DURING OUR LAST TUTORING session, Monroe brought me a single piece of paper.

       A note that read: You set me on fire.

       I recognized it instantly―a fragment of a poem written by Sappho. I almost dissolved right then and there. Because my girlfriend, giving me lesbian poetry? It was . . . strangely hot. And I was turned on. In the library. Again.

       "I guess this is our last time studying English together," Monroe said.

       "Not that you needed it." I gave her a pointed look. "What mark do you think you'll have?"

       Monroe shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. I've already been accepted into NYU."

       "You've . . ." My mouth went dry. "You've been accepted? Into NYU?"

      "Scholarship and everything. I applied early. And I got in, even with my shitty English mark. I wrote a pretty killer admissions essay."

       That wasn't a surprise, but― "Did you . . . put down a deposit and everything? It's for sure?"

       Because Manhattan, New York wasn't far. But it wasn't close, either. From our little town on the outskirts, it'd be a two-hour drive.

       It'd be stupid, right, to ask her if she wants to be long-distance?

       "Yeah," said Monroe, and I was startled for a moment, before realizing she had answered my question about the deposit.

       NYU was in September of next year. Almost eight months from now. How could I assume we'd still be together then? Maybe she wouldn't even want to be. 

      Stop. Stop. Stop it. "Will you come home every once in a while?"

      Monroe gave me a strange look. "For my girlfriend? Every weekend." 

      And my heart―it must have stopped beating. Because the next thing I knew, Monroe was right in front of me. A teasing smile played on her lips.

      "I'm not going to Australia or Russia," she breathed. "I'll only be a car ride away."

      Would she still want a girlfriend who was in high school when she was in university?

      "Hey. Talia," she said, grasping either side of my face. "I like you. I'm not planning on breaking up with you or ditching you or anything. Okay?"

       I smiled. Just a little. "Okay."

       THAT MEANT SHE WANTED TO be with me for the next eight months. From September and onwards. This wasn't just a fling for her. It wasn't just a silly high school relationship.

       She wanted me. Permanently.

       The whole day, I floated through the hallway. Even in math class, during our last unit, I barely noticed the teacher picking on kids. I didn't even care when he called on me, and I didn't know the answer. 

       "Why do you have that stupid smile on your face?" Aaron said, ruffling my hair as I buckled my seatbelt at the end of the day.

        "I don't know what you're talking about."

        Aaron gave me a look that said, Bullshit. He started his Mercedes, backing out of the parking lot, when a tiny blue car rammed into us.

        "Fuck!" he barked. The impact had rattled us both, and I clutched my seatbelt as Aaron got out of the car. "We had the right of way!"

         Jordana rolled down her window. "Fuck you, Andersen! Watch where you're reversing!"

        "Don't tell Aaron to fuck himself," I snapped, getting out of the car. "That's my best friend you're talking to."

        This wasn't the confrontation I had planned with Skylar. I'd prepared for Skylar to come to band practice with me, and I'd wanted to corner Jordana in the garage and ask her what the hell her problem is, with Skylar to back me up. But maybe improvisation was better right now.

         "Best friend?" Jordana rolled her eyes. "Or boyfriend? It's getting kind of hard to keep track. I mean, you did move on awfully fast. Maybe you should slow down a little, or before long, you'll have a whole list. You should probably check for STDs too."

        "What's that supposed to mean?" Aaron said.

        "It means,"  I gritted out, "that she's calling me a whore."

        Jordana's mouth dropped open. "Are you kidding me?" she shouted. "That is such bullshit! Don't put words in my mouth!"

        "But you just―"

        "What the fuck, Talia? You think I would call you a whore?" Jordana narrowed her eyes. I was pretty sure we were holding up traffic in the school parking lot, but she didn't move. Neither Aaron's car nor hers had been damaged, but she didn't drive away. "You must think I'm a shitty friend. Jesus. When have I ever been anything but good to you, and this is what I get in return? You calling me a terrible person?"

        Aaron blinked. "She never―"

        "For that matter, Talia, I booked us a gig at the Hamilton. But, you know, if you think I'm such a shitty, terrible, awful friend, maybe we shouldn't bother. I'm a real bitch, so yeah, why even be in a band with me? Fucking Christ. How about this―how about we don't even do Battle of the Bands? I'm so fucking sick of these accusations. All you ever do is point your finger at me. A whore. You said I called you a whore. Unbelievable."

         Jordana rolled up her window. I stepped forward, completely stunned―what would I have done? I'm still not sure. But Jordana drove forward again.

         Just before she left, she muttered, "Fucking disgusting. Fake friends."

         I knew she meant for me to hear. But it stung all the same.

         That . . . had gone pretty fucking badly.

         So much for an epic confrontation.

         "Come on," Aaron said, tugging my arm back towards his car. "You're better off without her." But I still couldn't get over the fact that Jordana had done it first: she had quit the band, quit the gig, quit being my friend, all before I could. Had she sensed that I'd been about to do it? Or had it just been luck?

        IT TURNED OUT TO BE OLIVIA. Not Jordana's sixth sense, not luck.

