May We Be Forgiven

to go ahead and give her a course of antibiotics.”
    “Sure,” I say. “Do I need to do anything else?”
    “Not at the moment,” the nurse says cryptically.

    W hen Ashley and I speak, I don’t ask about the infection; instead, we talk about Romeo and Juliet and her ongoing study of the soap operas.
    “It’s good,” she says. “I watch from one to three in the afternoon, and take notes. I’m working on a paper about the narrative of the soap as modern theater, played in the public square—the TV square is like theater.”
    “Sounds pretty sophisticated,” I say.
    “Yeah,” she says. “The thing is, they tailor assignments to each student’s interests—and you know how, like, if you’re really interested in something, you can really go far? I mean, this is, like, eighth-grade level.”
    Near the end of the conversation she says, “Okay, so there’s a letter that’s going to come in the mail; just so you have the real story, I better tell you a couple of things.” She pauses. “It wasn’t a tattoo ‘club,’ there were three of us, and we gave each other homemade tattoos—not a big deal—but then another group of girls went into town on the weekend and got real tattoos. So Georgia, from my group, decided that ours were supposed to be ugly on purpose and all about scarification. She looked up ancient scarification traditions, and the three of us had a ritual and all rubbed dirt from the compost onto the wounds, which is how I got the infection. It was so not my idea. Anyway, the parents who found out about the ‘clubs’ got all freaked out, and so this letter is being sent out saying, like, no new tattoos for both students and staff and blah, blah, blah.”
    “What was your tattoo of?” I ask.
    “A unicorn,” she says, like it’s a given.

    I spend the evening glued to the television set. Amanda’s story about Heather Ryan’s murderer checks out. Her parents have identified the guy who bought her bed, and her diary was found in the guy’s car, along with chunks of Heather’s hair.
    Pretending to be a librarian following up on a book she’s put on hold, I call Amanda. Her mother answers. “Good evening, I’m calling from the circulation desk for Amanda. Is she in?”
    “One moment, please.”
    “Who is it?” I hear Amanda ask in the background.
    “Your husband,” her mother says, handing her the phone.
    “Hello?” she asks, baffled.
    “What was for dinner tonight?”
    “I deviated,” she says. “I served Wednesday on Tuesday, just to see if they would notice. Chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese. Not a peep except that when they sat down my father said, ‘We want to confirm that there are snickerdoodles with this meal.’ ‘Of course,’ I said, even though I’d planned to serve them angel-food cake. I’m flexible.”
    “I have an idea: let’s put up a tent in your parents’ backyard and have a sleepover.”
    “For my parents?”
    “For ourselves—we could sleep together, in the tent.”
    “I’ve never slept outside,” she says.
    “Me either.”
    “I was always afraid to,” she says.
    “Even in the backyard?”
    “My sister and I would start off brave with flashlights and mayonnaise jars filled with lightning bugs, but as soon as it was really dark, as soon as the lights in the houses all around us started to go out, I’d panic and we’d run inside.”
    “If we set up a tent, would they spot us outside?”
    “Oh no,” she says. “They never look out.”
    “Friday?” I suggest.
    “I’ll think about it,” she says.
    “It’s a plan,” I say. I hang up, excited.
    I dig out the tent, the AeroBed and battery pump, some sleeping bags, new batteries for the flashlights. I fill a giant canvas tote bag with bug spray, pillows, an old black-and-white video baby monitor, so we can keep an eye on her parents.
    We have dinner with her parents. I slip upstairs and set up the old baby monitor and then bid them good night and leave. I think I’m so clever and crafty, going out the front door and then slipping around back.
    I wave to Amanda as she’s in the kitchen; I have a melancholy split-second flash—her yellow gloves reminding me of Jane, of that Thanksgiving.
    Amanda does the dishes and gets her parents settled for the night while I’m around back, decorating with a string of Christmas lights I found in George’s basement. It’s like being a kid again. I’m decorating and thinking about Amanda: Will I ever really know her? It’s like