THEY WERE STRIPPERS. 

      And they had apparently been told to find the "prisoners."

      Through the haze of my mind, it didn't take long to realize why Skylar had dressed me in an orange jumpsuit. Because there was suddenly a female police officer in front of me, singling me out from the crowd.

       "You're under arrest," she crooned, taking off her hat and shaking out her black hair.

       Black hair. I couldn't help thinking of Monroe.

       Even though I saw her almost every school day, there was nothing but simmering, barely veiled tension between us. Magnified even more now that I knew what had happened to her parents, now that I knew the fucking truth.

       I almost wished Aaron had never told me.

       It hurt me to think it, but Monroe had been right. It was easier to hate her. To pretend that I didn't want to have anything to do with her.

       But I didn't have dwell on that. Not as the female stripper pushed me into a chair, her finger trailing over my chest.

       Magically, the first three buttons of my jumpsuit came undone.

       "Wait," I said, panicked—and maybe even turned on. "I can't—"

       "Oh, yes, you can," Skylar said.

       I realized then that her and I were in chairs, back to back, in the hallway. I was facing the door and she was facing the backyard.

       The rest of the party had continued—all loud music and cries for shots and drunken laughter. But in this moment, with a female stripper in front of me and the power of four, maybe five, shots within me . . . 

        I realized it at the same moment Skylar said, "Tal! I didn't know you were a horny drunk."

        "I'm not drunk," I argued.

        I heard Skylar's chime of laughter. "You didn't deny that you were horny."

        The police officer popped open another button of my jumpsuit. And she looked just like Monroe in that instant, if only I didn't look directly in her eyes.

        There was deep, sultry music playing somewhere. And between my legs, I felt the slow thump of my pulse.

        "You've been a bad, bad girl," said the police officer.

        Behind me, I knew Skylar had a stripper, too—but a male one. I wasn't sure where Aaron or Lila Bard had gone, and I didn't particularly care.

        A laugh got caught in my throat. It was funny, but—

        I was turned on. That was going to be a problem. I was really fucking turned on.

        "I can't," I whispered, trying to push the stripper off me. 

        But she caught both my hands, and suddenly, too fast for my brain to understand, I was handcuffed.

        Actually handcuffed.

       "You've been naughty," she teased, the gloss of her red, red lips as luscious as the skin of a cherry. "I think you need to be punished now."

        Those words sent a blast of heat rippling through my blood. My legs clenched together, but it only made it worse—only made it unbearable.

        And I found, then, that the words would no longer come. I stopped trying to tell her to get away from me.

        Was this cheating? I wasn't sure. From somewhere in the distance, I heard Lila laughing—and maybe Aaron, too. So they weren't mad, but . . .

        But maybe Aaron had reason to be, if he knew the kind of sexual crisis a female stripper was inspiring in me.

        He doesn't, I reminded myself, breathing unevenly. He doesn't know yet. 

        Except if this night went as planned, he would soon.

        Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lila elbow Aaron, a trace of laughter on her pink lips. "Are you sure your girlfriend is straight?"

        My heartbeat rocketed up. I couldn't breathe, and the stripper seemed to take it as a good sign. Because, suddenly, she was on my lap.

        Her ass was gyrating on my thighs, and she guided my hands to the small of her back.

        I really, really like girls, I thought, forgetting about Aaron entirely.

        "Yeah," Aaron said, as if it had just been a joke. "My girlfriend is definitely straight." He laughed, his chest rumbling. "But you'd tell me if you weren't, eh, Talia?"

        I didn't have an answer for that. A hot girl was giving me a lap dance.

        Someone handed me a bottle of beer, and I took it without even realizing. It might have been Cody. His delirious laughter was infectious.

        The stripper's scent was so heavy, so thick, that I couldn't help inhaling it in. If it was possible, it made me even more turned on.

       She didn't smell like stupid cologne and spice and boy.

       It was . . . it was . . . sea salt and pine.

      That was the best scent in the world.

       No—I'd gotten it mixed up. Monroe was sea salt and pine. This woman was almonds and sweet milk. 

