M arissa sat- purposely not next to Darren- and someone passed her the bong.

“It’s Northern Lights,” Darren said proudly.

Marissa took a long, deep hit, closing her eyes, savoring it, and then she exhaled and her brain moaned, Thank you.

“Awesome shit, right?” Darren asked.

She didn’t answer, just leaned back and smiled, enjoying the rush of mellowness.

They passed the bong around a few times, then Marissa suddenly had to pee and went to the bathroom. When she came back everyone was gone except Darren. Did he really expect her to believe that this wasn’t planned, that everyone had just left on their own?

He was sitting on his bed with the bong and waved her over and actually said, “Come on, come over here, I won’t bite.”

She really wanted another hit, so she sat next to him and lit the bong and inhaled deeply, holding it in her lungs until she started feeling dizzy and then letting it out very slowly through her mouth and nostrils.

Then she realized that Darren was kissing her neck, under her jaw.

She shifted away and said, “This is a bad idea. I just want to be friends.”

She was aware that she was talking extremely slowly, or at least she felt like she was.

Something about her delivery must’ve seemed funny to Darren because he started giggling. Then he said, “We are friends,” and tried to nibble on her ear again.

“I mean friends friends,” Marissa said, moving away again.

“It’ll be just sex,” he said.

“You can’t have just sex,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” he said and tried to touch her crotch.

She stood up and said, “Stop it.”

“Come back here,” he said and unsnapped his jeans.

She tried to leave, and he grabbed her arm.

She turned and said, “Get the fuck off me.”

“Okay,” he said, letting go. “Chill.”

Marissa left the room and walked, very unsteadily, into the living room. She tapped Sarah on the shoulder and said, “I wanna go.”

“Now?” Sarah asked. It was obvious she wasn’t budging.

“It’s okay, stay,” Marissa said. I’m just gonna take a cab to Penn Station, there’s an LIRR train I can catch.”

Darren was heading down the hallway saying, “Hey, come on, just chill,” and she just wanted to get away. She went through the dining room and left the apartment.

She knew Darren was following her, so she didn’t want to wait for an elevator and took the stairs instead. After two or whatever flights she felt dazed- from the alcohol and pot, though she also had mild vertigo- and she had to stop for a few seconds to steady herself. Then she continued down to the lobby and out to the street.

She went to Broadway and hailed a cab downtown. What was up with the way the Jamaican- looking cabdriver kept eyeing her in the rearview? Shit, he was going to drive her someplace and try to rape her, she was sure of it. She’d read some article online, linked to somebody’s blog, about how a fake cabdriver in Manhattan had picked up this woman and taken her to Connecticut or Long Island or someplace and raped her. What could she do to stop him? He looked like he was a big guy, and she had no way to protect herself.

“Stop the fucking cab!” she screamed.

He was looking back at her with his rapist’s eyes again, saying, “What you want to do?”

“I said stop right now!”

He seemed to be driving faster, zigzagging, saying, “I can’t stop in traffic.” Shit, he was really going to do it. It was really happening.

She gripped the door handle, figuring she’d jump out when the car was moving if she had to, and the cab screeched to a halt. She got out, and the driver said, “Hey, where’s my money?”

She reached into her purse, grabbed some crumpled bills, and threw them through his window.

“Crazy lady,” the driver said and drove off.

Shaken and on the verge of tears, she rushed along the sidewalk. As she waited to cross a street a woman asked her, “Are you okay?” and Marissa ignored her and crossed against the light, a car nearly hitting her.

After going a few more blocks she started to realize how ridiculous she’d acted. Had she really gotten out of the cab? That cabdriver hadn’t done anything wrong; he hadn’t even been looking at her, for chrissake. It had been a normal cab ride, and she’d totally freaked out. It was all Darren’s fault; his goddamn pot had made her paranoid. God, this sucked so bad. Now she couldn’t even enjoy being wasted. This was officially the shittiest week of her life.

She took another cab to Penn Station and caught the train to Forest Hills. She could’ve taken the subway, but late at night she usually took the Long Island Rail Road because she felt safer and the ride only took twenty minutes. Walking home from the station she felt a lot less wasted but still a little drunk. She was dreading what her dad would say to her when she walked into the house. Of course, this time she actually had been drinking and smoking, so he’d feel even more justified in attacking her. Maybe he’d hit her with You really need to get focused, Marissa or It’s time you start setting your priorities straight.

When Marissa turned the corner onto her block, she saw a police car doubleparked in front of her house. What the hell? There were two cops in the car, and they looked at her as she turned up the walkway.

In the house she heard voices- her mom was talking and, oh no, it was Detective Dick Clements. She didn’t know if Dick was his actual first name, but that’s what she’d been calling him in her head.

She entered and saw Clements, her mom, and her dad at the dining room table.

“Who died now?” Marissa asked. She was trying her hardest not to look or sound wasted. Though she knew she could never pull this off, it didn’t stop her from trying.

“Everything’s okay,” her dad said.

Then he looked at her more closely, probably noticing how bloodshot her eyes were. Clements and her mom were giving her looks, too.

“Why don’t you go upstairs?” he said, sounding embarrassed, disappointed. Yeah, like he should be the one to talk.

But she gladly left. She figured that nothing was going on, that Clements was just there to update them about the investigation.

She was in bed, starting to pass out, when her dad came into her room and said, “Can we talk for a second?”

Here we go.

“I’m really tired,” she said.

“It’s important,” he said, sitting in the chair at her desk. “Unfortunately things have gotten a little more complicated.”

“What do you mean?” she said, surprised he wasn’t laying into her about the drinking and pot smoking.

“Well, somebody… threatened me,”he said.

“What do you mean threatened?”

“There was a note under the door. Detective Clements isn’t as concerned as Mom is.”

She sat up and said, “I thought you said everything was okay.”

“Everything is okay. Nothing’s changed.”

“Nothing except you’re getting death threats.”

“Threat, singular- and it wasn’t a death threat, or any type of specific threat, really. I mean, technically I don’t know if you’d even call it a threat at all.”

“What did it say?”

“Just about how I’m going to pay for what I did, et cetera, et cetera. It was probably because somebody read those lies in the newspapers today.”

Marissa couldn’t believe how deep in denial her dad was. What would it take for him to actually admit he was scared?

“So you think the same person who put the note under the door killed Gabriela?”

“No, I don’t think that. And the police haven’t found any link yet between what happened to her and the robbery.”

“Wait,” Marissa said, “so what do they think? That it was all what, a coincidence?”

She saw her father’s jaw shift a few times as he ground his teeth. Then he said, “Possibly.”

“And you believe that?” Marissa asked.

“Look, there’s no reason to panic,” her dad said, weirdly calm. “The police are giving this case, cases, their full attention. It sounds like they have a lot of leads they’re following up on, and I’m sure they’ll have a suspect in custody soon.”