Chapter 1

I met Julia at my creative writing class in eighth grade.

I hadn't wanted to go. My mother had signed me up after we found out that my sister Darcy had been date raped last winter, so that I could "express my feelings about the situation." Of course, it was an unspoken assumption that she would be able to read everything I wrote, an idea that even daughters closest to their mothers would find repulsive at thirteen. I actually liked writing; I just hated the idea of Mom analyzing every short story for some underlying issue that she could immediately jump in and control.

Despite my complaints, every Tuesday and Thursday from 4:15 to 5:30, I dutifully walked over after school to the art center where I had taken Mommy-and-Me fingerpainting classes in preschool. The classroom was open, with a big window that let in natural light and long benches for writing. Although the class had been touted as "Our most popular class! Fills up fast so sign up now or miss out!" there were only six other students in the class, all of whom seemed much older than me, but were probably only two or three grades ahead. They sat comfortably chatting before class, swapping story ideas faux-casually but really attempting to establish their literary superiority over each other.

Even though the other students intimidated me, my teacher, Ellen, made the class worthwhile. She was an older lady, tiny with gray hair and intelligent eyes, that I immediately wanted to impress. Since there were an odd number of students and I was the obvious man out, Ellen was my writing partner for the first three weeks of the class, where I would clumsily read to her what I had worked on for the first half of each class. The knowledge that my mother was reading my notebook made even my innocent story about vampire romance feel stifled and painfully dull. Still, Ellen's suggestions were always helpful and though she gently encouraged me to write something more personal, she was never pushy, which I appreciated.

It was the eighth session when Julia barged into the classroom, throwing her backpack into a corner and opening the cabinet to grab a notebook, obviously familiar with the room. She sat on the same bench as me, but further down, scribbling fiercely into the notebook. I had been working with Ellen on my new chapter, trying to explain to her why it made sense for the fifteen year old heroine to live by herself instead of with her family.

"Excuse me for a minute," said Ellen in her gentle manner.

I nodded and watched her walk over to Julia. As they talked, I studied the newcomer. She was taller than me and skinnier, with long legs encased in black jeans and boots. Her hair was dark, too, and fell thickly across her back. Even from far away, I could tell she was pretty.

Suddenly, they both looked over at me. I glanced away quickly and pretended to make a note in my journal as they approached me.

"Clare," said Ellen. "This is one of my students from my school, Julia. She'll be joining our class and I thought you too could work as partners. She's a freshman. Julia, this is Clare, one of my favorite writers here. She's writing about vampires."

Julia looked at me. "Nice uniform."

I flushed. "I go to a Christian school," I explained. "I've been wearing this since kindergarten."

Julia sat down across from me and grabbed my notebook before I could react. "So, what's your story about? I'm obsessed with horror!"

"I'll leave you two to it," said Ellen, in that pleased way that adults speak when they sense they have successfully matched up two young people.

Julia looked up from my story, raising her eyebrow and giving me a slight smile. And even though she was a hundred times cooler than me, and even though after she was done reading my paranormal romance, she told me it was "a bastardization of the horror genre," I could just tell that we were going to be friends.

And we were.

Julia and I never once hung out outside of class; we were exclusively writing class friends. But somehow, that made our relationship tighter. I was never worried that she would judge me or tell my secrets to other friends, because our outside worlds simply didn't overlap. As I moved to high school, I gabbed to her about my new friends, Ali, Connor, and KC, how I maybe felt a little something more for KC than I would ever admit to him, and my worries about my sister, who had never really been the same after her ordeal.

Julia was more secretive. She had a serious boyfriend, I knew, that she constantly referred to, although never by name, and a seriously awful home life. I had been secretly envious of her slender body, until I realized that she was so thin because her dad spent all of their money on alcohol. After that, I never was jealous of her looks.

Despite her difficulties, Julia always dispensed useful advice. Per her suggestion, I started to keep two notebooks: one for light-hearted writing exercises that I wouldn't care if Mom read and another, secret journal so that I could really express myself. I even started to wear actual clothes, instead of my former private school uniform.

"If I know Saint Clare, she can ignore boys as well in jeans and a sweater as she can in a uniform," Julia had teased.

I was introduced to Chuck Palahniuk novels, dark gothic literature, and was convinced to ditch my hair straightener for my naturally curly hair. My writing got sharper too. I didn't write about "tough" topics yet, but I was no longer ashamed of what I produced. Sometimes, I read excerpts in front of the class, even though the older kids still made me nervous.

And then, two bombs dropped.

First, Darcy moved to Kenya. Although she said she wanted to atone for all of her mistakes, I knew she was running away to a place where she wasn't automatically known as the raped Christian cheerleader. We had never been particularly close, but I didn't realize how intensely I would miss my sister when she left. Within a month of her announcement, Darcy was gone and it was just Mom, Dad, and me.

The second happened during my final writing class of the session. I was waiting for Julia to arrive in class one day. I had just written a new piece, a poem about how I really felt about Darcy moving across the world with scarcely any warning. It was April 23 and I thought it was my best, most personal work yet. Ellen walked slowly into the classroom, wiping away tears.

"Class, I'm sorry to announce that, yesterday, one our dear members of our writing family passed away. Julia is no longer with us."

And, just like that, my friend was gone forever.