At first, I thought things went fairly well.

We went on more dates, better dates than the bar. Lakes at sunset, diners, forest hikes—things young teenagers without much disposable income (At hand. How much do you really think my parents would give me?) could afford. None turned out quite as… exciting as the first night, but they were never boring.

That, I can credit to Clara. Dating her was always complicated and difficult, largely because she was a complicated and difficult person. I dated her for months, and at the end of it, I still barely knew more than her name.

We weren't like Yang and Blake. In one key aspect we were much the same, but several elements of our relationship were very, very different.

We were never closeted, for one.

I came out to my classmates the day after we started dating when, after I arranged a second date with her on the doorsteps to the school, I kissed her.

Not my brightest moment, I know, but I was fourteen. I hadn't quite grown out of stupidity.

Knowledge of my queerness spread quickly, stripping me of my few casual acquaintances I had gathered in my eight years of schooling. It wasn't as dramatic as I imagine you're thinking of—I mainly lost lab partners and easy cafeteria seating—but it was… noticeable.

My father wasn't happy with anything of this, of course, but I knew that going in, and quite frankly didn't consider it a negative.

That's something I should point out. I knew I was sacrificing a great deal by doing this. Unfamiliar as I was to the world of gay, I knew how my world would react to its intrusion. None of this, from the loss of acquaintances to my father's displeasure or even Clara's smoky breath whenever we kissed was unexpected. I knew this going in and was ready for it.

That doesn't mean it was always easy.

Three months after I started dating Clara, I walked through the schools halls, intent on grabbing my supplies from my locker and leaving for class before I was late, again.

I kept my head down as I walked, stepping around small clusters of people. A few, or most, stopped to stare as I passed by. Even more shared whispers in my wake, like spectators at a circus.

I could've confronted them. Had a few times, when each hushed word stung me like barbs, when each stare felt like boulders attached to my neck. But those feelings faded, and so did the desire, especially when my early efforts resulted only in detention.

Still, it meant I had to endure the long, pointed looks until I reached my locker. This was the only time I regretted my choice in location, a quieter corner near the library and an exit. It had its benefits, of course. The exit led directly to one of the more beautiful parts of the school grounds, a lightly shaded area that rarely became too hot. It was an excellent place to study when I wanted air that didn't smell of teenager.

The quiet part didn't apply that day. When I got to my hallway, I found a solid throng of people, classmates and otherwise. It wasn't as packed as you're imagining—it wasn't that large of a school—but still rather dense.

A steady murmur rose from the crowd, unintelligible except for sharp bursts of laughter.

A cold stone dropped into my stomach, but I payed it no heed.

"Excuse me?" I said, pushing through. "Excuse me, please, my locker's this way. Would you move, kindly?"

Said stone grew colder when the crowd parted to those last words. My fears were confirmed a second later when I laid eyes on my locker.

DYKE

FAGGOT

BEEBO FUCKER

Similar sayings covered the rest of the locker. Some simple insults, others more graphically detailed, written in shrinking font as the writer ran out of room. A few were offerings from several boys, who presumably saw the word "lesbian" and promptly forgot what it actually meant.

"Again?" I muttered, shaking my head. "Again?"

I unlocked and opened the locker, pulling the spray bottle and rag off the top shelf. With those in hand, I started cleaning the graffiti off.

The crowd thinned, but by and large lingered as I scrubbed. You'd imagine a fourteen-year-old cleaning would be about as entertaining as an empty glass, but apparently that's not quite true.

No one harassed me, at least, which was more than I could always rely on. A few of the older grades—men, mostly, although some women, enough I couldn't claim it was purely a gender thing—took it upon themselves to "convince" me of my "sinful" ways.

When the boys weren't catcalling me, at least.

Was it annoying? Yes. Very much so. But, and I don't mean to sound insensitive or blasé about it, they were just…words. Words from other people, words they used to label themselves apart from me.

All it achieved was to make me mad. Mad at them, mad at the school for letting this happen, mad at Clara for making the rumours so much worse, so much harder to deal with.

Mad at myself for being unable to stop them.

...

Fine. Maybe it did affect me, but the point is I could handle it. It required a slight... adjustment, but I could and did make that adjustment.

Part of that meant keeping cleaning solution in my locker, to handle whatever crap people drew on school property, so the school wouldn't blame me for "vandalism."

Thankfully, the ink came off fairly quickly. Soon, the only evidence left was a thin layer of black, and that would fade once it was washed properly.

I set the spray bottle and rag back into my locker and grabbed a change of clothes. I had gym first period, and no one wanted to be late.

This was the crowds cue to finally leave, allowing me free passage through the schools halls. I'm sure a few had something to say about me. I'm sure a few said those things to their friends, but that's not important.

It's not. Even if I paid attention or remembered, you wouldn't... you wouldn't want to hear them.

The only thing said that morning that mattered happened a few minutes later, when I finally arrived to a startlingly empty gym. I heard voices coming from the change rooms.

Mentally, I kicked myself. I might not have been late yet, but I would be by the time I actually got changed.

If I ever found the idiots who kept writing on my locker, I was going to kill them.