       Her hips swayed gently from side to side. Her long, waist-length black hair unfurled down over her back. 

       "So soft," I murmured, slipping my fingers through the silky strands.

       The stripper—I didn't know if I could really call her a police officer, now that she'd taken off most of her clothing—was undoing her pants.

       Just like that, she was both shirtless and pantless. 

       It took me a moment to realize what that made her. Half naked.

       I had . . . a half-naked girl on my lap.

       A half-naked girl . . . shaking her ass on my hips.

       She threw her arms around me and whispered, "Is this okay?"

        I couldn't help glancing at Aaron. She was asking for a kiss. Would he mind?

        But he only shook his head, still laughing, as if I was in no danger of liking girls at all.

        I didn't have time to protest, because Aaron's signal seemed to be the all-clear for the stripper.

       She kissed me.

       And it hit me that I'd . . . never been kissed by a girl before. 

       Soft lips and soft skin and—and it was wonderful.

      I never want to kiss a boy again, came a dreamy thought. But that was stupid, of course. I was still attracted to boys.

      Although, as the kiss went on, I forgot boys existed at all.

      If someone had pointed out that there were men in the world, right after that kiss ended, I probably would have thought they were crazy. Who needed men when there was this? 

       "You ever done that before?" said the stripper in a low, husky voice.

      I had to admit that no, I hadn't.

      But I wanted to do it again. 

      This time, it was me who curled my fingers through her hair, pulling her in by the back of her neck. My heartbeat had quickened, my breathing rough, and I just needed it again—to kiss her, to kiss her and forget the world, to kiss her and pretend it was Monroe—

       Monroe?  Where had that thought come from?

      "Monroe!" someone exclaimed in disbelief. Probably Skylar.

       A sensation like ice water flooded my whole body.

       Had I just spoken out loud?

       Slowly, my eyes focused back on my surroundings. Over the shoulder of the stripper, I saw someone standing in the doorway.

       Her fist was raised to knock. I noticed, dizzily, that her knuckles were cut. Bloody.

      She was looking right at me.

      For two seconds, I was grateful I hadn't just said my thoughts aloud. But that turned to panic when I realized Monroe was actually here.

      This was a thousand times worse.

      I WOULD NEVER BE ENTIRELY SURE how or when the strippers left, or what even happened in the five minutes after Monroe arrived. It was all a blur, until the moment I became aware that I was sitting on the floor of a bathroom.

      "I think I'm drunk," I confessed to Cody.

      He clinked his beer bottle against mine and said, a bit slurred, "Me, too."

      "What are we doing here?"

      "Hiding," he said, tilting his head back against the wall.

      "From what?"

      "The world. The whole wide fucking world."

      "Oh." I hiccupped. "Where's Skylar and—and Aaron?"

      "Well, in the last five minutes, you somehow managed to tell Aaron you were bisexual. And Skylar got mad. Although I think it's because she's drunk. She's an angry drunk."

        My mouth opened, my tongue working around the words.

        Wow. In the last five minutes, I had come out.

        "The good news," said Cody blearily, "is that it's past midnight. So you . . . technically made a public statement. The November goal."

       "What? How did I come out?"

       The five minutes were becoming blurrier and blurrier. Suddenly, I wasn't sure why I cared so much. Who gave a fuck if I liked girls or boys?

       And, I corrected myself. I like girls and boys. 

       That was a crucial difference to me. As long as I had and, there was the possibility of still being normal.

       "You stood on a table and shouted it," Cody said mildly.

       "I—what?"

       He giggled drunkenly. "You climbed a chair, all hyped up on God knows fucking what, and said that you had a public fucking announcement. And then you shouted—I can't remember. It was either, I fucking like girls or I like fucking girls. One of those. Pretty . . . brave, actually."

       "Oh," I said, and I giggled too. I'd been so stressed out, and for what? "How did everyone take it?"

       "Everyone's so wasted that I doubt . . ." Cody hiccupped. "No one's gonna remember, I think. Except maybe Aaron. And Skylar. Oh, and Monroe."

