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It's Wednesday after school and we are standing in a circle, waiting for our respective friends and significant others to meet us to begin our after-school plans.

Her hand moves to her necklace, fondling the small silver 'A' that hangs from it. Her other hand is shoved quite deliberately into her pocket, as if afraid to be in the open with nothing to do. Her lips are forming words, but I don't hear them, I'm more interested in the lips than the sounds coming out of them. They're so pink... and full... I wonder what it would be like to kiss them, as versus boy lips. Boy lips taste like beef jerky and cigarettes, or that's what I always think they should taste like. But these lips, these full, pink lips, they look like they would taste like strawberries and rainbows. Whatever rainbows taste like.

A strong hand grabs me from behind.

“Hey, babe,” warm breath floats over my ear. It smells of beef jerky.

“Hey!” I reply and shrink into the arms that wrap around my shoulders. They're familiar—warm—but as I sink deeper into familiarity I can't help but think about her slender arms. They'd be different, but maybe I could wrap my arms around her. Maybe I could lay a kiss on the top of that corn-silk crown.

“Are you ready to go?” the deep voice from somewhere above and behind me asks.

“Yeah, definitely. I just have to get my bag from my locker. I'll meet you at the car.”

“Alright. See you in a sec. Don't take too long, I want to get to the store before all the copies of COD are gone.”

And suddenly the warmth and familiarity are gone. I excuse myself from the group and walk to my locker. A voice behind me calls out my name, and I wonder. When I turn, my suspicions are confirmed. There she is, standing at the end of the locker row. Her face is lit up with laughter, as though she is laughing to a joke that only she knows.

“Oh hey! What's up?” I ask.

“Are we still on for Saturday night? I've got everything we'll need, and my mum is going to be out that night, so we're all set to go.”

“Yes we are! I'm excited. So it's just me and you? Or are the other girls coming?”

“Nah, they're busy.”

“Oh, that's okay too! Cool. Well, the boy is waiting for me, his video game came in today and he's convinced everyone in the world wants it too.”

Her laugh tinkles like the ankle bells I wear when I am feeling sad. It's exactly the laugh you would expect from her, with her flippy hair and impish features. “Alright then. I wouldn't want his majesty to be kept waiting.”

I laugh along, the bells reverberating in my own voice. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Kay, bye darlin', see you tomorrow!” She puts on a southern drawl and grins at me over her shoulder as she walks back towards the group of our friends.

I gather my things and walk slowly toward the car where “his majesty” awaits, thinking to myself about her confident stride. I'd never be about to walk like she does. She's got a swagger, like she knows everyone she passes is watching. I tend to shuffle along, occasionally bumping into someone or something with a mumbled “sorry”.

It's later in the evening the king and I sit on the old green couch in my basement, staring at the T.V. My head resting on his lap and his hand was resting on my head, his thumb making rhythmic strokes across the little dent at the back of my skull.

“What are you thinking about, babe?” his voice sounds tired, like he is on the verge of sleep.

I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. But really I'm thinking about hands. The same hands that had fingered that small silver A. They're small and I wonder what it would be like to hold them the same way he holds my own small hands. Would it be more comfortable than trying to stretch my short fingers around big boy hands? I imagine that our hands would fit nicely together. Like the two sides of a clam

His chest is rising and falling steadily now, and I can tell that he's asleep. I peel myself away from the comfort of his lap and lean back and look at him. His eyelids are closed over his eyes, but I know they're the bluest of blue, and kind. His lips are full, and soft looking, but I don't feel like I need to kiss them. I grab the blanket from beside him and pull it up over him. He just mumbles something and moves so he is lying flat on the couch.

I walk to the kitchen, grabbing the phone on my way to pour myself a glass of milk. My fingers dial the numbers automatically, a six, and a three, five, nine, six, nine, and seven. It rings only twice and she answers.

“Hey girl! What's up? I thought you were with the boy tonight.”

“Yeah, he's sleeping, and he just looked so comfy I didn't want to wake him. What are you up to?”

“Oh just watching T.V. Did you know the Kardashians have a new show?”

“Seriously? That's goofy.” I answered, but really I was imagining her sitting there on her ugly beige couch watching the T.V. Her hair would be pulled up into a bun on the top of her head, and she'd be wearing that horrible purple shirt with the neon splotches. I sit there listening to her, not taking much of it in; instead thinking about how this is the way relationships should all be. You should be able just talk for hours, the way we do every night. The topic has moved from reality T.V. to her parents' recent divorce, a topic that demands my full attention.

“I just don't understand why they have to make such a big deal about it. All the lawyers and custody papers and all that. Why can't they just cut me in half and let it be?!”

“But which way would they cut you? Horizontally through your waist, or vertically down the middle?”

That laugh. It pierces through me, and my mouth can't help but open and let out my own. It's literally contagious.

It's Saturday night and the wind is blowing against me as I type in the pass-code for her back door. As I push the door open I call out to her.

“Honey I'm home!” I use my best “husband returning from a long day at the office” voice.

“Oh darling! I'm in the kitchen folding your socks and there's a roast in the oven!” she replies in a trilling sing-song voice.

I walk into the kitchen and see her there, sitting at the kitchen table with a carton of Chinese food and a bottle of something clear. I know it's rum because that's all she drinks. She has a ridiculous grin plastered on her face as she raises the bottle and asks me,

“Cocktail, darling?”

“Why of course. It was a long day at the office.” I watch her as she removes a tumbler from the china cabinet and pours the liquid into it. She passes it to me and I take a sip, wincing as it burns on it's way down.

