Sally's at her piano when I visit on Wednesday afternoon. Her head is bent low, so her blonde hair falls over her face. She plays very fast, hitting the keys with great force. I wonder if this is where she spends all her time, rooted to the piano bench, banging out her funeral marches, oblivious to the world that exists around her. I don't know. I don't really know much about her. She knows so much about me, all my dirty little secrets, all my dirty little lies. Maybe that's how Sally likes it. She is aloof and mysterious, hidden in the shadows, and gets to see inside everyone else's lives.

"Do you ever leave that piano?" I inquire, stepping through the doorway, crossing the room to her.

"No," she answers without glancing up.

"It must be lonely."

"It's not."

I stop beside the piano and rest an elbow on the side. I watch Sally, eyes raised to the sheet music in front of her, expression relaxed and serene. She doesn't look at me. She keeps her attention on the music.

"How was your Christmas?" I ask her.

"Mostly good," she answers. "I like New York at Christmas. I wouldn't want to live there though. Too many weirdoes."

Is Sally White really the person to judge whether others are weird?

"So, why is Greer a moron?" I ask. Sally wouldn't tell me on the phone last night. She said the memory was too upsetting at the moment.

Sally snorts. "Because she is," Sally replies. She finally sits up straight, so I may see her clearly. She shakes back her hair. Never once do her fingers leave the piano keys. "So, Christmas Day in the afternoon, Greer and I meet at a coffee shop. We were only staying three blocks apart after all. We're together for, oh, thirty minutes or so, drinking our coffee and making fun of all the losers hanging out at a coffee shop on Christmas Day. Then this boy comes in. Eighteen, nineteen. Tall, cute, curly black hair. He picks Greer up. He picks her up in ten seconds flat. She leaves with him. Greer Carson is a moron."

My jaw drops. Why am I even surprised?

"I think Greer," Sally continues, "is one of those people who is smart about everyone else's life but their own. She gave you mostly good advice, although she's a bit of an enabler. But her own life? She is a moron. She obviously didn't learn from your mistakes. No offense."

"None taken," I reply and honestly, I'm actually not offended. Surprisingly enough. "I guess Greer thinks she safe because she's on the pill and makes the guy wear a condom."

"The pill and a condom won't protect her from being bludgeoned to death," Sally says, dryly. "My sister was plenty agitated about the whole thing. She was at the coffee shop with us. She was in the bathroom when Greer ran off with Prince Charming."

I raise my eyebrows. "You have a sister?" I ask.

Sally looks up at me. "Yes," she replies. "A half-sister, actually. I have a half-brother, too. They're from my father's first marriage. They're older. Early-thirties. We stayed with my sister in New York. She's a costume designer for Broadway shows."

"I didn't know that."

"Why would you? I never told you. For once, your lack of information isn't due to your lack of listening skills."

"I'm working on that."

"Good. You should."

I raise my eyebrows again, even though I know she's right. I could do without her being so upfront about it though. "So, are you mad at Greer now?" I ask.

"No. I just think she's a moron. Greer isn't so bad, really. A bit annoying, way too dramatic, and of course, quite idiotic when it comes to boys. But she has her good points. She can be fun when she isn't preening or showing off or flirting with strange boys."

"Wait - you're saying you like Greer, right?" I interrupt.

Sally actually chuckles. It's low and slight, but a chuckle nonetheless. "In spite of her many, many faults, I like Greer," she confirms and smiles somewhat, the corners of her mouth barely inching upward. "Of course," Sally says, her voice cool and smooth, "I much prefer you and Kat. I even like that Abigross and I think I could like Lindsey if she wasn't so convinced that everyone must like her. Meg Jardin, I can do without."

My eyebrows go up for a third time. "Are you admitting that you like us?"

"I'm sure I've told you before. Probably you weren't listening."

Probably she's right.

"I should warn you, however," Sally continues on, "that while we were in New York, my mother talked about New Zealand a lot. She's become fascinated with the country."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, confused.

"It means we may be moving."

"To New Zealand?" I gasp.

Sally raises her shoulders slightly. "Maybe, maybe not. My parents promised we wouldn't move again until after I graduated. Of course, parents don't always keep their promises, do they?"

I shake my head, slowly, sadly. Parents are disappointing people. Sometimes. Some people's parents at least. Like mine.

