I hug Sarah and slip my hand to her bum. Her right hand smacks my shoulder, and her frown darkens the world before it grows bright again with her brilliant white teeth under her firm light pink lips. Her hazelnut hair flips across her cheek, her eyes narrow, and she steps backward. “I hate when you do that. I don’t know if I can hike tomorrow, but maybe Saturday?” Sarah says.

“It’s a date,” I reply, disappointed about not hiking tomorrow but wanting to spend time with her. She frowns before smiling. Her brunette hair sparkles in the bright sunlight, “Maybe.” I skip away, ‘maybe’ doesn’t mean no.

Birds call and fly under fluffy white clouds and a deep blue sky. The warmth of the sun and the memory of Sarah’s bubblegum scent have me singing under my breath.

Our small home with paint peeling reminds me of what I hate: old values, ideas, and ways of living life. I pause at the front door, calming my heart and increasing my courage to once again act like the perfect catholic school daughter. However, the memory of my male parent’s rant about me needing to find a male friend and my female parent’s long talk about my chastity vow, but also the importance of finding the perfect male mate boils my blood and undoes my calming exercise.

I slam the front door to inform everyone that I have returned home and they had better not annoy me. My female parent calls from the kitchen, “Welcome home, Mar. I have healthy snacks.” I roll my eyes and drop my bag before I reply, “Whatever. I don’t want fucking vegetables, Lara.” “Watch your language,” she shouts.

Stomping down the hall, I enter the tiny, efficient kitchen, with mismatching brown, green, and silver appliances, past my female parent, and glance in the upper cupboard where we sometimes have chocolate or chips. We have neither today.

“Why the frick don’t we have anything to eat?” I mumble and slam the cupboard door, but it doesn’t fully close and reopens a few inches. Whatever, I don’t care.

“I cut up carrots and peppers,” she says while cutting chicken for dinner.

“No one wants that junk,” I tell her as my stomach growls, but fuck it, if she doesn’t care, I don’t care.

The shit for a little male sibling has left another model toy plane in the middle of my bed. His footprints make dents in my pink and purple dragon bedspread. That fucker. I grab his toy, stomp to his room next door, fling the door open, and throw the plane above his head, hitting the smiling face of the smiling dog on his paw patrol poster. He rushes over to grab the toy, messing his unmade bed more.

“Keep your fucking toys out of my room,” I shout and step in, threatening him with my fist. The little brat rolls off the bed away from me and hides under his toy car and model plane covered desk.

“Mom,” he whines, pulling his Spiderman covers over his head.

“Martha, language.”

I slam his door to make my point and retreat to my room and phone. I fall onto my bed, bouncing on the firm mattress which I hate. I want a soft one, but my male parent unit refuses to get me one. Posters of Christian rock bands cover my walls. I use them to distract the parent units from my choice of music since they can’t understand my love for classic punk.

Lying on my bed, upset with my family, I debate doing homework. I need to figure out my math. I stick in my earbuds, rocking Dead Kennedys - Kill the Poor, before grabbing my math book and notes.

As the song switches to ‘Blondie - Call Me’, my phone dings, perfect timing, with a message from Sarah. Mouthing ‘Call Me,’ I unlock my phone, and excitement builds for Sarah’s text, ‘Teagan said you liked me.’

Crap. My heart slows while I fling myself onto my bed. The words glow on the screen below the conversation about tomorrow’s hike. Do I text Sarah that I like her? What if she texts yes? What if she texts no?

I reply, ‘You’re my best friend.’

A friend I want more from but also my only friend. The idea of more has my mind spinning and soaring like a bird under fluffy white heart-shaped clouds while the mere thought of losing my best friend stills my hands and turns my empty stomach.

‘Teagan said you liked liked me!’

Do I go for all the glory or play it safe? I can’t live with the current situation. Something needs to change. ‘Simple Plan’s - I’d do anything’ plays. God must have sent a message. I need to tell her.

