When I finished editing this, I looked over at my mom and said "Oh my goodness! I can't believe it's almost over!"

Today I'd like to shout out thelegitlazycow2.0 and Miraculous Marauder.

thelegitlazycow2.0 - Thanks for dealing with my random brain lags so much! You really helped to make this story pop onto the page! I loved how you were willing to be down-to-earth and honest with me, and your feedback helped me build realistic, well-rounded characters. You also helped me lots with figuring out how to make these stupid lyrics work. Thanks!

Miraculous Marauder - dunno if I told you this, but I originally selected you as a beta reader because I loved, Loved, LOVED your username/picture. However, you proved to be a very skilled and competent beta reader! I was always happy to converse with you and see what new things you had for me to work on! Thanks for all your help, I hope to be able to work with you again!

I don't own Grojband.

The February Thaw

Not long after my birthday, Rachel leaves for a while. She flies off to see her dad before Christmas comes and is gone all through January. Our house is empty; things are bleak. Mom wakes up in the mornings, fixes two or three mugs of coffee, and goes to fill a mug up with milk. Rachel always makes hot chocolate with milk. When she realizes, she sighs and sets the last mug back on the shelf with a sad smile. Whenever this pattern repeats, it makes me think of how it'll be in a few years when I leave. I can clearly see Mom pull down two mugs, and then tear up when she has to go put mine back. Even worse, I see her make two mugs, set one down on the counter at my place, and then remember I'm gone.

I could have used Rachel's bright spirit and her open door through the clear iciness on the first month of the year. Instead, I listened to Taylor Swift alone. YouTube recommends things to me, so for one week I listen to All Too Well, State of Grace, Drops of Jupiter, Paris, If Only, and Never Enough on repeat because that's all that comes on. Never Enough is a new song from a popular American movie. Other songs I listen to so much that I start to tap the beat out when I doze off include All About us, Kiss me Slowly, and A River Flows in You.

Bryson texted me about whether or not I wanted to go out again, and I thanked him but declined. We fell off. It's part of the endless cycle of 'you think you're good friends but then he wants to date and suddenly neither of you are allowed to talk to each other'. Corey, with Rachel gone, seems tamer, more chill. He surprises the band with some basic lyrics he came up with by himself. Since they're from Corey, they aren't the best, but better than a lot of the things he's done. We haven't used Trina's diary in months. People think we've started to gear up for a new album, but I feel really sheepish whenever people ask. Two songs isn't exactly an album, and that's where my not-so-secret comes in.

I started to write down all that's happened in my life and I've taken all the little sticky notes with lint stuck to the back full of ideas we won't use in these two songs and I've… combined them all. So I figure if I divide them up by beat and syllable counts, I have about six more songs I doodle on in my spare time. And it's weird; now that I've started to write the words come easier. One song is nearly complete. Maybe I'll show it to the band once the gig is over.

If I have to make a guess, I'd say that Rachel'll stay away until after Valentine's day. At our house, we have a small collection of Christmas Presents for her tucked behind the couch. We have a stack of mail that's come for her that we put on her dresser. The best package for her will be the copy of her book that came back from the editor with an outstanding review. We set it on her nightstand like the holy bible and told her to come home soon. She sent us a photo of her with her dad and the canals of Vienna behind her. I don't blame her for staying away so long.

That brings me to where I wait at the bus stop in the chilled February air as I miss Rachel. I sit on the curb with my coffee in a thermos beside me. My fingers are numb as I thumb to the band's group text. A notification blinks up at me: 'Big Gig in one month! Click for more info.' I don't need the notification; the band as a whole has drilled the chords of the new songs into our bones. My fingers bled at practice over the weekend because I rocked out too hard and the strings sliced my fingers. I feel like Rachel with all her edits.

I miss Rachel. I wish she was here, so she could drive me to school and let me pick out the music and then we could sing along to all her songs. Her car remains parked in the driveway, but I don't have a license yet, and I don't want to be in it without her.

The bus comes to take me away. I climb up and find a seat in the back. It's so strange how I want my perfect pretty cousin who everyone loves but no one respects back. I would have been so glad if this had happened the first week she was here.

The school is still empty, and there's no one to talk to. I only hang out with the band every other morning. Both Kin and Corey have college classes in the mornings, so they leave early and already aren't here. Kon has the first period off so he can volunteer at Peaceville Animal Shelter. That's his internship. I hang out with Antoinette.

Antoinette, Cleo, Margaret, and Susan like to hang out in the special needs classroom. Margaret and Susan are twins who were born connected at the thighs. The doctors cut them apart from each other, but both twins have no sense of touch in one of their legs. The government removed them from an abusive home at age nine. Both suffer a meth and cigarette addiction from their Mom and have some brain problems. It's sad.