       Monroe. The name sent a shiver through me. "She saw?"

       "Yeah . . . she didn't seem surprised. Funny, isn't it?"

       "Yeah." I hiccupped. We were both fucking hiccupping. "What'd she . . . say?"

       "Don't know. She was gone and then Skylar was saying something about telling her first and you not trusting her enough and . . ."

       "Oh." I bit my lip. The bathroom floor suddenly felt like the shadow between universes, a place for existential crises. A limitless, infinite world. "And Aaron . . ."

       "He seemed really shocked. He was pretty upset. I think he said something about you kissing that stripper, and how he wouldn't have let you do it if he knew it would mean something to you."

       "Where is he now?"

       Cody shook his head, setting his beer bottle down with a clatter. "No idea. Ran off."

       This was the question I was most afraid of. "Where's Monroe?"

       But Cody just laughed. "I think she's actually waiting outside. To use the bathroom."

       "What?"

       He giggled again. "Yeah. I think we're holding up a line. But I like it here."

       "Me, too." I grew quiet. "Cody, no one seems really happy with me. Why . . . how come you're not mad either?"

      He shrugged. "Skylar is angry drunk, remember? When she's sober, she'll come to her senses. But as for me . . . my kind of drunk is the questioning the universe kind. I don't care that you're bi, or that you never told me. What does it really fucking matter in the grand scheme of the whole fucking world?"

       I leaned my head against his shoulder, and he tucked me closer against him. He smelled like peppermint. 

      "Thanks," I mumbled. "You're an idiot."

      "You're an asshole," he said.

      It was basically the same thing as saying I love you.

      But suddenly, he was staggering to his feet. "I have to go find . . . that guy . . . he's waiting for me . . ."

      "Rook?"

      Cody shook his head. "I think his name is Wesley. Not sure. But he's waiting. Will you be okay?"

      "I'll be okay," I whispered. He kissed my cheek and was gone.

       In the solitude of the bathroom, I glanced up at the ceiling and chuckled. Wesley would be just another guy in the long, long line of people who had their hearts broken by Cody.

       I didn't have time alone for long. Someone knocked on the door.

      "Come in," I said with a giggle. "It's unlocked."

      I didn't even have the good sense to be worried about some frat guy taking advantage of me. Thankfully, it turned out to be Monroe.

      On second thought, I would have preferred brawling with the frat guy.

      "Hey," said Monroe.

      She looked like she had been brawling. Her knuckles were not only bruised, they were cut. Fresh red blood had dried in the creases.

       "You're hurt," I whispered, tripping against the counter in an attempt to stand.

       Monroe steadied me by my waist.

       I was . . . oh, fuck. I was so close to her I could see every swirl of emerald green in her long-lashed eyes.

       Swallowing, my eyes drifted down. Down. Down towards her lips.

       I almost said kiss me. Instead, I repeated, "You're hurt."

       "I'm fine."

       "You—did you have to use the bathroom?" It probably wasn't a good idea to watch her pee.

       "I have to wash off the blood," Monroe said stiffly. Coldly. 

       And the words burst from my mouth without any conscious thought: "I'll do it for you."

      "What?"

      I was already reaching for the washcloth, dampening it with a touch of water and soap.

      "Let me," I whispered, glancing up into her eyes. "Let me . . . help."

      When I took one of her hands in mine, she didn't protest. Or punch me.

      Carefully, I dabbed the washcloth against her cuts. I expected a hiss of pain, maybe, but she didn't flinch. Didn't even move.

      "Does it hurt?" I asked quietly.

      "No," she said, but I knew she was lying.

      "How did it happen?"

      "Talia." A warning.

       I knew I was prying, but— "You can't just keep hitting people in backlot alleys."

       Her eyes said, I can, but her lips said, "Let's not fight tonight, Talia."

       The way she said my name . . . I shivered.

       And whispered, "Okay."

***

A little bit of a truce. Too bad it won't last for long.

From the moon and back,
Sarai