Dirty Curve

by Meagan Brandy

Huh. It’s a long shot, but it’s a shot. “Sorry, Coach. Misdialed.” I grin, end the call, and shout back to my boys, “I’m in.” I head their way. Let’s see if Tutor Girl’s made a habit out of walking alone in the dark. A few hours later, and there she is, crossing the dimly lit street. I want to call out her name, slam her for her reckless choice, and do it again when she rolls those eyes at my rant. But then she shifts, and the shitty streetlight catches something small on the inside of her jacket. A name badge. She shifts again and I make out the logo on her top, but it’s not a top. It’s an apron from the burger place down the road. She was at work. She’s walking home alone, late as shit at night, from work. Not for fun and escapades, but because she must have to. Walk and work, I mean. She wouldn’t do either if she didn’t need to, right? Wait, she has two jobs? Instead of doing any of the things I was about to, I step farther into the shadows, follow at a distance from my side of the road and once she’s safe and crossing campus grounds, the security guard rolling along in his golfcart at her side, I head home. I don’t know why, but I do the same exact thing the very next day.