I see Will. He’s selling dime bags to the same freshmen he was beating up last week, taking their money with the same hands he used to unhook my bra. When we arrived at his pickup, the night of homecoming, he got a bottle out of the glove box. Then we sat on blankets he’d spread in the truck bed and started doing shots. I knew better than to mix pills with booze, but I didn’t care, because the pills had pretty much wiped out any judgment I had left. All I could think about was how awful it felt to have Davis ignore me, and how warm and wonderful it felt to be drinking tequila by moonlight with a varsity football player who couldn’t keep his hands off me, who kept saying over and over again, “I want you, Ally. I want you, Ally. I want you, Ally.” After a while my body was burning and the world was spinning so fast I just needed something to anchor me to the ground. All I ever wanted was for someone to want me. Was that so much to ask? So the next time Will said, “I want you, Ally,”
