"CLAUDIA, GET OUT!" I SAID, throwing a pillow at the door. 

       "I just want to listen,"  I heard her plead, muffled through the door. "Why can't I listen? Are you bing-bang-bonging in there?"

       Skylar, twirling a strand of pink hair over her index finger, actually laughed. I shot her a glare before shouting back at the door, "No, we're not, and you're thirteen! Go do thirteen-year-old things!"

        "I'll be fourteen in 22 days!" 

        "And then you can do fourteen-year-old things."

        "Do those things include listening to your conversations?"

         "No, they don't. Now go away and stop eavesdropping!"

         When I heard her shuffle away, defeated, I turned back to Skylar, who was sprawled over my bed.

         "Anyways, when I got to the table, Olivia was crying."

         Skylar paused, eyes flicking towards me. "I thought she was upset, but I didn't think she was—"

         "Crying, I know," I said. "I think Monroe was trying to comfort her." I didn't mention how my chest stung whenever I thought of that: Monroe had waltzed into the cafeteria to soothe Olivia. "And . . . well, what I got out of her was that Jordana managed to book our band at the Hamilton café."

         Skylar jolted upwards, staring at me with enormous brown eyes. In the afternoon light, honey-golden sunlight slanted across her face. The bright violet and pink colour in her hair seemed to glow.

        "Fucking hell, Tal! That's a great fucking café. The downtown one with all those rich patrons. Holy fuck." 

        Even though I was recounting what had happened at lunch, a smile spread across my face. "I know. We're scheduled for the middle of November. A month from now, basically."

        "What songs are you going to play?"

        And my smile faded. "That's the problem. Olivia was upset because Jordana had—" I dragged my fingers through my hair, exhaling harshly. "Jordana told the managers, basically, that the band was hers—and that she'd written all the songs."

        Skylar's brows pulled together as the realization dawned. "But . . . those are Olivia's songs." She stiffened, and I saw the pink fury flush her cheeks. "That fucking bitch! I'll cut her."

        There was a reason people thought Skylar was a bitch. But in this case—and, since I'm biased, most cases—it was well-deserved.

        "I know," I said. "I would've never saw this coming. And . . . get this. Jordana named the band, too."

        "I thought you guys were still deciding?"

        My jaw clenched at the reminder of this. "She told the Hamilton café that we're called Jordana And The Fairies." 

        "What kind of self-centered fucking bitch—?"

        I nodded again. "Olivia was more upset than pissed, but when she finished the story to Monroe and I . . . well, yeah, I was mad. But you should've seen Monroe." 

        Skylar licked her lips. "I did. Was that when she stalked out of the cafeteria, all sexy and brooding?" 

        I thought it was necessary to say, "Not the sexy part, but the brooding part, definitely. I'm still not sure where she went."

        But . . . I had an idea.

        After all, hadn't Monroe beat the four men who tried to touch me unconscious? Just because she'd seen the bruise on my face?

        I had a feeling she might do the same for Olivia. And even though that protective, dangerous nature of hers was . . . was . . . well, it had been nice in the moment . . . I felt a little bit tense that she'd do the same for Olivia.

        Of course Jordana deserved it. And of course Olivia might appreciate it.

       But it made me think . . . made me wonder . . . maybe that day, when she said, I didn't do it for you, she hadn't been lying.

       Maybe she had hurt the people who hurt me, not because she cared about me, but because it was who she was.

      What if I didn't matter to her at all?

      Someone like Monroe . . . wouldn't she have girls throwing themselves after her, left and right? Maybe she liked protecting them. Maybe she liked teasing and taunting and flirting with all of them. 

      When I'd confronted her that day—when she had pushed me up against the wall and said, If you want me to be your enemy, fine. Just know it was your choice . . . had it just been another line?

       And fuck. I thought feeling special didn't matter to me, but around Monroe, somehow I felt like the only girl in the world. Even when we were fighting.

       I didn't think I'd ever felt that way before. Around anyone.

       "The good news," Skylar said, "is that I'm pretty positive Monroe handled Jordana, or is handling her as we speak."

       "And the bad news?" 

       "Oh, there's no bad news. You have a fucking show at the Hamilton in a month, Talia! What the fuck? My best friend is a fucking celebrity."

       "Shut the fuck up," I said, laughing.