        "You . . . told her you didn't want to be in the band?" I asked Olivia, sitting on the red couch in her garage. She was curled up into the armrest, knees tucked into her chest. 

       Olivia nodded meekly. "This morning, I told her I . . . couldn't handle it. All that pressure. She was really understanding." 

       Understanding . . . that didn't describe Jordana lately. 

       "Oh," I said. "So that's it, then? No Battle of the Bands? No more practice?"

       I felt like I was sinking. We'd been practicing for the competition for six months. I had wanted to let Jordana go from the band, but I hadn't wanted to quit it entirely.

       "No," said Olivia sadly. "Too much pressure anyways."

       But all the pressure had come from Jordana. I wanted to beg Olivia, wanted to plead with her, but I knew her mind was made up for now. Knew she'd only shake her head, give me that pitying smile. I couldn't take it.

       "What about the Comatose Pinecones?" I tried weakly. "Or the Cum Glowsticks? That's . . . it?"

       Olivia shook her head again, and I hated it―that sad, tearful expression. Her wide brown eyes, blinking like she was some kind of lost deer in the forest. Scared and adorable. "It's for the best, Talia."

       But it wasn't for the best. This couldn't possibly be for the best. None of this.

       I had wanted to compete in Battle of the Bands so badly my fingertips ached at the thought of it. But as I packed my drum kit, carrying the cymbals and the heavy bass into the trunk of my car, I thought of Jordana.

       Hadn't I gotten what I'd wanted? She'd quit the band.

       But at what cost?

       I shook my head. It didn't matter. Once the last of my drums were loaded into the backseat, I turned around and found myself face to face with Olivia.

       She must have come out of the garage, onto the driveway, while I wasn't looking.

       Hoping against hope that she had changed her mind, I bit my lip.

       But she said, "I forgot to tell you. I heard about, um, you and Monroe."

       "Me and Monroe?" That was the last thing I'd expected from her.

       "I love you, Talia," she said. "But you know, my faith doesn't really agree with girls liking girls. Please don't think this changes our friendship, but I just felt like letting you know that your sexual orientation goes against my religion. I don't support it, but . . . I support you. As a person. You're really brave."

        I could only stare at her. The hot afternoon sun beat down on my neck.

        "I just wanted to let you know," she added. "Before I forgot. So you know I don't hate you or anything." She chuckled lightly. "That's all."

        How could she not support my sexual orientation, but me as a person? Wasn't it a part of me, too―the fact that I liked girls? 

        "You can't pick and choose what parts of me to accept," I said.

        And I got in my car, and I took a deep breath, and I drove away. Olivia stared at me like she couldn't believe what I had said. She watched me, even as she grew into a pinprick down the street.

        When I got home, I found Monroe waiting for me on the porch.

        There were bandages on her knuckles.

        I froze. My bad day couldn't possibly get any worse. "What are you doing?"

        Monroe gave me a half-grin. "Waiting for you."

        But I couldn't do it―I couldn't play any more games, couldn't beat around the bush any longer. "Why?"

        She opened her mouth, maybe to say why what, but my look cut her off. She knew what I was talking about.

        "I can't tell you, Talia," she whispered. "It's safer this way."

        "What?" I seethed. "So you can go beat random men unconscious downtown, but you can't tell your own girlfriend why?"

        "Talia, please don't argue this."

        "No! I'm so tired of not knowing things. Like why did Aaron forgive you so easily? You gave him a nasty black eye for weeks. And he can hold major grudges." I crossed my arms. We were out in broad daylight now, on the porch of my own house, but I no longer cared. "The funny thing is, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But you lied to me yesterday. You lied, Monroe. I could tell."

         "Aaron asked me to do it," she said quietly.

         "He what?"

         "He asked me to punch him hard enough to break something. But at the last moment, he flinched. I was supposed to break his nose for him, but instead, he ended up with a terrible black eye."

         "Why . . . why would Aaron want that?"

         A set-up. It had been a set-up. 

        "That's all I can tell you. You'll have to ask him. It's not my secret."

        I didn't protest. She was right. "So all the hurtful things he said, about you doing bad things to survive, like drugs and everything . . ."

        Monroe shrugged. In the afternoon light, her green eyes were gilded in bright sunlight. Her black hair was silhouetted in a haze of gold. "He was bullshitting. He didn't mean any of it."

        What's the real reason you ran away?

        I didn't, couldn't, ask. I told myself it didn't matter, but . . . I was terrified. Of what the answer might be. And I didn't think I was ready to know.

        "But the fighting," I said, a little desperately. "That doesn't answer my question about the fighting."

        I pried the bandages from her knuckles, her hands in mine, and I flinched at the bruises and blood dotting the skin there.

       "I can't tell you," she repeated. "Please don't ask me to, Talia."

       "But . . ."

       She pulled away from me, her hands withdrawing from my grip. It felt like a slap as she moved away from me, backing off the porch.

       "I'm sorry, Tal. Please understand."

       How?  I wanted to scream. How do I understand it when my girlfriend is fighting other random people, and she can't tell me a single thing about it?