Today is a bad day. Cleo has cried off all her mascara, and she trembles. Ames the duckling sits in an incubator on the side of the classroom, fast asleep. Antoinette looks like she hasn't slept. Margaret and Susan have gone into a state of mind where they can't see or hear anything. I pick my battles and go over to Cleo. Her mousy hair is in tangles and hangs around her head like an overgrown tree's branches. Her eyes, always red, have cracked, swollen, and turned purple. Black bruises line the corners of her eyes. Her lips have cracked and started to peel away. Bits of flesh peek out under the shreds of her skin. She bleeds from the mouth because she's bitten her cheek into a wound.

I find a comb in my bag and begin to untangle her curls. Antoinette has a water bottle at her feet. She wipes all Cleo's tears, careful to not irritate her face. I do my best to keep from pulling, but she hasn't washed her hair in what feels like days.

After a while, Cleo whispers "I can't do this anymore."

"Nonesuch talk," Antoinette says as she rubs her hands.

"I can't," Cleo admits. Her voice is the sound of a broken woman. I leave the comb and walk around to look her in the eyes.

"You are the strongest woman I know. You can do this. It doesn't have to rule you. You can overcome it."

She shakes her head, slow at first, then faster and faster. "You don't understand, Laney!" She yells. She pulls her hands from Antoinette's and the comb from her hair. Before she leaves the room, she kisses Antoinette on the forehead.

I glance over at Antoinette. "Was it me?"

She shakes her head with a smile. "No, it was good what you said. You only speak good Laney. She's in a rough patch. She'll get out; we all do in the end." I nod, and we hug, and I tuck the comb back in my bag as the bell rings for school to begin.

For the first time in months, I clean my room. I open the windows and let the frost creep into my room. I make my bed and clean out clothes I haven't worn for a long time. When it looks decent, I prop my door open like Rachel's always is and stare for a long while at the 'Keep Out' Tape on my door. I haul the vacuum up the stairs, and Mom comes to stand in the doorway as I vacuum my room out.

Mom brings up an old pushpin board she's had for a few years. Together we hang it up beside my bed and put up thousands of photos of my life. A few are old ones of a me I don't recognize: A red-haired baby, a toddler dressed in pink. Others are recent, me under the Statue of Liberty, a photo of Corey and I, and one of Grojband onstage at the New Years' gig.

As a final thought, I return to the door and pull off the layers of Keep Out tape hung up by my clumsy twelve-year self. Mom helps me haul out the junk down to the curb, and I see it all off with the garbage man. As I climb the steps and skip the squeaky stair, I find Rachel's contact and begin to facetime her.

"Hey!" She says as she picks up. Someone calls to her. She yells back over her shoulder in a language I don't know before she turns back to me with a smile.

"Hi!" I wave. "How's Vienna?"

"Oh, it's lovely. It's been great to spend so much time with my dad. How's school been for you?"

"It's going. Cleo's still in her rough patch, but Antoinette says she should pull through soon."

"That's great! Hey, I have a few things for you. I can't wait to get back and give them to you."

"I can't wait either. You still have to open all your Christmas gifts." She laughs.

"I'll be back soon, I promise. If I'm not, I'll never be able to catch up on school!"

We both laugh at that. We talk and laugh some more, and I guess that's my ab workout for today: laugh until my stomach hurts. I show her my newly-clean room, and since she's already shown hers, she walks outside and shows off the street. The canals look ugly and she says they smell. If you want a good picture you have to get the light just right so they can't see the ugly look of the water.

We hang up when Mom calls me for dinner. She stands in the room and watches while I say goodbye to Rachel, and then comes over and sits on the bed with me.

"You seem to like Rachel a lot." She says.

"Yeah, she's great," I say.

"You know-" She laughs. "I was so afraid you wouldn't get along when we first said she could stay with us. We worried you may be judgmental of her."

I laugh. "No Mom, Rachel's awesome. I was a little jealous of her looks at first, but I'm over it now."

She examines me with a mother's eye. "Well, her mother was a lovely creature. California girl. You're lovely too. You've grown up a lot this past year." If I have, I haven't noticed. She clears her throat. "Rachel…" She picks her next words. "Has had a very hard life, despite what she shows you. I'm glad you've been so considerate of her. She's talked to me a little, and I must say… I'm glad you don't have to deal with what she has to deal with."

I swallow at the grave tone in her voice. She meets my eyes. "Laney, is there anything I could help you with?" She asks. Mom holds my gaze and twists her hands in her lap.