I never got a chance to continue my homicidal musings, or even get across the gym before someone called my name. "Weiss? Can you come here for a minute?"

I turned, and caught sight of Ironwood, leaning against his office door.

Ironwood served as both our gym teacher and the principle. If you ever meet him, you'd understand why in a second. He had to duck his head under all but the tallest of doorways, and had to turn sideways for some narrower ones.

Beyond that, I barely knew him. I was never the type of student that had to go to the office, nor did I tend to stand out in gym class.

(Oh, I was—and am—athletic enough. As fit as your sister, at least. I… suppose I'm not as strong as she is, but that's simply genetics. Or something)

I mostly knew him from how he acted with other students. Fair, firm, and quite stringent with the rules. He hated it when someone tried to word-lawyer their way out of a punishment, and if you ever back talked him…

It was nerve-racking, being called when I knew I was late. Like I saw a train speeding towards me, and knew I had to walk toward it.

"Good morning," I said as I drew close, swallowing to fix a suddenly dry throat. "I—I know I'm late, and I apologise. Someone drew some nasty things on my locker, and I didn't want to leave them on so I—"

He cut me off. "It's fine, Weiss. I…I'm aware of the situation. Believe me, I'm taking every step I can to stop it."

He looked at the change room door, just as a gaggle of laughing boys poured out.

"I'm afraid that's not what I need to speak with you about," he said, stepping back and opening his office door. "In here, please?"

I did as he asked.

There wasn't much in his gym office. He did most of his paperwork up at the main office, I believed. Still, he had a desk built into the wall, as well as a cheap office chair and several foldout chairs. A few pictures were stapled onto the wall, most of him and a significantly younger girl with orange hair.

"Everyone! Twenty laps then grab a ball and do some free-throws!" Ironwood called, before stepping in and shutting the door.

He sighed, bringing a gloved hand to his face and rubbing. He didn't exactly young beforehand, but the gesture seemed to age him forty years.

"Take a seat, please," he said, dropping his hand. He crossed the room as I set up a folding chair, sitting in it with my hands laid in my lap.

Ironwood leaned against his desk, crossing his arms and facing me. The cuff of his shirt showed a sliver of pure white where the glove on his hand stopped.

"Weiss," he began. "I… I hope you know the school, and I, will always support your right to receive the same education as anyone else, regardless of any of your… personal activities."

I blinked. "Of course I know that. Why wouldn't I?"

He sighed again, his eyes slipping down.

"There's been some complaints from the other girls in this class," he explained, looking up as he finished. "Regarding your… behaviour in the change room."

It took me a moment to figure out where he was going with this—but only a moment. I suppose you could call it paranoia, but I thought of it as more of a well-tuned instrument.

"I see," was all I said.

"I'm not saying I believe them, necessarily," Ironwood said. "But I'm sure you're aware of a school policy. If complaints have been made—"

"They have to be addressed," I finished.

"Exactly."

I shifted in my seat, the cold plastic now hot. "So how are you addressing it?"

He looked away, briefly. "Depends on you. You can wait until everyone's done and then go in, or take the extra room in back. Your choice."

Except it wasn't, really. None of this had been since I walked in here.

"I'll take the back room."

I found myself later that evening discussing my ban from the girls change room with Clara. She came over just after school, before either of my parents came home (thankfully), and took up residence on my bed. I stayed at my desk chair, fiddling with the fan I set to blow out the window.

It was an unusually warm day for fall.

"It's ridiculous," I said to her, glaring at the setting sun. It hurt, a bit, but I relished in the pain, glad to set my frustration against something, anything. "Absolutely absurd. The very thought is—"

"Don't stress about it," Clara said, cutting me off. Her words slurred slightly as she talked around the lit cigarette in her mouth. "I mean, I got kicked out three days into Grade 7."

I snorted. "I didn't actually stare at them. Or grope them, or make thousands of innuendos each time I opened my mouth. Besides," I muttered, looking down as my face burned. "They're far more distracting during gym class than before it."

Clara snorted, cigarette tumbling out of her lips as they mutated into true laughs. She caught it before it lit my bed on fire, but not before it left a ring of black.

I winced, but refrained from saying anything. Besides, I'd always wanted a dog. I guess having a Dalmatian coloured blanket was somewhat similar.

Clara took a long drag from her cigarette, eyes narrowing in thought.

"You know what you should have done?" Clara said. "You should have kicked Ironwood in the balls."

"What?"

"You heard me." She sat up, flicking ashes into a cup on the floor. Even after all this time, it was hard to read the expression on her face. "Kick him right in the baby maker. He's the one who banned you, isn't he?"

"The other students did," I corrected. "They're the ones making up stories. All he did was—"

"Kick you out."

"No!" I paused. "Technically, yes, but—"

"But nothing. He did it." She leaned down, grounding the rest of her cigarette into the cup to smother it. "Think about it, what were those girls going to do if he refused? Give you dirty looks?"

They already do, I thought, but refused to voice. A familiar spark had took root in my chest, and I loathed the thought of allowing her any victory.

