STUDYING WITH MONROE WASN'T so bad―at least, for the first twenty minutes.

        On Monday before school, Monroe and I met in the library again. This time, I'd declined her offer to drive me, even though it meant taking the bus.

        I'd met her at a table behind a stack of books, and side by side, reading A Farewell To Arms by Ernest Hemingway was actually going well.

        Until she looked at my face.

        Yesterday, I'd woken up to see navy bruises on the side of my jaw. The homeless man must have gripped my face harder than I'd thought. And although I put on makeup, from up close . . . the mark was undeniable.

        Which was why I'd pretty much been ignoring Cody and Skylar the whole weekend.

        But now, as Monroe's eyes slid to me, I realized we were so close―too close. She could see what the foundation couldn't hide: the splotch of a blue-black bruise, shaped like a fingerprint.

        Within a second, she shut the book.

        And her fingertips were so light, so gentle, as she tilted my face towards the light. I don't know why I let her, but I doubt I could have stopped her anyway.

       Twenty minutes. It had been going along just fine.

       Monroe's green eyes darkened to the colour of the Mediterranean. "Who did this to you," she breathed.

       Not a question.

       "Nobody!" I snapped. Too loudly. 

       From somewhere behind the shelves, I heard the librarian give us a warning. But I barely registered it, barely even noticed.

       "Who did this to you," she repeated. Her voice was cold and dark and merciless.

       "I fell. Down the stairs. Clumsy, right? Come on, let's keep reading A Farewell To Arms."  I opened up the book to a random page.

        Monroe closed it and said, "Tell me who did this to you, Talia."

        I let out a breath. "You can't just―go around hurting people. You know what that makes you? A psychopath. Are you a psychopath?"

       Judging from what I'd seen―the two fights in shadowed parts of the city―she might have been.

       But it didn't look that way now. Not as heaven and hell burned like twin flames in her green eyes. Not as something in her expression hardened into barely concealed fury.

       "Let's just keep studying," I urged, opening the book again.

       This time, she slammed it shut and pushed it out of my reach.

       "Not until you tell me who hurt you."

       "Why? It's not like there's anything you can do about it."

       I swore I heard her say, "Try me,"  under her breath. But I might have been imagining it, because all she asked was, "Who?"

       It was stupid to just keep resisting. Besides, what could she do about it anyway? If she hated me as much as I hated her, maybe she'd even give the guy a pat on the back.

       "Aaron and everyone, we all went downtown Friday," I said. "I went walking alone for a little. Some homeless man and his friends grabbed me. All he did was put my hand on my face―" I made the motion, covering my mouth with my palm just like he'd done. "And that's it. Not a big deal."

      "What did he look like?"

      "What does it matter?" But she didn't lower her eyes. Didn't look away. Stubborn, I thought. And I added, "A few gold teeth. White hair and a beard. He had this stupid bell. As soon as I passed him, he started ringing it. Happy?"

       "And his friends?"

       "I don't know. It was dark. The bell seemed like a signal, though. As soon as the guy started ringing it, the other three came."

       I didn't know why I bothered telling her. But the way she listened . . . it helped. Which was ridiculous.

       "I don't want to talk about it anymore," I said. "Drop it, okay?"

       And surprisingly, she did.

       In fact, she seemed almost . . . cheerful afterwards. 

       Maybe the thought of my pain amused her. Maybe she was thinking of what an idiot I'd been. It was probably even entertaining to her.

       Studying couldn't end fast enough after that. The look of excitement on Monroe's face was just―too much. Did she really delight that much in knowing someone had hurt me?

       God, I hated her. I really fucking hated her. 

       I couldn't believe I'd ever wanted to touch her. That I'd liked the feel of her skin against mine. And as long as I lived, I swore to myself I would never, ever, not in a million years, kiss Monroe fucking Kingston.

      "THE MIRACULOUS GOOSE, OR THE Lovesick Turtles?"

      "I kind of like The Lovesick Turtles," I told Jordana. "It's not bad."

      "Are you guys crazy?" Olivia sat cross-legged on the fraying red couch. "We are not naming our band The Lovesick Turtles." 

       "Okay, okay, fine. How about . . . The Mourning Pinecones. Or Pinecones On Fire. Maybe Comatose Pinecones?" 

       "Comatose Pinecones is cute," I said.

       Olivia narrowed her eyes, straightening her knitted turtleneck sweater. "Why are we naming our band after pinecones?" 

       Jordana let out a breath. "God! I'm not sure. You're really picky today. What ideas have you come up with if you're going to judge mine?"

       "All I said was there're a little bit too many pinecones―"

       "You're really critical for someone who hasn't even contributed a single idea."

       "I―I mean, we just started five minutes ago."

       "Whatever. We have to submit a name soon, though. So I guess we'll just keep thinking, then. All of us." Jordana shot a pointed glare in Olivia's direction. 

       Olivia shriveled a little. "No, yeah, I didn't mean . . . yeah, you're right. Okay. Sorry. Let's start?"

       I wasn't sure what I'd just witnessed, but I positioned myself behind my drums, flipping my sticks into the air before beginning.

       The beat of the music, the deepening swell of the rhythm―it all just stopped everything inside of me.

       I forgot about how I'd avoided Skylar and Cody today. Again. I'd hidden in Aaron's car during lunch, and he'd tried talking me into it―but seeing them meant explaining. And right now, we were in a war.

