The key was brand new, still containing the paper barcode from Wal-Mart. Amy Juergens ran the pad of her thumb along the uneven edge, feeling the sharp teeth of the metal cut less than twenty-four hours earlier. The light of dawn had barely broken and when she held up the key, she could see a blurry image of herself reflected back in the silver. It somehow seemed a metaphor for her future.
Amy lifted the key to the lock and slid it inside. She twisted it and heard the gears inside release, then she moved it to the top lock and expected it to be as easy as the first, as easy as the lock was at the butcher shop, but it hitched. Frazzled, she jiggered the key, twisted the handle, and shoved at the door to no avail. "Is this a sign?" she asked. "Is this a sign that my dad was right?" Amy closed her eyes and thought of her mother: Anne had never finished college because she got pregnant with Amy and George had mocked her for wanting to continue her Women's Studies. Amy grit her teeth, recalling how her father had tried to tell her that she needed to sacrifice everything for her son.
"Was he sacrificing when he was cheating on Mom? Was he sacrificing when he was keeping Robie from David? Was he sacrificing when told me he wouldn't help me pay to go to college in New York?" She let her hand fall away from the key and inhaled as deeply as she could. The smell of New York exhausted seasoned air rolled into her lungs. It wasn't pretty, but she'd been yearning for it ever since she'd left. "I'm doing the right thing," she said and opened her eyes again.
This time she took hold of the key, turned it back to the start, and reworked the lock. It was a new key and new keys didn't always work, she reminded herself, sometimes they needed to be worn in a little. This time, she heard the lock disengage. Satisfied, she retracted the key and slid it back into the pocket of her purse, making a mental note to get a new keychain for it later. The door to the apartment swung open and Amy lingered a while before stepping over the threshold.
