fragile, weak beings that are incapable of horrible things. Women can be fucked up with a wicked moral compass, too, you know?"

I had no idea what her point was.

"Don't look at me like that!" she said. "I'm just saying that it's complete garbage that that's how people naturally see us. That we're only capable of being behind a man . . . oh."

"What?"

"This leads me to a thought."

"You're so drunk."

"How about those women who aren't aware they're accomplices?"

There was something very weird about Astrid at that moment.

"How can you become an unaware accomplice?" I asked.

"Maybe if you're being used to catch a victim, or accidentally witnessing something you shouldn't have."

"I don't get it."

With a smile, Astrid sighed. "It's better you don't."

—