I slowly type ‘Yes,’ but I can’t press the send button. My world will explode with her response - good or bad. I can’t take the chance, so I backspace over it and type ‘best friend.’ But pause and hover my finger over the send button. The blinking cursor bores into my brain, as it taunts and calls me chicken.

The All-American Rejects - Dirty Little Secret assaults me. Yes, God has spoken.

I add, ‘but also yes’ and press send before I can stop myself.

The message appears under hers. The cursor blinks in the reply box as the world stands still. Only the faint creaks of the house remind me of the world beyond this message. The song finishes and the ‘Ramones - I Want to be Sedated’ begins. The heavy guitar riff pounds while I hum to the song.

Sarah replies, ‘I only like you as a friend.’

The house creaks stop and the music gets drowned out by a roar in my ears. My heartbeat slows to a beat a minute while all the air gets sucked out of my lungs and room. Water streaks down my cheeks and drips off my chin. ‘Motion City Soundtrack’s - Everything is Alright’ matches my heartbeat, except, except, FUCK NO!

I pull the earbuds out and throw them across the room. My white phone joins the pods but makes a dent in my beige wall, adding another hole below Testify’s poster with four straight-laced guys frowning.

“Martha!” Mom shouts.

“Whatever,” I run from my room, down the cluttered hallway, and into the fading light of the night. I stomp down the sidewalk and glance around for someone to say something. A person refuses to materialize to fight, even the birds remain quiet, dogs don’t bark, cats don’t stalk, and everything refuses to engage with my stomping.

Block after block, I stomp until my stomping becomes a walk, then a shuffle, yet still my heart rate forces me to move, to hate the world, and the blue-black sky, partially overcast hiding the starlight while the moon sits ugly yellow on the horizon. Even God has turned away. Street after street, dark house after dark house that hide laughing people, each enjoying their life while mine lays in tatters with the dirt and cigarette butts in the gutter.

Cars rush past, their scream increasing until they zip past, leaving me bathed in their red light. I pass the cigarette, weed, and porno shops. I walk and wait for someone to step out and accost me, someone to turn my rage onto, someone to help me release the boiling hate inside me.

A man in a suit, avoiding his home, steps out of a bar, glances at me, but turns into a corner store selling junk and fake food.

Even the bundles of clothing moving in the distance do not approach. Still, energy and anger force me to walk. The sun, like my God, flees, while the stars refuse to emerge, only the sickly moon follows my progress.

The air grows cold and I hold myself, now angry that I only have my long-sleeved school shirt and skirt with no leggings, only my long socks.

I eventually find myself at a park, dark except for a single light casting shadows over the dark red and blue climbing bars, hiding the swings and slide. I sit on a bench, hidden under a tree branch, swaying and whispering awful things in the slight chill breeze.

In the distance, a mass of shadows of people piled together, laughing, sparking flames and lights in the darkness. How can they enjoy this night? And to smoke at a playground, where little kids play monsters.

Faces brighten with a lighter before smoke obscures them, while white teeth shine through. The toxic smell blows across the playground, corrupting the play area. The bastards’ laughter mocks me and cuts deep. I study them to understand. Do I need to confront them?

Three faces resolve themselves, older than me, two females and a male, all with perfect complexions. The desecration of the play area with foul smoke and insensitive laughter causes righteous wrath to grow inside me, while my heart hammers in anger.

The brunette stands with her hair pinned up and laughs as her fingers dance in the air, red tips and cigarette creating complex patterns I do not understand. The blonde leans against the guy, her dark red lips smiling at the brunette while she inhales from a pipe. The guy leans backward as a sheik surrounded by his harem.

Finally, my body and emotions can’t stay still. I stand and stomp over to them, ready to fight, ready to hit, ready to kick the living shit out of them.

I arrive at the guy inhaling the glass pipe while the brunette girl puffs on her cigarette. The blonde turns to me, “Hey, an angel.” The brunette smoker stops her story and turns her lazy gaze to me.