       "No, I'm not kidding! My best friend is going to be famous! Maybe you'll get to sit next to Taylor Swift at the VMA Awards."

       "You're such a softie, you know that?"

       Skylar narrowed her eyes. "No, I'm not."

       "Yes, you are. You act all tough and cutthroat in school, but you're a goddamn softie." I poked her chest, and she caught my hand with a growl. "You've got a sweet little sensitive side, don't you?"

      "No, I don't," she said fiercely.

      "Yes, you do. But besides the point . . . I have news." I lowered my voice. "You have to promise not to tell."

      "What, are you a part of the Mafia?"

      "No,"  I said emphatically, laughing now. "I'm going to apply early-admission to NYU."

      Skylar tried not to seem excited—probably to prove her tough-girl point—but I could tell she was fighting off a smile. "Hey, this means we can be roommates!"

      "Yeah, I know."

      She relaxed. "You were so serious for a second, I was actually worried."

      "Oh," I said. "And by the way, I'm pregnant."

      "I HEARD SKYLAR SCREAMING," CLAUDIA told me. "Why'd you tell her you were pregnant?"

      "I knew you were eavesdropping!"

      "What? I'm the ding-dang-dong-a-longa police."

       I narrowed my eyes at her. "You know, I think it's kind of weird that you're always around whenever Skylar is."

      "What? I am not!"

      "Yes," I continued suspiciously. "You are."

      "That," she spluttered, "is preposterous. And ludicrous. And farcical. And illogical. And asinine."

      "Do you just memorize big words for fun?"

      "Of course. How else am I supposed to charm pretty girls?"

       I rolled my eyes.

       "Um." Claudia tilted her head. "You aren't actually pregnant, are you?"

       "No!" I hadn't even had sex with Aaron—with anyone. "Unless I'm the Virgin Mary and it's a holy birth, then—"

       "That would be cool. My niece would be like a reincarnation of Jesus."

       "I feel like that is blasphemous on so many different levels." I paused, and added, "It was for our October goal. Scare the shit out of someone."

       "And you chose Skylar?" 

       "Why not? She ambushed me in our basement."

       "But she'll get revenge on you."

       "She can't get revenge on me, I made the score even."

       "She'll still get revenge on you."

       "Then I'll ride at dawn."

       Claudia was shaking her head at me. "By the way, what movies are we going to marathon on Halloween?"

       "The Marvel ones?"

       Claudia groaned, but I knew she was just pretending to be annoyed. We had a tradition every Halloween, where after I came home—usually after midnight—from hanging out with my friends, my sister and I watched a series of movies together.

       "How about Scary Movie?" 

       "That sounds scary."

       "It's actually not. It's supposed to be funny. Apparently it's a parody of actual scary movies."

       I considered it. "Fine, but if it's actually scary and a demon comes after us, I'm going to sacrifice you first."

      "First? You have more sacrifices lined up?"

      "Sure," I said easily. "I'll sacrifice Skylar second, so she doesn't get revenge on me. You and her can spend eternity burning in the fiery pits of hell together."

       "Try it. You know I always win at arm-wrestling, so how I'll be your sacrifice to a demon is beyond me." 

        Except, for some reason, it didn't look like Claudia minded. 

       AARON, SITTING ON MY BED, LOOKED extremely out of place. Firstly, he was six foot four—and he had to bend his legs to actually fit over the mattress. Second, he was wearing an expression of pure terror.

      "If your dad catches me in here . . ." he warned.

      "You'll be fine. You're my best friend. What's different?"

      "About that." He swallowed, the pale length of his throat bobbing. "Um. Are you going to . . . tell them?"

      I had actually been avoiding that. Aaron would be my second boyfriend, and I wasn't eager to have the birds and the bees conversation again. Imagining my parents' expression coaxed a shudder.

      Somehow, Paul came to mind. I still had seven text month-old messages from him that I hadn't answered.

      He missed me. Wanted to talk to me. The regular bullshit.

      Clearing my throat, I said, "Yeah. No, yeah—yeah. I will. Um." He was still looking at me expectantly, so I blurted out, "On Thanksgiving."

      That gave me six weeks.

      Aaron relaxed a little. "Oh, good. For a second, I thought . . . I don't know, you were embarrassed of me or something."