       Me and Aaron against Skylar and Cody.

       Aaron and I―we'd left them behind on Friday. They didn't know why.

       So this meant we were fighting. Actually fighting. 

       I didn't think that had happened since eighth grade, when Cody and Aaron hadn't invited Skylar and me to watch a football game with them, just because we were girls. Even if neither of us watched football, we'd still been offended. 

       Back then, we'd resolved it simply.

       Laser tag.

       But we were probably a little old for that now.

      "Stop!" Jordana shouted above the music. "Stop! Stop, just―stop!" 

       I let my hands still. The drumsticks twirled between my fingers, as naturally as if they had a mind of their own.

       Jordana opened her mouth, but―

      "Talia, you sound so good,"  Olivia said. "I swear, you're going to steal the whole show if you keep playing like that."

      "Thanks," I said, blushing.

      Jordana's eyes cut between us. "There's something not right about the song. Like, we have the rhythm down and the guitar and stuff. But I think it's the voice."

      "The voice?" Olivia echoed. She was the one singing the song.

      "Yeah," Jordana said, nodding her head firmly. "It's the voice. Your voice. It just doesn't work."

      "What do you mean?" I asked.

      "Don't get me wrong. Your voice is really good, Liv. All smooth and high and everything. But I just think a deeper one would work better. It would flow better."

      "Like . . . your voice?"

      "Yeah," Jordana said, nodding again. "Not that you're not amazing. You are. But this song needs a deeper tone, you know?"

       In a small voice, Olivia said, "I . . . I wrote the song, though."

       "And you'll totally get the credit for that. I just think I should be the one to sing it. Talia, what do you think?"

       My eyes darted between both of them. "Um. You both sound good. It's between you guys."

       "Olivia?" Jordana raised an eyebrow. In the light of Olivia's garage, her brown hair glimmered like a sheet of bronze. "It's up to you. It doesn't matter what I think. I mean, it would sound better. But if you really want to sing it, that's totally your right."

       "I guess . . . it's fine." Olivia's eyes lingered on the floor. "You can sing it."

       Jordana grinned. "Thanks, Liv. You didn't have to do that, but I'm glad you saw it through my perspective. We're totally going to rock this show now."

       "Yeah," Olivia agreed quietly, eyes flickering back up. "Cool."

        I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. But when the music started back up again―this time, combined with Jordana's deeper voice―I let myself drum with all the emotion I'd kept bottled up. 

        I probably hit the bass drum a little too hard―and I definitely clashed the ride cymbal a little too much―but by the end, I'd succeeded: I managed to think of not one single thing that had happened over the past few days.

        When practice finished, I was out of breath. Jordana and Olivia were sitting on the couch, but I stayed at the stool. Clenching and unclenching my tired fingers.

       What got my attention was Olivia's low murmur: "Holy fuck." 

       I'd never heard her swear before. My eyes snapped up.

       Her and Jordana were both gathered around a phone with a painted sunset case. It must have been a video, because Jordana turned up the volume and I heard the muffled sound of a shout.

       "What are you guys watching?" I asked.

       "See for yourself," Jordana said, as I got to my feet. 

       When she passed me the phone, my heart stopped.

       "This is―"

       "Monroe Kingston," Olivia said faintly. "Her against four guys. Someone posted it on YouTube like fifteen minutes ago, and it's already going viral."

        That man―I recognized the man in the video. Although it was blurry, I could make out Monroe's lithe figure. Her knuckles stood out: split and bloody. 

        She delivered punch after punch to a man with a white beard. When his mouth opened―a roar of anger―I saw the back of his mouth glint gold.

        My heartbeat quickened. This wasn't . . . this couldn't be . . . 

       Near the back of the alley, I could see something had fallen. A rusted bell.

       "Replay it," I said. "From the beginning."

       The video was four minutes long. Whoever had taken it started from the moment Monroe backed up into the alley. Her posture was small, almost as if she was scared.

       Once all four of them surrounded her, I saw her back straighten.

       I saw the dark edge of her smile.

       The four men didn't realize the change until too late. She'd never been weak; she'd just used her figure as a girl to make them think of her as prey. And now, she delivered blow after blow, strike after strike, whirling between each of them like they were punching bags.

       The last one standing was the man with white hair. His friends were crumpled on the ground.

       And she made him suffer. She punched him hard, but not hard enough to knock him out.

       What had I told her this morning?

       A few gold teeth. White hair and a beard. He had this stupid bell. As soon as I passed him, he started ringing it. Happy?

      She had asked, And his friends?

      I don't know. It was dark. The bell seemed like a signal, though. As soon as the guy started ringing it, the other three came.

      She'd used my story. Somehow, she had found him.

      No, she hadn't found him. She'd gone looking for him.

      Better yet . . . she had hunted him down.

      "I need to go," I told Jordana, once the video had finished playing. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, alright?"

      I didn't wait for their responses. I just dashed out of Olivia's garage and ran. 

     "Is there some place you need to be?" I heard Jordana ask sarcastically from behind.

      "Yes, actually!" I called back without looking over my shoulder. The sidewalk blurred beneath me and the sky burned above me.

       I needed to find Monroe.

       And ask her what the fuck she had just done.

***

Oh, this'll be fun.

From the moon and back,
Sarai