My heart's still throbbing with adrenaline as Max floors the gas, ejecting us into the night.  "What a crazy jerk" --  His comment seems to slip away with the wind rushing by our open windows.  No substances for us, not tonight! -- even without them, the two of us are high as kites.

I laugh; Max laughs.  Though it terrifies me, it's that recklessness of his that makes me so crazy about him.  Taking risks, to Max, is a necessity.   It's his kind of fun, yes, but more than that -- it's his way of life. 

As he drives he puts on a tape of heavy-metal music that I cannot identify.  I've never had much of a taste for the genre -- but at two-thirty AM, speeding along in a sweaty, dented Volvo with the only boy I've ever loved, the angry racket is exactly what I want.

He calls me his Wildcat, which is corny, but that's how I like it.  And that's how I feel, with him.  I'm a spicy vampire-girl, in a sleek plastic dress that hugs my pelvis so tight Max wants to kiss it.  I'm a bad-ass sex kitten with short, choppy hair like a rock musician.  I'm wild, I'm chill, I'm sexy. I'm a sacred monument to which my fellow hormone-ridden problem-children flock.

Of course, I've always been one of "those" sorts of girls, even before I met Max.  You know -- the type you whisper about behind your pretty slender hands, even though you know that you admire me.  The type with a stubborn attitude, curvy hips, wearing thick black mascara and quick flashing grins.   "Sexually active" at age fifteen.  But that was all it really was, a... style of mine.  A persona.  Truthfully, "those" sorts of girls are quite common. 

However, the Trisha who runs wild with Max Landen -- she is not. And after what has gone on between us tonight, I feel infinitely extraordinary.

Max delivers me home by three, driving relatively safely for the remainder of the journey.  I yawn, and rub my eyes despite the zombielike effect the smeared makeup will have on my face.  Then I lean over the grimy cupholder and kiss Max's acne-scarred cheek before slinking away down the cleanly paved walkway to my house.  "See ya."

Max believes in anything forbidden, everything alternative.  And I am an open book.  If he suggests it, I'm more than happy to try it, because I love him more than anyone I've ever known.  He isn't conventionally attractive -- too sickish-pale, with a ferrety face and slender limbs -- but I am enamored endlessly by the beauty I perceive in him. Without question, he loves me back.  There isn't a question in my mind. 

I sneak a backward glance as I unlock the front door and,  without explanation, I am stricken with a thrill of fear.

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The narrator of this story is almost invisible here, but he does exist somewhere and in a blocked creative life; he seems to spend his time people-watching so I think that would be a strong feature in his sections.

I thought the teenagers' story would be good for anyone who likes writing in that genre; and there is also room for the policeman's POV.

The old woman might be a good place to start for me, so maybe I'll slope off there in a minute, or soon, or eventually.

updated Jul 15 by ireneintheworld