Still

That Friday, Carrie and I went to the park for the last time. The sun was slipping behind the hills, and the air was thick and balmy. It was early April, and daylight savings had finished, but we didn’t want to let go of summer. Not yet. We sat side-by-side on the swings. I wanted to be higher, faster, more daring than Carrie. So I jumped off the swing, right when it had reached its dizzy peak, and tumbled into the grass below. “Oh my God,” Carrie yelled, “you’re such a kid.” “You’re just jealous,” I called back, without conviction. Being fifteen sucked – not quite a kid, but not quite a woman either. Above me, the dying sun bled into the sky. Thud. Carrie landed beside me, her school skirt riding up her coppery thighs. Her leather friendship bracelet, the twin of mine, coiled around her shapely ankle. I was jealous of Carrie’s perfect skin, her coltish legs, her movie-star name. I was just Jane, plain Jane, the girl no one looked twice at. That was when I heard it, the low rumble of a car engine. I sat up, squinting at the narrow road running along the side of the park. “A Porsche,” I breathed, taking in the white convertible with red leather seats and chunky alloy wheels. “Your dream car.” Carrie scrambled to her feet. “You should ask for a ride.” “Whatever. What planet are you on?” The car door opened, and a pair of denimed legs swivelled onto the pavement. Carrie’s lips curled into a smile. “I dare you.” I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. Because if I said no, then I was always doomed to be a moon, a colourless moon orbiting Planet Carrie. “Dare for a dare,” I said, the words falling between us. Leaden. Solid. Irretrievable. “Dare for a dare,” Carrie said. That was how it began. That was how it ended. Carrie tugged on my arm. “He’s looking at us.” “He’s not,” I answered. But of course he was, because there was no one else left in the park. The man was leaning against the Porsche, speaking into his phone. Carrie planted her hand in the centre of my back, propelling me forward. “I dare you,” she repeated. “I know,” I snapped, pushing her hand away. The man’s features became clearer as we drew closer – floppy brown hair, a long face, an aquiline nose. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe even forty. He lowered his phone, and slipped it into the pocket of his dark blue jeans. “Nice car,” Carrie said, nudging me. I dare you. “Can we have a ride?” I blurted. My face burned in the cooling night air. The man lifted his chin, and smiled. “A ride?” “Jane wants a Porsche when she grows up,” Carrie said, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “When she grows up,” he echoed, his eyes travelling over her tightly fitted blouse, the school skirt she’d hitched halfway up her thighs, her gazelle-like ankles. “Who wants to grow up?” He stepped to the side, and opened the door. “You want to ride shot-gun, Jane?”