There are so many things in my life: Grojband, our song, Bryson, Rachel, and Cleo, but none of it I feel like I need help with right now. "No mom," I say. "I'm okay." She thinks, smiles, and then leans forward and kisses my cheek. We walk down to dinner together. Sometime after that, my parents begin to treat me like their adult daughter rather than the teen daughter. I wish I could have stayed the teen a little longer.

They never told me. No one mentioned it to me. I found out the next day when the teacher read a note from the principal and I had to leave class. I was wroth and devastated. She made me so mad I became mad at myself. When all the anger was gone all I could think about was how hurt I was.

She was supposed to get better. It was a slump, a phase, a tough spot. I couldn't understand. It was an idea that danced out of my reach, like our god-forsaken lyrics for that stupid song.

I wish that I could go back and slap myself, point toward the door and say "Pay attention. This is the last time you'll ever see her. Go to her."

The truth is this: I don't remember the moment she stepped out of the room. It makes me feel horrible that I can't remember the last glance I had of her in perfect detail. I remember she kissed Antoinette's head, and I remember her sobs. "You don't understand, Laney!" She had said. Laney, my name, the last word I ever heard out of her mouth.

They say these people give out signs, cries for help. They're right, and I missed every sign. Every silent cry for help she gave.

"She's in a rough patch. She'll get out; we all do in the end." Only she didn't. She never did.

On February 9th, Cleopatra Syracuse took a gun and put a bullet through her skull. She was determined to go out of this world, to have it be the last thing she ever managed to do.

She succeeded.

"I hate her." Antoinette sobs as I rub her back and pull the heavy blanket over her shoulders again.

'You don't." I reassure her. She shakes her head and hides her face. If only her grief was as easy to hide.

"I do!" She bawls from inside the blanket. "How dare she leave me here, like this?! Didn't she care about me? How could she have given in?"

I pull her closer to me and rub her hair. She cries into my shoulder. My throat feels tight and my stomach is full of knots. I am angry too. Why did she think she could leave, and that we would get on without her? I swallow and put my head on Antoinette's shoulder to hide my tears. Breathe in, breathe out, I tell myself. I can't feel my heart anymore. The pain has spread from there and now everything from my gut to my elbow is in the kind of horrible pain the comes when you hold your breath and your body wants to crumble inwards on itself.

"I hate her, I hate her," Antoinette repeats as she shakes her head. Her lithe frame trembles under the crook of my arm. She wraps her icy fingers around my wrist and there is nothing in her eyes except tears.

It's hard for me to breathe. My throat squeezes in on itself, and grief crushes my chest. My throat feels dry. I try to swallow and end up choking back sobs while tears finally spill from my eyes. I wipe at my cheeks and check my hand. I expect to see the black streaks of mascara, but then I remember that I have waterproof makeup. The same waterproof makeup Antoinette gave me so long ago.

We curl up together and sit against the door to blockade everyone else. I don't remember where we are, only that I heard her cries from down the hall. We shut off the lights and cry in the dark for a very long time. It helps. She asks me to leave her alone. As I open and close the door, I see her close her eyes and fall asleep with her head near a collection of brooms and mops. The janitor's closet, I realize. A place to hide.

It's in the middle of the day. I missed almost four classes. I slip my phone into my hands and thumb to my contacts list. So many people I could call, so many friends I have. Cleo had lots of friends too, an entire group support system. Yet she never found the strength to reach out to anyone.

The names Corey Riffin, Kin + Kon Kujira, Rachel, and Mother Penn fill my favorites list. I click on Mom's contact and hear the phone start to dial.

Click. "Aello?" I hear her ask. She knows I haven't been in class today. I can tell from her voice.

"Mom." My voice cracks.

"Laney." She responds. Still hard, but with softer tones. "The school says they haven't seen you all day. Are you safe?"

"I-I, Mom can I come home?" The tears threaten to begin again. I wipe my lashes and feel the cracked skin underneath.

There is a long silence, and I hear the jingle of car keys. "I'm on my way." She says. "I'll call the school and tell them you're headed out ] early. We'll talk about your schoolwork later."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I love you, Mom."

"Love you too. See you soon."

I don't know where my backpack is. I walk down the hall, and go to the front commons of the school, near where Rachel usually parks. There's a bench near the doors, so I sit down and curl up a little.

"Laney?" I turn around and see that all three members of the band stand a few feet away. I wipe my eyes so that they won't see the tears and stand up. Kon moves forward and puts his arms around me. He is big and bulky, and warm. I lean into him and feel two other pairs of arms wrap around us. They lean more around me than they hug me since it's hard for anyone to hug Kon. I smell hand sanitizer and smoke and know it's Kin. I smell grease and fur and Kon's warmth overtakes me. I smell leather and wind and reach out to put a hand on Corey's chest.

