It was just before midnight. We were all hanging out in the parking lot of our high school theater after a Saturday night show. We were riding high, feeling like superstars. We’d had a great review in the local paper and a packed house since opening night. We were still in our stage makeup — white faces and red-orange lips. I was wearing tight capris, a white muscle tank and black converse. My uniform of the month. Partially inspired by my character, Rizzo, who was a badass and, I thought, a true feminist.

A few of the local musicians who’d been performing in our live orchestra were hanging out. They were older and cooler and capable of legally purchasing alcohol. We drank forties crouched behind the concrete steps, ducking behind the large, round pillars when security circled around, shining their patrol lights in our direction.

I was adventurous. Some may say, wild. But, I was always safe. Well, mostly safe. I never drove drunk. I never drove with someone who had been drinking. I always had a party-buddy and we watched out for each other. If she passed out, I was in charge of getting her home safely and vice versa. We also had a designated driver, non-participant-partier, who was so damn sweet and such a good friend. And, also a Mormon. Which meant that he never drank and never did drugs and was always available to drive us home or hold our hair while we puked or carry us in his well-tanned, muscular arms after we decided to roll down a rocky hill. An idea that seemed really amusing before the scrapes and bruises set in.

“Your turn!” one of the guys shouted in my direction. It looked fun. It seemed pretty stupid, I knew that even then. But, the guys made it look so easy. “You just jump out and start running,” they’d explained. Like it was as simple as pulling on a pair of socks. Jump out of a fast-moving car and you will be fine. Sure.

“Okay, go!” I screamed. The green door of Sid’s Volvo was wide open, the toes of my chucks peering from the sticky, carpeted floor onto the dark pavement. As the car sped up, I started to reconsider my choice. This is crazy, I thought. I can’t do this. But before I could lose my nerve — or my standing as the toughest chick they knew — I jumped. At first it seemed fine. I was pummeling through the air fast — faster than I’d ever run on my own — but my legs were moving. My feet were hitting the asphalt so hard I could feel the muscles in my thighs constricitng and my knees were already aching. But, I was so busy screaming and smiling and flailing my arms and keeping up with my feet that I didn’t see the curb. That little six-inch block of concrete. That unassuming, completely inconspicuous piece of scenery. It had never seemed like a threat before. But to a human running faster than her body is capable, hurtling at the speed of an automotive, it was enough to stop me in my tracks. Well, no, actually, it was enough to send me flying through the air, in a high arc, which ended with my right knee on the sidewalk. All of my weight, all of that inertia. Knee, meet concrete. Concrete, meet and destroy knee.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” I shouted, forcing back the ocean of tears stinging behind my eyes, hoping that my tight capris would contain my already swelling knee. “Haha, it’s all good,” I lied. “That was hella crazy. I’m gonna go get a drink of water,” I said, limping toward the fountain on the other side of the theater lot.

“Are you okay?” Josh asked, running up behind me.

“I’m fine. Jesus! Leave me alone! What the fuck?!” I screamed at him, embarrassed that he’d noticed I was hurt. I had hoped to limp off into the dark, get some water, assess the damage, maybe cry a little and then return to the group and pretend that I was fine.

“Hey! Not cool. Don’t yell at me just because I’m the only one who actually came to see if you were okay. You’re obviously hurt,” he said. He was right. I knew it was bad. My knee was already the size of a softball and I couldn’t straighten my leg beyond a ninety-degree angle. He reached his arm under me and helped me to the drinking fountain. I took a long swig and smiled up at him.

“Thanks,” I offered. “You’re right. Thanks for being the only one who gives a shit.”

“Sure. Are you okay? Seriously?”

“I’ll be fine. Can you bring your car around. I think I need to get some ice on this. Will your mom be cool with me coming over again tonight?” I asked, skeptical he’d say yes. I’d been sleeping at his place almost every night for two months.

“Of course. You know she loves you. God, she loves you more than me, I think,” He replied. He must have told his mom what’s going on at my house, I thought. Or maybe she’s just super chill. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. They had central air in the summer and heated floors in the winter. They had a huge house with clean, waxed wooden floors and a hot tub and a giant kitchen that was always stocked with food. It was heavenly.

“Cool. You’re the best,” I sniffled as he guided me to the grass. “I’ll wait for you here.”