"He didn't have a choice," I insisted, meeting her eyes with a steady look.

Clara didn't back down. "Course he does. He's the principle, Weiss. Even if the other teachers raised a stink, so what? He makes the rules. Literally."

"But what if he was wrong?" I asked.

Clara snorted.

I pressed on. "What if I was secretly watching all my classmates get changed, or touching them or whatever else they said. He'd be putting them in danger just because he thinks I wouldn't do it."

Clara rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious!"

"No you're not," Clara said. "Not even a little. If anyone else was saying this bullshit, you'd get in their case about that's just an argument to justify discrimination, compare it to assuming a black dude's going to steal something, yadda yadda—"

"I get the point," I grumbled, looking away from her and glaring at the carpet. Unrelated, of course. It was a dirty carpet. Quite filthy, really, and it was all her fault. Her and those damn cigarettes.

She smirked, before standing and walking over and past me, settling her head on my shoulder. Her hands wrapped around my torso, but below my actual, well, chest.

"You, babe, are pissed," she whispered into my ear, hot breath drifting across my skin. It would have been quite sensual if she didn't smell of a day old campfire. "And since the people you're actually pissed at aren't here, you're pissed at me. Am I on the right track?"

I jerked away as much as I could. "Not even close. And don't call me 'babe'."

She laughed, pulling away before leaning against my desk with a smug grin.

I crossed my arms. "You're intolerable."

"And you're an ass," Clara said. "With a nice ass, true, but still. An ass."

I opened my mouth to retort, (although with what I can't say, and I doubt I could've even then) but never got a chance as my bedroom door opened.

Father stepped in, lips curled into a harsh frown. "There had better be a damn good explanation for the news I received from the school today, young lady, or I'll—"

Finally, he noticed someone else in the room, turning to her in a tightly controlled motion. "Clara."

The girl in question raised an arm in a lazy wave. "Sup pops?"

Oh dear lord.

Father took a breath, glaring at her before moving his gaze to me. "Weiss? A word? In private?"

"O-of course." I turned to Clara. "Would you mind if—"

"Course," she said, pulling a carton from her pocket. "I'll wait here. Go have a talk."

I frowned. "That's not exactly what I meant."

"It's fine," Father said, letting out a heavy breath. "In the living room, Weiss. Now."

He gave another look to Clara, eyes diamond hard, before he turned and left. I could hear every step he took.

My father wasn't shouting or pacing when I arrived in the living room. He's far too controlled for such a damaging display of anger. But the grip on the sofa's armrest, his thousand yard stare into the wall, both laser-focused, were just as clear an indicator.

Thankfully, I didn't have to sit close to him. The living room, like every other communal room in the house, was designed for business as well as family, and so had plenty of seating options. It also meant it felt like an IKEA showcase, with the same effect on your willingness to touch any of the pristine furniture, less you leave a single thumbprint behind.

No one did much living in here.

I took a plush armchair, pointed away from and a metre and a half away from the couch my father was on.

He didn't move as I sat. "I got a call from the school today. Discussing your… suspension, from the locker room."

I swallowed. I had hoped he wouldn't find out for at least a few days, but I should have known how scant the chances were.

He shook his head minutely, before dropping it and sighing. "This is the third time this week Ironwood's called. Last time it was about your locker. The time before last was a fight."

"It wasn't a fight," I muttered. "Just an aggressive disagreement."

"You almost got suspended, Weiss," Father said, finally looking at me.

"Almost. So I didn't. Because I hadn't done anything worth suspending me over." I crossed my arms. "Besides, it's calmed down since then."

"It has," he admitted. "But there's much you're not aware of. I've heard your name in rumors my colleagues are sharing, rumors regarding your… patronage to a certain dingy, dirty, most likely illegal bar."

Damn. I should have known that would bite me again. I'd left a memorable scene in that bar, and I could only guess at how wildly exaggerated it had become in the three month period.

"We went once," I insisted, quietly. "And I'm never going back."

"You may not. But your precious Clara?" He sneered. "Why, she's a regular. Underage, of course, but why should that stop her from getting so drunk she can't walk? Or even stay conscious? Paid for on your dime, of course. Even if you're unaware of that."

I shot forward. "She's not a thief!"

"But she is an addict," Father stated, like he was speaking to an overactive child. "Her teachers tell me of empty bottles left in her wake. Our liquor cabinet empties whenever she comes over, and she absolutely reeks of drink."

He raised a brow. "Surely you're aware of the last, if nothing else."

I crossed my arms and looked away, ignoring how my skin burned at the insinuation. "It's a quirk," I insisted. "Besides, you'd find something to complain about with any girl I brought home."

"That's… likely right," he admitted, sighing. "And you're unquestionably right to think so. But this isn't just about that, and you know it."

He shuffled forward. "Think about the long-term, Weiss. This girl is toxic to your reputation, and by association my reputation. That hurts the business, when my customers hear about it. Your business, someday."

I shrugged. "So? I'm not dating Clara for them; I'm certainly not going to stop for their sake."

"Then for whose sake are you dating her for?" He asked. "Not for your own, certainly."