Corey leans forward, and whispers "We heard what happened."

I let out a broken sob, and they hold me tighter.

The door behind us opens, and one more pair of arms come around me. Wiry thin hair, and apples.

"Hi, Mom." I sniffle. Everyone backs off, and she examines me with concern.

"Oh, baby." She sighs. "What happened?"

I clear my throat, and Corey sets a hand on my shoulder. "Cleo… died yesterday.

Mom's face drops, and I know she feels sorry. She tucks me under her arm and says: "Let's go home." I nod, and I hug each of my friends before we leave. She holds up the keys as we near the car. "Do you want to drive?" She asks. I shake my head, and even though the front seat is open, I climb in the back and sit in the tiny middle seat, so I can feel little again. At the start of the school year I fit just fine, but now my knees stick up. I'm older now.

We drive home in silence, and when we get home Mom sits me down at the bar and begins to make cookies. She lets me pour in things like the flour and vanilla. We talk about nothing. She leaves a good part behind for the two of us to go at with spoons to eat our feelings up.

"What happened?" She asks.

"The bullet is what killed her," I answer.

"I thought she was better?" Mom pursed her lips as she nibbled on cookie dough. I shove a large spoonful into my mouth.

"I don't know." I shook my head, swallowed, and said "I hate her. A lot."

She looks out towards the window and says: "Me too." She shakes her head and begins to gather up the dirty utensils on the counter. "You should call Rachel." She says. I nod and reach for my phone. I walk out of the room as the sink begins to run and as Rachel picks up.

"Heyy!" She says, super savvy.

I start to say: "Hey Rachel", but I'm interrupted by her saying: "I'm not available right now, so leave a message after the beep."

I almost begin to cry again and hang up. I walk back into the kitchen. "She's not there," I say. I set my phone down on the counter as she glances over her shoulder.

My phone buzzes and I glance down and it's Rachel. I pick up. "Hello?" She asks, sounding unsure.

"Hey, Rachel," I say.

"Oh lords, you sound awful!" She exclaims. "What's happened?"

I swallow and chuckle. "Um, one of my friends died yesterday."

"Oh god."

"Yeah." I sniffle and clutch the phone to my ear. "She um, I guess her head got worse, and-"

"She killed herself?"

"Yeah. She did."

There's silence on the other end. I swallow in the absence of words.

"I'm so, so angry at her," I tell Rachel. "I can't believe she would – leave us like that."

"Hush," Rachel commands, and in my mind, she's not in Vienna, but in front of me, with her hands on her hips as she waits for the next blow. "You can't do anything but love her memory. We mustn't let anger consume us."

"She. Left. Us." I say through gritted teeth. Doesn't Rachel understand?

"I know." She reiterates. "And nothing you ever do will change that. She committed the ultimate selfish act, and I'm sorry. Laney, you need to know suicide is ultimate desperation, selfishness, and utter nothingness. In life, people need to feel… something."

I hear her swallow. I can tell she's sitting down. There's a lot of rustles on the other end. It sounds like a car.

"Don't hate her. It won't change what happened, and it'll only hurt you in the end. Love her memory and keep going."

I clear my throat and nod. "Okay," I tell her. "Okay, I'll try."

"Good girl." She tells me. "Gosh, I'm sorry though."

I close my eyes and whisper "Me too."

"Want me to come home?"

"Gosh, that'd be great. I wish you were home right now. I'm glad you love Vienna so much though."

"Vienna?" There's a smile in her voice.

"Did you leave?"

"Ya, I'm actually with dad right now. Oh, sorry, your dad right now."

"My dad?"

"Go open the front door."

I jump out of my seat and rush to the front door with my phone still in hand. I hear Mom's right, left click behind me as I undo the locks and fling open the door. Rachel climbs out of Dad's car as the door clangs against the door stop. I trip down the steps as I run to her, and fall into her arms, where I hear my own sobs echoed through the phone. She laughs as I untangle my fists from her blonde curly hair, and I can breathe normally again.

Easter Eggs:

Me: Hits a Youtube Playlist. Also Me: Copies a list of songs into my story.

Bryson was based off a young man who tried to ask me out. The story of how that ended is hidden in Laney's story with Bryson.

That little bit on writing is how I got started. Just in case you are interested in going down a creative writing path.

Cleo is dedicated to a girl named Kaylee whom I knew who committed suicide.

The Janitor's closet they hide in is a reference to the book Speak.