“Better than the Savoy, my sweet.” I say to her, after I am done spluttering.

An hour later we are lying face up on her kitchen counter, the empty bottle is next to us and our glasses, long abandoned, are on the floor.

It is at this exact moment, lying there, the cold fake granite chilling me where my shirt has ridden up to reveal my lower back, that I know it. Maybe it's the empty bottle talking, or maybe it is just the moment of epiphany, but I reach out and grab her hand. It's exactly what I imagined it to be. It fits perfectly into mine, exactly like the two sides of a clam shell. Each bump fits into an indent, each mountain fits into a valley. She squeezes my hand, and we stay there like that, hand in hand, for what seems like hours. There is a feeling of understanding between us, and for once, no words are necessary.

It's a sunny day, halfway through January. The snow is crisp under our feet as we search for the perfect spot to set up for our photography. She pauses in front of the white wall beside the school, and starts posing, as if I am Annie Leibovitz and she is having her photo taken for the pages of Vogue. I remove my lens cap and start taking pictures. There is something about her, something that radiates from deep within. It's knowledge. Knowledge of self. She knows who she is, and isn't afraid to show it with every movement of hand to hip, and every wink at the camera.

“Is this good? Am I a model now?” She asks me, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk playing at the edges of her mouth.

“It's wonderful. A regular Naomi Campbell.” I rapidly press my shutter release, dying to capture such a moment. Just her, the camera, and me. Such a private moment. It feels as if I am invading upon a moment between lovers. The camera is her lover. She loves the attention.

It's a month later: Valentines Day. His majesty picks me up for school, flowers in hand.

“Happy Valentine's, babe.”

“Aw, thank you. You didn't have to get me anything... I didn't really think we were doing gifts this year.” I pretend as though Valentine's isn't a big deal, but I can feel the small box in my coat pocket. Inside the box is a tiny charm, a yellow, stone heart. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, dude, let's get going.” He refers to me as dude, as if I am one of his guy friends. She would never refer to me as dude. She also would have remembered that I hate roses, and would have gotten me more unique flowers.

It's after school again, and I'm waiting by my locker. Tonight is the dance and her and I have plans to get ready together. She appears beside me, smiling and eager. Her hand flutters to my waist as she asks me if I'm ready to go.

“Yeah, let's head out.” I smile back, but shrink away from her hand. I want nothing more than to be wrapped in each others arms, but I am still very conscious of the fact we are at school.

When we arrive at my house my parents are both out, and she heads directly for the fridge, grabbing a bottle of juice and an apple. I sit at the counter marvelling at the patch of skin that has been uncovered as her shirt rises when she reaches for a glass. She catches me staring and grins at me. I grin back. The moment of understanding is still there.

“Hey, I have something for you.” I say, remembering the box in my pocket.

“Ooh presents! I love presents!” She stretches out the 'o' sound in love, so it sounds more like loove. I go to my coat and extract the box. When I place it in her outstretched palms she shrieks and rips open the lid. She looks at me, eyes wide, and for a fleeting moment I can't find the understanding within them. But the moment passes quickly and she throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and burrowing her face into the place where my neck meets my shoulder.

“It's beautiful! Thank you! Will you help me put it on my necklace?” she says, holding it out to me in one hand while the other hand grapples at the clasp on her necklace.

“Here, let me.” I reply, undoing her necklace and slipping the new charm on. When her necklace is refastened she turns around. Her hand drifts, once again, to her necklace, but this time it's not to the A, but to the heart nestled next to it. She needn't have said thank you, her gaze is thank you enough.

We are on our way to the dance. I am driving, because she doesn't have her license yet. She grabs a CD, a mix of our favourite songs, and turns it up so any conversation we might would be lost in the sounds. The silence is comfortable, we are happy with just each others presence. He's going to be there, but I'm not thinking about that—our relationship has been rocky recently.

We're in a crowd of people gyrating in time to the music. High school dances are full of sweaty, nasty people, and I am vaguely aware of his majesty beside me, but I only have eyes for her. She is so free of care, dancing like there is no tomorrow. Her hips move rhythmically and her arms move up and down her body, reminding me of the way she so confidently moved that cold day in January when I took her photograph. I move forward slowly, a much less confident dancer than her. She places her hands on my hips and moves them, synchronizing their movement to her own.

We are alone now. Dancing in our own world. The music is there, but barely, it's more of a rhythmic thudding in our ears. Our bodies move closer until it feels as if each part of us is touching. The lights are flashing around us and the blood is pulsing through my body. Our faces are moving closer together, but it feels entirely natural. The butterflies in my stomach are more affected by her than by any beef jerky eating, cigarette smoking boy. Her lips are soft against mine. They taste like strawberries and rainbows, which suddenly taste like something, something magnificent.

It's some time after midnight, and we're laying on my couch. My head is in her lap, and there is a large wet spot on her pant leg where my tears have pooled. I'm not sad because I no longer have a boyfriend. I'm sad because things are going to change now. I know when I look up into her blue-green eyes, they will be filled with understanding, but for now I want to stay in this moment of knowing, because I also know when I look up at her, the understanding will be that things are going to be hard, and confusing, and complicated. I wait a moment or two longer, and turn my face up to look at her. Those blue-green eyes are glistening and there are tears running down her cheeks.

“Things are going to be hard now.” I say quietly.

“I know,” is all she has to say, And it is okay, because as she says these two simple words, her hand flutters to her neck, but instead of fondling the silver A that hangs there, her fingers find that small, yellow heart, and the hand that had once been shoved in a pocket for lack of a better home has found it's home in mine.