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

He laughed, darkly, quietly and without real humor. "Don't pretend to be a fool, and don't act like I'm one either. Call me a cold-hearted old man, but I know what love is, Weiss. And I don't see it between you and Clara. Affection? Yes. Lust? At times, but love? The kind of love that allows two lovers to survive and thrive in the face of the trails awaiting you? No. No, you don't have that. You never have."

I didn't believe him. Not then. But why would I? I was fourteen, assured my knowledge of the world was inherently superior to that of a grouchy old man.

Still, my conviction felt unsteady, like with each step I took the ground beneath my feet turned to dust.

"You're wrong," I growled.

"Hmm."

His jacket dinged sharply. He reached in and pulled out a pager, screen glowing bright green.

"Another big client," he mumbled, before suddenly standing. "I have to go, Weiss. This conversation isn't over."

"That's not up to you."

"It is today."

He walked past me, reaching and climbing the stairs at the end of the hallway connecting the living room to the rest of the house.

I didn't relax until I heard his study door slam shut.

I flopped against the couch, arms spreading over the cushions as my shoulders sagged. My eyes drifted shut, even as I scolded myself for messing with my sleep schedule. It wasn't a fight I could win. That little spat was the final straw, if said straw was made of lead and could be used as a replacement for the Calgary tower.

I almost did, in fact, drift off before a sharp voice rousted me.

"That guy is an absolute dumbass."

My eyes shot open as Clara walked in, thumbs jammed in her pockets. She stared down the hall my father went down.

"Clara, I—You shouldn't have heard—"

She shrugged. "It's fine, babe. Only heard the last bits anyways."

"So only the worst part."

"I guess, but like I said, he's a dumbass. Doesn't matter." She eyed me. "Does it?"

"Of course not," I said, standing and walking to her. "If you weren't, um, listening, then…?"

She smirked. "Figured I'd overstayed my welcome, so I decided to hit the road."

"I… suppose that's fair," I admitted, before tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. "It was nice to see you."

She made a face, fast enough I thought it to be a trick of the eye before smiling. "Hope so."

She leaned forward. "Kiss for the road, babe?"

I huffed. "So long as you agree to stop calling me that."

"No promises," she said, which I knew was as good as I was ever going to get.

I leaned in, pecking her on the lips. With her mouth closed, I couldn't taste near as much of the tobacco or whatever drink she had earlier, but I still got a whiff of it.

My mind drifted to what my father said, which isn't something you want to happen when you're kissing anyone, but was especially painful then.

I pulled away quickly, (clearly quicker than Clara expected, as I caught her stumbling) and gave her a shaky smile. "I'll pick you up tomorrow for school, like normal?"

She nodded. "Sure. Looking forward to it.

We stood there for a moment, silent, before Clara turned and left. I didn't need to go with her, she knew the layout of my house by now, and so I didn't.

My thoughts had dragged me too deep.

I… I couldn't fully deny what my father had said. Clara was a far kinder girl than people gave her credit for, but she was also undeniably difficult. Rough-edged at best, a knife-wielding cactus at worst.

Yet if that was the issue I struggle with, if the only problem with Clara was the chance of pain and annoyance due to her personality, then I would be fine with that.

"For whose sake are you dating her for?"

For my sake. I knew that. I believed that, even if my father didn't. But I was having a great deal of trouble identifying that sake.

I've told you a great deal about her, haven't I? Think, what exactly did we have in common?

I had a prickly side, just as she did, but mine was thorns jutting out from my skin, and hers was her body, shaped into shattered glass. One moment where your luck fails you, where you fail the see the tiny shards or move your hand just the tiniest bit too fast, and you draw blood.

She was loud where I was quiet. Unruly when I was meek. Aggressive when I wanted nothing more than to go unnoticed, and even if I didn't fully understand it, broken in ways I could not comprehend.

Did we share anything, save our love for the rounder things in life? Was there anything to draw us together, rather than push us apart?

In that living room on that day, I could not name a single thing.

But it didn't matter, did it. I told myself that, even as I denied why. I kept saying she was my girlfriend. That I cared about her, wanted to date her—and yet, even in my head I danced around the term.

I knew the truth. Staying with Clara had nothing to do with her. I wanted to prove father wrong. I wanted to show him we could stay together, that we weren't doomed to failure because of who and what we were.

Or maybe that was a lie.

Maybe I was just scared.

Klein never liked driving me to Clara's house. He never said so directly, of course, but I'd known him for most of my life. I knew how to read the creases of his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the glances he shot me every time we stopped.

I couldn't blame him for that. Clara lived in part of the original city, built back Hudson's Bay Company founded it. Their house dated to about the same time, having been passed down through the family ever since. I'd never been inside—Clara never asked—but I'd seen it. It stretched across enough land to be comfortably labelled an estate, and even with classically small windows, there was enough glass stuck in the walls to make a football stadium sized fish bowl.

It was impossible to ignore it, even standing at the far end of the ridiculously long driveway. Looking away, plugging your ears—nothing could erase the awareness of the four-story tall house standing before you.

