My eyes blink open, dart around the room. Focusing. White ceiling. Blue walls. Sleepily, I lift my hands to my face. Nostrils flare at the strong scent left on my fingertips. Sara. I rub my eyes with my palms before turning my head to the left and lowering my gaze. There she is. My Sara. Okay, no, that's a lie. She's not mine. But I wish.

Oh, I wish.

As Sara continues to sleep, I study her face; careful, patient eyes glide over every dip and curve and angle. She possesses a childlike innocence when in slumber. Adorable? Very. Her lips are slightly parted, and I'm tempted to bend down and take the bottom one between my own. But I don't. I'm enjoying just looking. Admiring. I continue on, moving south, stopping on a long, naked back. Smooth, tan skin. I shift, propping myself up on one elbow. With two fingers, I walk my hand up the glorious expanse of flesh, along the spine, creating goose bumps with each step my fingers take, until two shoulder blades draw up and block my course. I raise my head. Brown meets green. I smile.

"Hey," Sara murmurs.

"Hey," I echo, huskily. "Sleep well?"

"Mmm." Sara buries her face in her pillow.

"Is that a yes?"

Sara rolls over and stretches, not caring that the sheet isn't covering her front. And I can't help but look. Sara's breasts are perfect. Not too big, not too small – slightly bigger than a handful. Round. Soft. So soft. Lately, that's all I ever think about: Sara's breasts. At school, when my mind is supposed to be on e.e. cummings or derivatives, I think about touching them, cupping them and feeling the nipples pucker against my palms, or having my mouth on them – teasing, sucking, nipping, biting. Just having these thoughts causes a reaction. I squeeze my thighs together. My fingers curl into my palms, clench into fists.

"Yes."

"Hm?" I reluctantly lift my gaze. Sara's smirking. I've been caught. Not that I was being discreet, or even trying to be. I feel my cheeks warm slightly. "Sorry, what?"

"Yes, I slept well."

"I'm glad," I smile, and push up to lean against the headboard. I nervously pick at the sheet draped across my body. "I, uh," I clear my throat. God, I wish I was more smooth. Especially with her. "I think I like sleep overs. We should do it more often."

"You know I can't."

"Yeah." I force a smile, avert my eyes. "I know."

Sara leans over and presses a soft kiss against my cheek before moving to the edge of the bed and standing. She walks around my bedroom, collecting pieces of clothing scattered about the floor. I stay in bed and watch her dress.

"I'll see you at school?"

I nod. Sara leaves.

I glance at the digital clock; 6:11. School starts at 8:30. I don't have to get up for another hour, but I'm too awake to go back to sleep and too ADD to just lay in bed. I kick the sheet away from my body and scoot off the bed.

Dressed in a faded gray tank top and dinosaur boxer shorts, I pad through a dark, empty house, heading for the kitchen. I flip the light on, and search for food. Which I don't find. My parents don't buy groceries. They give me money for groceries, but I spend it on fun, not food. Sighing, I walk from the kitchen to the living room and plop down on the couch. As I flip through television channels, my mind drifts. I think about last night. Sara's never spent the night. It was nice, having her in my bed, holding her. "I need to stop," I mumble to myself. Paige would slap me for having these thoughts.

Paige. My best friend. She moved here sophomore year. I had lost a lot of friends the year before. I had no one. She was new, didn't know about my past, didn't care. We met at a school assembly. Both of us had snuck out of the gym. Me, because I can't stand school spirit. Paige, because a large crowd gives her a cigarette craving. We spent the whole hour smoking, getting to know each other, and making fun of the cheerleaders and basketball team. We instantly clicked. And we've been close ever since. She's the only person who cares about me. Seriously. My parents? They're not around enough to care.

My dad, Raife Davies, or Danger Davies as he's known to the world, was in an 80s rock band. They recently reunited, made a new record, and are touring across the world. My mom, Christine, doesn't work. To her, spending my dad's money is her job. Oh, and she's having an affair. Every time my dad goes away, she leaves the state, sometimes even the country, with her boy toy. I think they're in Maine, this time. I would feel bad for my dad, if I knew he wasn't doing the same with whoever, whenever, wherever.