      "No!" I said vehemently. If there was any reason for my hesitation, it wasn't embarrassment. "That's not it."

       Although it might have been his cousin.

      I should tell him, I thought. That I like girls.

      But how, exactly, did someone tell their boyfriend they were bisexual?

      It was probably simple. And I was definitely overthinking this.

      Aaron was looking at me with those wide, hazel eyes, lower lip caught between his teeth.

     I'm bisexual, I wanted to say. I like girls, and I think it's because your cousin gave me a gay awakening. Monroe, by the way, is really hot. Not that I've been paying attention. Or staring at her ass occasionally. And even though she's the reason that I know I like girls now, you definitely have nothing to worry about. As a matter of fact, I hate her. Your cousin. Monroe Kingston.

      I didn't say any of that.

      "Where'd she go?" I asked suddenly, against my will.

      "Who?"

      Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Fuck shit. "Monroe. During the past two years. They say she disappeared, and your dad . . . he doesn't know either."

       Aaron had once told me to stay away from her. That she was bad news.

       What did he know that everyone else didn't?

       "Ah." Aaron shifted uncomfortably, fingers digging into my pillow. "You have to promise not to tell anyone. Not that you will. I know you. It's just . . ."

       "I promise."

       "It's not common news. Actually, only a couple people even know it. Just the immediate family, I think. Monroe's parents actually . . . um, they got into a car accident two years ago. It was late, they'd been on a business trip, and they were on their way home. A drunk driver hit them—killed them both instantly."

        A cold shock rushed into my veins. "You mean . . ."

       "No one in this little town knows about it. Thank God. The accident happened in another state, so it was just us and our relatives who found out. My dad wanted to keep it a secret."

       That day in the parking lot, when I'd accused her of running away, I'd implied she was spoiled, and that she hadn't been able to make it out in the real world on her own. Which was why she had come crawling back.

       Oh. Fuck. "Her parents . . ."

       Something squeezed my stomach, so painful it stole my breath. Monroe hadn't been arrested, or shipped off, or sent to a conversion camp. 

       Her parents had died.

       "But . . why did she leave?" I asked.

        Why hadn't she moved in with Mr. Andersen two years ago? Why now?

       Aaron's brow furrowed. "I . . . actually don't know. My dad always wanted her to stay with us, but with her parents gone, she . . . there's really no better word for it. She ran away."

       I had been right about one thing, but it did nothing but pinch my stomach again. I still felt sickened.

       I'd guessed all the wrong reasons.

      I hate her, I reminded myself. A tragic backstory doesn't—shouldn't—change that. 

      But . . . it made me understand, just a little more.

      Who Monroe really was. What was behind that beautiful, infuriating face of hers.

      And I had to think, just for a moment, that maybe Monroe Kingston wasn't the bad girl cliché I'd always thought she'd been.

      "Anyways, that was a little . . . morbid," Aaron said, pulling me into his chest so he could kiss my cheek. "Should I lighten the mood? Tell a happy story now?"

      "Like what?" I scoffed. "The Lorax?"

      His smile widened. "Babe, you read my mind."

      "Please don't."

     "I am the Lorax,"  he began.

      "Don't you dare."

     "I speak for the trees—"

      "This is torture."

     "—for the trees have no tongues." 

      And I fell asleep like that, curled into Aaron's chest. The window was cracked open, and I inhaled the mid-October wind—laced with cinnamon and the sweet rot of the leaves—until it felt like I had soaked up every inch of this memory.

       I didn't think Aaron knew I was awake, but when he was done telling the story, he folded the blanket over me and kissed my cheek.

      "Goodnight, Talia."

      Was it wrong that when I imagined someone tucking me in, kissing me softly, and whispering goodnight, it wasn't Aaron—wasn't even a boy at all?

      But it was my dad that came to mind, suddenly. My dad's face, the wire-framed glasses that always slid low over his nose. And I couldn't help hearing his voice, saying, I know I wouldn't want my kid to be gay.

       I fell asleep, and for the first time in my life, I wished liking girls was just a phase.

       Because if it wasn't, I didn't think I'd be able to stay away from Monroe Kingston much longer.

***

Are y'all ready for a Halloween chapter next? It's going to get a little wild.

From the moon and back,
Sarai