But then, it wasn't just a house. It was a home. Clara's family's home. Generations of people had lived here. And died.

This was the kind of place where the past and the future have a habit of catching up to you.

I didn't really know that then. I just thought it was a weird old place that made me feel awkward.

Nor did it matter then. Klein drove me without a moment's hesitation, and we arrived at seven thirty—long before the start of school, but late enough I thought (hoped) Clara would be awake.

My expectations were satisfied on that account, at least, as we rolled up to the front gate.

She sat at the front gate, back pressing into it in such a way that made it obvious it was the only thing holding her up. Her clothes, I noted, were the same as yesterdays, if grungier, and when I stepped out of the car and she looked up, lips splitting into a wide, if slow grin, my suspicions were confirmed with a sniff.

"Weissy!" Clara exclaimed, raising her arms like a toddler demanding a hug. "Weissaroonie. Babe, baby, princess, icey... You came!"

I kneeled down, wondering why exactly I wore a skirt instead of pants. "Of course I did," I said, grabbing a beer can off the ground.

Cheap beer too, as if the universe had to throw me one final indignity.

"How many of these did you have?" I asked. Around her I could see at least five, along with a few other bottles that may or may not have once housed drink. It was possible some of these weren't connected to her, after all. We were right next to a road.

"I dunno," Clara muttered, head rolling to the side. "A lot? Probably. More than like, two."

"More than two."

"Mmmm…" Her eyes floated away. I somehow doubt it was intentional. "Yep."

"Right." I stood, looking at the estate. "Did your parents kick you out again?"

"They're dummies."

I sighed. "That would be a yes."

Clara giggled, which was a bad warning sign. Clara didn't start giggling until she had almost poisoned herself. It would take her most of the day to sober up enough to walk, let alone go to school.

I couldn't just leave her out here, either. Sure, a vindictive part of me considered it just punishment for getting as drunk as a Scot in a drinking contest, but it wasn't summer anymore. With her state of inebriation and her complete lack of anything but a far too tight t-shirt, (Don't give me that look) leaving her out would be tantamount to killing her.

I… I didn't want that, obviously.

I grabbed Clara's hand and pulled her to her feet. She leaned against me, hard, and since she had twenty pounds on me that meant I nearly fell over. Only weeks of practise saved me, and dear god it's depressing to say I had practise at hauling a drunk women around.

"I'm going to be late," I muttered as I pulled her towards the car. Clara didn't hear, or least gave no indication she did. "Again. For the twentieth time this year—this semester. I'm only four months in."

"You'll be fine," Clara said, each word plodding like an elephant in a minefield. "Who'd punish Miss. Wonderful?"

Klein had stepped out of the car and opened the back door for me. I shot him a grateful look as I loaded Clara into the backseat. Laying down, of course. I knew getting her to sit up would be a fool's errand.

Klein had also put garbage bags on the seat and floor, in case Clara didn't react well when the car moved. It had happened a few times, and it was far cheaper to simply leave a box of garbage bags in the trunk than to pay someone to clean the interior every time we did this.

Garbage bags. In a car more expensive than a college education.

"I take it we're not going straight to school?" Klein said, watching as I brushed a hair out of Clara's eye. Her forehead was sweatier than gym socks, but also worryingly cold.

Damn. How long had she been out here?

I shook my head. "We'd be thrown straight out if we went now," I said, backing out of the car and shutting the door.

I looked over my shoulder at the estate. "And I somehow doubt she'll be allowed in there until night. If that."

"I see."

"Father's not home, is he?"

"Not until late tonight, no."

I looked back at him, then down to Clara, whom I wasn't quite sure was still conscious.

"We'll take her home, I guess. Get her to a bed, let her sleep this off." I sighed. "I mean, what's another tardy for the permanent record?"

"Nothing worth the suffering of another," Klein admitted. He looked at the back seat. "Although forgive me if the thought crosses my mind."

"Be a bit hypocritical if I did," I muttered.

Klein gave me a small smile, before climbing into the driver's seat and igniting the engine. With the back full, I took the passenger seat.

Clara stirred as the car started moving, groaning when a ray of light crossed her face. She tried to push herself up, which she did mostly succeed at, but I couldn't say she sat up because she wound up leaning against the door instead.

"If the madam begins to feel sick, kindly lay back down," Klein said as we rounded the corner. "These seats are rather nasty to clean."

"Shut up Jeeves," Clara grumbled, before letting out another sickly moan.

"Good to see you're still conscious," I said, looking at her over my shoulder. In the plush interior of the car, her raggedness became even more apparent. Clumps of dirt and grass stuck to her clothes and skin, and her eyes, visible only through thin slits, were as red as Rudolph's nose.

"Course I am, babe" Clara said, attempting to rub her eyes with her arm and instead tapping her nose. "How could I… could I sleep when I've got such a pretty looking girl looking at me, ice babe?"

…Okay, this was a bit much, even for her.

I turned and held up a hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Clara's squint turned to a glare. "…Are you shitting me?"

"No."

"I'm tipsy, not concussed," she said, or at least attempted to, as "concussed," came out like Daffy Duck had said it.