        But I just nodded. When she crossed the street, heading home to the house opposite mine, I almost called her back. I almost said, Monroe, wait!  I almost asked her why had so many secrets, why she had to keep them from even me.

        I didn't. I didn't do any of it. I should have.

        I couldn't have known, when I finally did, that it would be too late.

        Monroe unlocked the front door to her house, and she slipped inside without looking back. Not even once.

      "I THINK WE JUST HAD OUR FIRST fight," I told Skylar miserably.

       "Really? How'd it go?"

       "Terribly," I said, hugging a pillow to my chest. "I asked her about the fighting. Like, why the fuck does she have bruises and cuts all over her hands, all the time?"

        Skylar, sprawled out on my bed, just lifted her eyes to mine. "It's fucked up, Tal, but it's not like you didn't know about it when you got into a relationship with her."

        I sighed. "I know. I just hoped . . . maybe she'd trust me enough to tell me."

       "Maybe she has a really good reason."

       But something pinched my chest. A bad feeling. "Or maybe she doesn't."

       "What?" Skylar scrambled to sit up, looking at me directly now. "Why would you say that?"

       "Maybe she has a really bad reason. Maybe that's why she won't tell me."

       "Tal . . ."

       I shook my head. For some reason, I felt like I was on the verge of tears. "Today's just a bad day. Forget it. I don't know why I'm . . . God. I sound like a bitch. I don't care whether her reasoning is fucked up, I just want to know. You know?"

      Skylar pulled me into her lap, hugging me tightly. "I know, you asshole. I know."

      Somewhere on the floor, a phone started to vibrate. I checked my back pocket―it wasn't mine.

      "Oh," said Skylar, pulling away so she could glance down at it. "It's Lila. She's asking to meet up with me."

      I gave her a weak smile. "Go."

      "I can't."

      I raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you can. I'm okay now. I feel better. Go. That's your girlfriend."

      "I can't―"

       I smacked her with my pillow. "Don't make me tell you again!"

       Grinning, Skylar kissed me goodbye and disappeared. I saw her convertible back out from my window, and I waved to her even when she was long gone. 

       My eyes drifted up from the street―towards Aaron's house, across the street.

       Towards Monroe's bedroom, opposite from mine.

       Her bedroom light was off. Even her motorcycle was gone. My heart squeezed. Where was she?

       A knock on my bedroom door drew me out of the reverie.

      "Come in," I said, not bothering to look away from the window. 

       I'd been expecting Claudia. But Mom's voice said, "Hi, Talia, honey."

       "Mom," I said. 

       I wished I could hate her. For everything she had said, for all the stupid beliefs she had instilled in us. But I didn't. She was still my mom, after all. 

       "I heard about your, um, girlfriend. From Mr. Andersen. He's happy for you two."

       "Oh," was all I could manage, still not looking back.

       "You've seemed happier lately. I'm―glad."

       Now I turned around. I was surprised to see her hovering near my bed, as if she was ready to bolt. Maybe she thought I'd tell her to leave.

       "Thanks, I guess," I said. Even if I didn't hate her, I was still mad. 

       "I'm . . ." Mom cleared her throat. "Happy. For you. About having a . . . girlfriend."

       Maybe I should have been elated, but all I felt was skeptical. "Really?"

       "I should have . . . I should've made it clearer." Tears sprung to her eyes, and the memory of her saying, Girls shouldn't like girls, flashed in front of me. 

       I don't know what you want me to say.  I didn't even know if I forgived her yet. 

       Then Mom really did cry. Choking back sobs, she said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just . . . your grandma taught me what I know . . . and I didn't mean to teach you the same things, but . . . it doesn't excuse any of my behaviour. I'm so, so sorry, Talia."

       I wasn't going to cry. I absolutely, positively, certainly wasn't going to cry.

      "Mom, it's fine," I said.

      "No, it's not. I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry I . . ." She smeared quickly at her cheeks with both hands. "I'm happy, I promise. I didn't mean to cry, it's just . . ." She shook her head. "If you want, I'd love to have Monroe over for dinner sometime soon. I want to meet her and . . ."

       She never got to finish, because in two steps, I bounded towards her and threw my arms around her. Burying my head in her sweater, I tried―and failed―to not cry.

       The knitted fabric was wet with my tears when I stepped back at last.

       "You―you really want to have my girlfriend over for dinner?"

       "If that's okay with you." Mom bit her lip. "I mean, I'd love to know how you met and . . . and everything, I guess."

        "Is Dad okay with that?"

        "Well . . ." Mom shifted uncomfortably. "Not exactly, honey. But he'll come around. I'm sure of it."

        For now, that didn't matter to me. I hugged Mom again. Maybe today wasn't so bad, after all.

       But when Mom was gone, closing the door behind her, I realized I had three missed calls from My Bootylicious Lover. 

       "Skylar?" I said, dialing her number.

      Skylar sniffled. "She broke up with me. Lila broke up with me."

***

This one hurt a little. Skylar is one of my favourite characters.

From the moon and back,
Sarai