Fucked up, right? What's even more fucked up – I'm exactly like them.

--

Senior year. It's supposed to be the best year of my life, right? Well, so far, it's been like any other year. Which means I hate it. I think the only people who enjoy senior year are the ones topping the social ladder. They walk the hallways, with their cocky smirks and judging eyes, acting like they own the school now that they're at the top. I can't stand them. And yet, I used to be one. But that's a story for another time.

Cradling a coffee and my bag, I lock up my car and start to make my way toward the courtyard. Paige is sitting at our usual spot. A table off to the side, shaded by trees. She has earphones in, listening to her iPod, and her cell phone in one hand, fingers quickly moving over the buttons. Texting her boy-of-the-week, most likely.

"Hey, girly," she says when I reach the table, removing her earphones but not looking away from her cell.

I set my bag down and sit, leaning forward to nosily peek at the message. "So, who's the lucky guy this week?"

"Brady. Met him at my mom's church." Message sent, Paige closes her phone and looks up. "After last night's service, in an empty Sunday School room, I gave him head while he had his choir robe still on. Filled me with the Holy Spirit."

I laugh, "You're going to Hell."

"I know," Paige grins wickedly. "But I'll be in good company." She picks up my coffee and takes a sip. "So, your night, how was it? Did she stay over?"

I can't hold back the smile that comes. I nod. "It was amazing."

"God, Ash, I think you're getting too caught up in this, in her. It's not good."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"No, really–"

"I won't be convinced. I saw the smile you just got on your face when I mentioned her. It was disgustingly big. Beaming, even. Lit up your whole damn face."

I roll my eyes and snatch my coffee from her. "I had a good night, that's all."

"You beam like that every time I mention her."

My head falls into my hands. I squeeze my eyes closed and groan. "I like her."

"You more than like her."

"I more than like her," I agree, wishing the statement wasn't true. I tip my head, leaving my chin resting on my palms, and see the 'I told you so' look on my friend's face. She warned me, I should have listened. "I'm stupid."

Paige nods, "A little, yeah."

The bell rings. Paige and I gather our bags. We enter the building together, stop by our lockers, then Paige tells me not to get caught drooling in first period before we part ways.

I shove through clusters of people clogging the halls. Normally, I would be one of the ones lingering in the hallway like I have no where to be when class is just minutes away. I'm not someone who is eager to get to class and get my learn on. But, this term, I'm excited about first period. Literature.

I finally make it there, and that smile Paige was talking about just minutes ago? The beaming one? I think I'm wearing it. Sara's standing outside the classroom holding a basket. My eyes travel down her form. She has on a fitted white button up top tucked into a black skirt that stops inches above her knee. Black heels. Light makeup. Teardrop earrings. Her long, dark hair is pulled back with a few loose snips outlining her face. She's looking much more grown up than this morning, when she was asleep in my bed. "Morning, Mrs. Pierce."

Sara nods, holding her face together. She's so much smoother than I am. "Ashley." She holds up the basket and gives it a little shake. "Pick a number."

"What's this?" I ask as I reach inside the basket.

"I'm putting you in pairs for a project."

"Project on the first day back from winter break? Kinda lame," I tease, removing a piece of paper. I unfold it and read my number; 11.

"I guess that makes me a lame teacher."

My eyes find hers. Brown burns into green. Without looking away, I whisper, "You're anything but lame, Mrs. P."

Sara holds out her hand. I slip the paper into her palm and watch as she scribbles something on the back. She refolds the paper and returns it. I close my hand around it.

"Go have a seat, Ashley."

"Yes, ma'am," I smirk, and move past her, taking a whiff of her perfume with me. Inside the classroom, I quickly scan the tables. To the left, I spot table 11, along with my partner for the project. Spencer Carlin. "Shit."

--