"Just answer the question!"

Clara shook her head, which caused her hair to fall in front of her eyes. "Like, five? Ish."

It was two.

"You can't even see straight," I said, dropping my hand. "Jesus."

"Language," Klein chided.

"Fine, maybe I'm a little drunk," Clara admitted. ("A little?" Klein muttered, low enough only I could hear him) "But you gotta stop it with that look on your face."

"What look?"

"That look!" Clara pointed at my face, which, thank you Clara, I didn't know where the face was. "That… judgy thing you're doing with your lips, and eyes, and eyebrows, and—yeah!" She jabbed her finger forward. "That one! The one you're doing right now!"

I turned around, crossing my arms as I stared out the window. I recognised some of the buildings, and up ahead I saw the hill leading towards my house.

A sigh escaped my throat. "I just… can't understand how you can do this to yourself, day after day."

"Not my fault," Clara slurred, falling to the seat as we rounded a corner. "Only way I can get the fuck out of my head…"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

I didn't get an answer. At first, I thought Clara had fallen asleep, or had sobered up enough to realise she didn't want to answer.

Then, I heard retching.

At the end of it all, I was an hour-and-a-half late getting to school. My teachers were understandably annoyed, but no one raised any kind of official punishment, not even a detention. I suppose Ironwood must have thought I was held up by something related to my locker, or a mugging, or Emma Frost, or literally anything other than what it actually was.

At any rate, the day was mostly normal, up until I returned to my locker at the end of the day. I had gym last period—playing lacrosse, believe it or not—and thanks to Ironwood's new rules it took me a few minutes longer to get into and out of class, so the hallways were mostly clear, save a few stragglers and the janitors, already working to scrub the halls of dirt.

What that meant, however, was a convenient lack of suspects when I arrived at my locker, and found it once again covered in graffiti.

I stared at it for a moment, gym strip hanging loose in one hand while the other curled into a fist.

"Does no one have anything better to do than this?" I asked.

I shook my head and marched across the hall, throwing my locker open and grabbing the spray bottle and rag.

When I shut the locker and went to clean it, however, the text caught my eye.

CANT WAIT TO SEE YOU ROT IN HELL, YOU DYKE BASTARD.

GONNA MAKE YOU BLEED. SHOW YOU HOW A REAL MAN FUCKS

GONNA MAKE YOU OURS, BITCH

Nothing else was written on the locker.

The spray bottle shook in my hands as I stepped away, a cold feeling spreading through my stomach. I was suddenly hyper aware of just how empty the surrounding halls were,

It was bravado. It had to be. There was no way anyone who wanted to do… that to me would be stupid enough to give me evidence. It was probably a bunch of boys egging each other on, until they managed to convince themselves this was somehow a good idea.

I swallowed, raised my arm, and sprayed the locker.

I started scrubbing after a few squirts, but the ink didn't even smear. It didn't matter how much force I used or solution I sprayed, the words remained on the metal, mocking me with each sweep of my arms.

"Having trouble?" someone, a girl, said.

I jumped. Not out of fear, mind you, but simply… reasonable caution.

I turned. The girl was one of the school's lacrosse players, as well as one of my classmates. She had several inches on me, because of course she did, as well as considerably darker skin. It contrasted nicely with her lime hair, although I mean nicely in terms of colour composition, not attractiveness or anything ridiculous like that. Even if I was, the sports jersey thing she wore ruined it, sweaty and decidedly unflattering as it was.

"I'm fine," I growled, turning back to the locker. Whatever the hell those idiots wrote with wasn't coming out, so I threw in the towel by opening the locker and shoving my cleaning supplies in.

She put one hand on her hip, the other used to lean against the wall. At the sight of the rag in my hand, she gave an extremely punchable smirk. "You know, I heard baking soda's real good at getting out stains."

"What do you want?" I half-growled.

"Oh, nothing," the girl said, checking her nails on her free hand. "Just thought I'd stop by, see how you're doing with… well, you know."

"The death threats?" I muttered, too low for her to hear.

"Oh, you haven't, have you?" she said.

I sighed. "No, obviously, I haven't." I looked at her. "What is it this time?"

Her smirk widened, even as her voice gained a layer of false sympathy. "Oh, well, if you haven't heard already then maybe I shouldn't tell you. Wouldn't want to break your poor little heart."

I did not have the patience for this bullshit.

I slammed the locker shut, hooking the lock on. "Look, I don't have time to play games right now, so if you'll excuse me…"

I tried to push past her, but she grabbed my wrist. Tightly.

"Oh, fine," she said, rolling her eyes. "If you're going to get all huffy about it, I'll tell you."

My teeth clenched. "Tell me what?"

"I'm honestly surprised you don't know," she continued. "I thought your girlfriend would have wanted to share."

I wanted to punch her.

So. Much.

She quirked her head. "I guess a threesome would be pretty hot. For him, at least."

It took me a moment to figure out what she meant.

"You're lying," I said once that moment ended. I tried to pull her arm off. "You're a dirt, lying scoundrel, and you need to let me go, right now!"

