Free Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer

hitch up their pants and push into the store. The air inside is cool, stale. They run their hands over everything: rows of gummy bears in plastic bags on pegboard, canned nuts settling in drifts of salt, bags of chips sagging on the shelves. In the beverage cases the energy drinks wink neon, lined two or three deep; cold shadows yawn behind them. The tall one spins a rack of maps and a postcard spills out of a broken pocket: Wish you were here! He kicks it under the ice cream freezer.
    The girl watches them from behind the register, crowned by slots of cigarettes, her palms on the counter. The boys advance from different aisles; the youngest gets to her first, then the tall one. The dark-haired one, whose eyes are also dark, almost black, is last, his thumbnail raking across the face of the magazine display as he approaches.
    Hey, the young one says, leaning over the counter, hip cocked.
    Hi, the girl replies. She looks at each of them, in order, left to right. You need some gas? she asks.
    Maybe, the young one says.
    The dark-haired one slides a lotto ticket out of a stack near the girl’s fingers; digging a dime from his pocket he scratches the card, his tongue between his teeth. Beneath the silver foil he finds four clovers.
    Shit, he says, rearing back with pleasure. What’d I win?
    The girl reads the fine print. A dollar, she says.
    The other boys laugh. She punches a button on the register; the drawer jumps open and the tall one leans to look inside.
    How much you got in there?
    I don’t know, she says. A few hundred, I guess. She talks slow, kind of quiet, but not shy; she looks them in the eyes and smiles.
    What if we made you give it to us?
    She blows on her bangs. You got a gun?
    Maybe.
    Then I guess I’d have to give it to you.
    The tall one slips a dollar from the tray.
    Nah, he says. But we won this fair enough, right? Snapping the bill in her face.
    She flinches, giggling. He puts the bill in the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny tray.
    You should get a tip jar, he says.
    For real, the young one says. The tall one sucks his lips.
    You smoke?
    Sure, she replies.
    You wanna smoke with us? It’s good shit, the dark-haired one says, his hips caressing the front of the counter. We promise.
    Sounds great, she says, and if the boys were listening they could hear it—the wall clock telling them it is time to keep driving. But they aren’t listening. The blood roars in their ears.
    I know a good place to do it, she says.
    You’ve done this before? the tall one asks.
    Sure, she says. Haven’t you?
    The young one puts his hand next to hers, his pinkie dancing over the side of her palm. He looks at the others like, see? Easy.
    *   *   *
    Outside, moths swarm in flammable mass against the store windows. The empty parking lot glitters, a sea of spilled tar, and they cross it into the short strip of damp grass bordering the lot and the road. Dew licks their shoes; the tall boy dips his head to smoke but the young one puts his hand over the cigarette, folds it in his palm, drops it. The girl is in front, head down, ponytail swinging, as they walk beneath the concrete horizon of the overpass, where no cars move. The young one smiles and the tall one smiles, too; the dark-haired one lifts his shoulders inside his track jacket, cold from the inside.
    *   *   *
    Beneath the pass the girl stops. They’re standing in a stretch of soft dirt and stone hooded by the road: beyond the girl the boys can’t see anything but the dim skeleton of a chain-link fence. The girl faces the boys, and the young one rubs his toe in the dirt.
    *   *   *
    So is it good? she asks.
    Is what good?
    She blinks. Your trip, she says. You’re on a road trip, right?
    The young one chuffs. We’re just driving.
    Oh, she says. Cool.
    What’s your name? the tall one asks. The girl cocks her head, small smile buzzing around her lips.
    What’s yours? she