“You fuckers.” I lower my voice, ball my fists, ready to hit, daring them to dispute me, willing them to stand, and confront me.

“Hopefully,” the guy says in weedy smoke before kissing the blonde girl.

“Join us, Angel,” the brunette puts out her hand, offering a comfort I don’t want.

“Fuck you,” I stammer and want her to scream at me.

“Sure, but first, you need to kiss me, Angel.”

The toxic air clears with a slight breeze, exposing the guy and blonde kissing while the girl continues to offer her hand. The golden-brown hair deepens in a lighter flame and exposes gaunt cheeks, black lips, and dark eyes. The brunette fingers wiggle, but still angry, I push her hand away. The blonde stops her kiss and offers me her hand. Furious at her blatant disrespect, I grab it to pull her up, but she pulls me down to her side.

I land on the scratchy old blanket, scattering pieces of tin foil and spilling a beer bottle. The guy curses and laughs as he saves most of the beer, offering me a slip before downing the rest.

I stare at the blonde’s black and white face, her deep shadows for eyes, and pale red lips resolving from the black, as she takes a drag on her funny-smelling cigarette. I open my mouth to chastise her when the blonde’s lips touch mine and a tongue slithers in. She tastes of ash-covered lemons with slimy lipstick smearing my lips. I try to pull away, but her hand holds me tight against her. My heart hammers in my ears while my body grows tight and rigid until she breaks the kiss.

“Now, we can fuck, Angel,” she says and giggles.

“How did she taste?” the other girl asks.

“Like a sweet angel.”

Unable to move, I stare at this she-devil smiling beside me. She wears a grey sweatshirt with a university crest in the middle, and black, light-absorbing, tight shorts show off her long, pale white legs. Green sandals clash with her dark blue toenails.

I try to push her away, but the brunette kneels and kisses me, toxic smoke drowning out the faint peach flavor before her tongue pushes a pill into my mouth. I try to spit it out, but a hand on my breast causes me to gasp and swallow it, almost choking.

My first two kisses tasted of gross, toxic smoke. I successfully push away and try to stand, but the blonde’s hands have wrapped around me, holding my small breasts through my shirt. Disgust and bile raise in my throat while I push off the hands, but the brunette pushes me over the guy and lands on top of me, pinning me to the blanket.

I struggle against her weight until my eyes meet hers. Stars sparkle inside the white, her lashes long, too long, and too black. Heat grows in my belly, hardening my nipples, and moistening my vagina. She glows in the moon, a halo of yellow, the dark seas of the moon giving her horns.

A vision of love. Someone who wants me. Someone who loves me. Someone I might love.

I lunge at her and kiss her again. This time, the taste of orange overpowers the dark ash. I push my tongue in to get more of her flavor.

Her fingers caress my face while my arms hold her shoulders. I want to sin with this lovely person. I don’t want to act like an angel anymore. I want to act like a she-devil, sinning and forsaking God as he ignored me in my time of need.

Her hands roam over my head, messing my hair. I break for air as she giggles and laughs.

“A fallen angel, I think,” the guy says.

I glance his way. The girl has taken out his erect penis, the redhead shining in the dim light, and tugs on it.

“Here, you’ll like this,” the kissing girl says and places another pill in my mouth. I swallow without thinking, rather, thinking about what the penis might taste like. I don’t like men, but the red tip glistens and fascinates me.

My belly burns with the drug as it rushes into my veins. The cold travels around my body, leaving a trail of heat and energy. I want to dance, I want to love the world and all the wrongness in it. Her face shines in the moonlight, her eyes sparkle, and her red-tipped fingers make more complex patterns in the air between us.

“What...” the girl’s kiss interrupts me. Her tongue pushes in while her fingers unbutton my shirt. I want her to rip it off, but I want to touch her face more. My rough fingers trail up and down her smooth skin, across her neck, and push away her silky hair.

Another set of hands helps her finish unbuttoning my school shirt, and cold air tingles my shoulders, which helps contain the heat building inside me.