Her grip tightened hard enough to hurt, but before I could even yelp, she let go.

"Please, if anyone's lying here, it's you," she said, before stepping closer. Much, much closer. Close enough I began to seriously question how sure I was the message was written by boys.

"She didn't want to play around anymore," she said, leaning closer and closer. "Wanted something real. Something you couldn't give her. So she whored herself out, got some old man to get her drunk, and fucked him all night."

Her lips curled up. "Guess that's how things like you get attention, isn't it? Whore yourselves out, like the filthy degenerates you are."

Here's a self-defence tip. Even if you're dealing with a girl, kneeing them between the legs still hurts like hell.

She yelped, stumbling back. Her arm pushed against the wall as she relied on it for real support, while her other arm wrapped around her lower stomach as she bent forwards.

I walked past her with a satisfied smile on my face. She looked up with a snarl, but before she could react, I was already gone.

I quickly made my way out of the school, hiding behind a tree near the entrance. I waited until I heard the doors fly open, followed by a storm of spat curses and elaborate promises of revenge. Eventually, she left for good in a car full of her teammates.

I fell to my knees, the adrenaline crash leaving my limbs weak as a newborns. Eventually, I'd have to deal with that girl, as well as her friends, but for now…

Now, what she said gave me a far more pressing problem.

I would love to say I immediately dismissed it all. That I trusted Clara, knew she would never consider doing that to me. But that would be a lie.

To some extent, I believed it. All of it.

There isn't a decision on the planet I regret more.

My father's car wasn't in the garage when I arrived home, a sight which unwound some of the pressure around my heart. The discussion I needed to have with Clara was going to be difficult enough as it was. Adding my father would make it impossible.

That said, maybe I wanted it to be impossible. I was still nearly choked with fear. It was to the point where Klein—who had driven me home in respectful silence—had to ask if I was okay when we finally got in.

I smiled at him, willing myself to stay calm. "It's nothing," I said. "I just need to talk to Clara. Privately."

The look of worry on his face didn't abate, but he didn't argue. I suppose he thought I would tell him in time, or if not, then the issue was some teenage fancy; a slight I would soon forget.

"She's on the upstairs balcony," he said, lips curling into a light sneer. "Smoking."

I thanked him, before heading up to the second story.

The balcony Klein mentioned was at the far end of the second story hallway. You have to walk past my room, my sister's old room, my brother's room, my mother and father's room, my father's study, two bathrooms, and more paintings than an art museum.

(I stopped briefly at my room to dump my backpack, noting the rumpled state of my bed. A pillow laid on the floor, along with an errant shoe I knew not to be mine)

(She hadn't slept well)

Despite how many rooms I had to pass, the hallway itself wasn't terribly long. Not long enough for my momentum to stop, not long enough for me to think through what I was about to do, to linger on accusations spoken, nor on words written.

The doors leading to the balcony were a mix of white-painted wood, (because of course) and glass. However, rather than any uniform design, the wood seemed to grow into the glass, like the roots of a particularly odd tree.

I laid my hands on the one incongruous element, the metal handle.

I pulled in a breath, turned the handle, and stepped out.

Leaves crunched under my feet, reminding me of the shoes still on my feet. I felt a flash of guilt for the dirt I tracked in, but it vanished quickly as I looked forward.

The balcony wasn't large. My father had a small table stuffed in to the left, while an unused barbeque sat to my right, but by and large, the space was meant for people. People to come out, have a breath of fresh air and pretend you were at peace.

Clara stood at the other end of the balcony, a glowing ember in her outstretched hand. The other gripped the railing, a stray finger tapping against the surface. The sky unfolded behind her, a mix of orange and purple as the sun set. The image was marred, however, by the thick grey clouds getting closer and closer.

Clara turned as I opened the door, lips splitting into a smile.

"Heya Weiss," she said, flicking the cigarette off the edge. "Thanks for dragging my sorry ass here. And the aspirin. And, uh, not forcing me to go to school, and stuff."

"Klein gave you the painkillers," I said, walking to her.

"I'll thank him too." She gave me a look, smile fading away. "Your dad giving you shit about me?"

I shivered as I reached the edge. It had gotten warmer during the day, when the sun was out, but now it was setting, and the temperature dropped with it.

"It's not that," I said, gripping the railing. "I heard a rumor, today. About you."

"Oh." She shook her head. "Great. Just great. What'd you hear this time?"

I looked at her. "That you were with someone last night. A guy. That you were… with him, with him."

She stared at me for a moment, frozen in place like a deer.

Then she turned towards the railing, gripping it with both hands and staring into the distance.

"That's bullshit," she growled, looking back at me as her knuckles turned white. "That's bull, Weiss, you—you know that. I would never—"

"I found you half-dead this morning, Clara," I said, closing my eyes. "Drunker than I'd ever seen you, still dressed in yesterday's clothes, not even inside—did you even make it home last night? Or did your date drop you off there?"

She smacked the railing. "He wasn't a date!"

My stomach curled in on itself. I could hardly breathe. "So it did happen."

