🎧'Because the Night — Patti Smith

You're the kind of girl everyone wants around, the kind all the boys chase after. Perfect on the outside — starched dress, doll shoes, hair tied back with a ribbon, usually blue, a sweet smile, that soft voice trained by years of being told that proper ladies don’t speak loudly.

The kind the whole neighborhood praises. You're the one who never gets home past her scheduled time, laughs with a hand over her mouth, helps her mom in the kitchen and sings in the church choir.

But here, lying in the backseat of Joan’s old Chevy Impala, you're just her sweet girl. The seats are covered with a torn quilt Joan Jett styled herself with the logo of a band called "Sex Pistols" — a band you didn’t know, but she did. It’s the place where you meet every damn Saturday night. Or better yet… “worship night,” as you always say to your parents.

And they believe it. Every week, they think you're at evening service when you're really with Joan — lying on that dirty quilt printed with things you don’t even understand, but that she calls “revolution.”

She laughs as she kisses your neck, the taste of mint and cigarettes on her lips, black-painted nails lightly scratching your waist, tugging at the hem of your little dress like it's the last tie to your old life.

You feel free here — and terrified. Terrified because you love it, because you can’t imagine Saturday without her anymore.

Through the fogged-up windshield, you see something that freezes your blood: three girls from the choir, walking past the parking lot sidewalk, laughing loudly, skirts swaying, Bibles in hand. One of them’s even carrying a stitched bag you helped make at a church retreat.

“Joan!” you whisper, pushing against her chest.

You duck down quickly, curling into the corner of the seat with your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it's echoing through the car.

She looks at you with that crooked grin, eyes full of mischief and a flicker of amusement.

"Friends of yours?" she asks, voice low and raspy with a half-suppressed laugh, leaning even closer. Her face is so near you can feel irregular and hot breathing escaping her lips. “Think any of them know what you’re like when you’re with me?” She bites her lip, amused by your expression.

Your eyes go wide instantly, face burning with shame and adrenaline. But before you can say a word, she gives you a quick kiss — teasing, shameless, bold. Still tastes like cheap menthol from her last Lucky Strike