"I…" Her lips soundlessly moved for another moment, before her shoulders drooped. "The guy bought me some drinks, we… talked—flirted, I guess, but that's it."

I rolled my eyes. "What an achievement. You didn't have sex with a creepy old man. Do you want a medal?"

"He wasn't fucking old, Weiss," Clara said, before running a hand through her hair. "Or creepy, or anything like that. It wasn't—it wasn't like I went out looking for a date, I just—I was there, he came over, started complimenting me, called me… pretty. Beautiful. And I know he was probably trying to get me in bed, but it felt… it felt…"

She quieted, until it was difficult to hear her voice over the wind. "It felt nice for someone to say that stuff about me. To feel like someone actually fucking wanted me, for a change."

It felt like my heart stopped. I turned away from the ledge, watching her eyes begin to shimmer. "Clara, I…"

"Don't try to lie to me, Weiss." Clara shook her head. "I… I get it. I'm not really your type. I'm just… the only girl you could find."

I stepped towards her. "No, no, that's not—no, Clara, I do—honestly, most of the time I do like you, like that, it's just…"

I couldn't meet her eyes. "It's just… with all the smoking and drinking you do, it feels like I'm kissing an ashtray."

"It's not just about the kissing," Clara said. "I mean, Weiss, we're three months into this thing and we're still going on dinner dates, having awkward talks and maybe, maybe kissing at the end, if it's been a while and you feel guilty. You don't like me coming over—don't deny it. You'd have invited me at least once if you did."

I couldn't really deny that. Not in the way I wanted to, at least.

I swallowed. "You're… you're right. I'm not entirely comfortable with—with you."

I grabbed her shoulder. "But that's not because of you, it's because of everything. You're my first date, let alone my first girlfriend. I'm just… I'm not ready to move faster."

She pulled my hand off. "I'm not asking you to drop your pants, Weiss. I don't even want that shit yet. I'm talking about anything, anything to show me actually want to move forward, that this isn't a scam so you can tick off a box saying 'I have a girlfriend!'"

"It's not like that!"

"Course it isn't," she said, before laughing. "Think I haven't been where you are? Prissy control-freak parents who want 'the best for you,' except you're a raging dyke. They try to stuff you down a hole, so you get back at Mommy and Daddy by dating the most lesbian lesbian you can find."

Again, I couldn't deny anything she said. How could I, when not so long ago I thought almost the same thing. When I could still feel the simmering resentment towards my father.

"It…it started as that, yes," I admitted. "But that's not what it is now."

"Is that true?" Clara asked, turning away from the railing and meeting my eyes. "Then come on, say it. Tell me you love me."

My mouth dropped open. "What?"

She stepped forward, close enough she had to tilt her head to remain locked with my eyes, even though she wasn't that much taller than I was.

"Tell me you like me," she continued, her voice low and gravelly. "Tell me you care for me. Tell me you think of me as something other than a means to an end."

I hesitated, words caught in my throat like the air itself was choking me.

Clara started to pull away.

"I love you!" I said, grabbing at her arm. "I… I love you, Clara. I do."

She stopped moving. Stopped pulling away, stopped breathing, for one second. One never-ending second.

Then she stepped back. A humorless laugh tumbled from her lips as she turned away, looking over the balcony edge.

"First rule for lying," she began, producing a cigarette and lighter. She stuck the first in her mouth, lighting it with the second. "Don't overreach."

I could've denied it. I could've insisted my words were genuine, but what would be the point? I'd lost. My trickery—for that's what it was—had failed.

"I'm sorry," I said instead, my breath misting in the air as the temperature dropped.

Clara shook her head. "You know what's so stupid about all this? The really fucked up part? My parent's would've loved you. You're… dignified, rich, your family's respected… if you had a dick, they'd try to duct tape us together."

Would've.

The end of her cigarette glowed as the sun touched the horizon. She pulled the cigarette out and tapped it against the railing.

"And of course, my best chance at being something other than a drunk fuck-up," she said in a shaking voice. The cigarette fell from her fingers.

In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to that last sentence. But I was still stuck on would've, on the implications of the past tense.

"Is that it, then?" I asked. "Is this us breaking up? Is that what this is?"

Clara's eyes slid shut. "What do you think?"

"…I don't know."

Clara chuckled. "You're really shit at lying."

She stepped away from the railing. "I'm gonna head home, face the music. If I'm lucky, my parents will be in a good mood. They, uh, usually are, after I break up with a girl."

She gave me a long look, then walked to the door.

As she laid her hands on the handle, I spoke up. "I… I'm not going to throw you out, Clara. If you need a place to sleep, there'll always be a place for you here."

I swallowed. "I do care about you. That's not a lie."

She turned and looked me in the eye, but whatever she saw in there wasn't enough to keep her from going through that door.

I counted her footsteps until I couldn't. Then I turned, waiting for the stars and moon to shine brightly enough to see.

By the time they did, she was gone.

Yes, Jacques is a bit out of character here, but that's because I based him off my initial impressions from his appearance in Volume 3, before Volume 4 and 5 even existed. I have tried to re-rail him a bit, but I need him more not-abusive in order for the story I have planned to work.