"I actually think I might miss you if you leave," I admit. I surprise myself admitting it. I surprise myself even thinking and feeling it. Will I ever figure out when I stopped loathing Sally White? I suppose it doesn't matter.

Sally raises her eyes. She's surprised too. I see it passes over her eyes, quickly and disappear. "Really?" she says and her voice loses that bored tone. It's her other voice, the voice she's slipped into once or twice before. It's younger and higher. I suspect it's her real voice, a voice she hides, hides behind a toneless fake one like a protective shield. "I don't think anyone's ever missed me before," she says.

"I would be the first then," I tell her. "Or one of the first. I think Kristy might miss you, too, although she'd never admit it."

Sally smiles, slyly, like she holds a secret. "I wouldn't admit the same to her either."

I laugh.

"You look much better than you did on Thursday," Sally observes. She finally rests her hands on the piano keys. She's finished. She drops her hands to her lap. "Let's go up to my room," she suggests and slides off the piano bench. "You've started eating again?"

"Yes."

Sally leads me up the stairs, floorboards creaking beneath our feet. We wind our way up to her bedroom. It looks the same as before. Most bare, except for the boxes. No wonder she didn't unpack. She suspected what could be coming. How awful to constantly live in limbo. In limbo is where I currently reside, a transitional state, but I don't intend to remain here forever. Not like Sally, who has spent her entire life here, always somewhere in between, never belonging, never staying long enough to begin to belong.

Sally shuts her bedroom door. She throws herself on the bed, on her stomach and kicks her legs. She's wearing tan suede boots. They look brand new. I bet her parents gave them to her for Christmas.

"What was the abortion like?" Sally asks, bluntly.

"You mean the actual procedure? I don't know. I mean, I was under anesthesia. It was quick. It took only ten minutes or so. Afterward, I was tired and I spotted and cramped for a few days. That's stopped now. Now it's like it never happened." I bite my lip and shrug.

"Are you regretting it?"

I shrug again. "I don't know. Sometimes, I guess. I wish things could have been different. Obviously, I wish they could have been different. But then...I'm so relieved it's over. I don't have to deal with the pregnancy anymore. I just have to deal with everything that comes after." I bend one of my legs underneath me in the armchair. I tap the heel of the other foot against the floorboards. "I saw Wes, you know. Before the abortion. I think I understand what you were trying to tell me all along. You and Greer. But mostly you. Wes will never be the same and it's all my fault. And you know what? He's worried about me. He wants me to see a therapist. So does his mother. I don't think I could do that though."

Sally rests her chin in her hands and regards me for a long moment. "Why not?" she finally asks. "You're telling me all these things. You tell them to Greer and to Kat, don't you?"

"But that's different. I know you."

"Shouldn't that make it harder?"

I shrug because I really don't know.

"Maybe you should consider it."

I shrug again. Maybe I will.

"It might help. You have serious issues, Starshine. You realize this. They won't just go away."

"I know," I say, nodding.

"It's good that you know that," Sally tells me. She fingers the necklace hanging around her neck. I've never seen it before. It's a heart-shaped ruby pendant on a thin gold chain. I bet her parents gave her that for Christmas, too. "But it's not like you're alone. You have me and Kat. And Greer when she's not off being a moron. Just don't go to New York with her."

"I'll keep that in mind," I say with a laugh. A laugh that's bittersweet.

I leave Sally's house about an hour later. She walks me downstairs. It's bizarre thinking about it as I walk down the stairs beside Sally, her new suede boots thudding on the wooden steps, that I am at Sally White's house, hanging out, and she is sort of my friend. Three months ago, if I had glimpsed this moment in my life, I would not have believed it. But then, there are so many things about myself that I would not have believed three months ago. Three months. Such a short passage of time with so much packed in. If I spread it out on a timeline, it would be crammed close with lies and deceit, heartbreak and disappointment, remorse and grief. I wonder if I could trace myself back through the timeline, discover where I left the old me. Would there be a point? No. It would only frustrate me, fill me with more regret, and to what purpose? None. I can't unravel time. I can't undo anything that I have done.

Sally holds the front door open for me and I turn in the doorway. "You know," I say to her, "even though you're incredibly obnoxious, I hope you don't move to New Zealand."

One corner of Sally's mouth moves upward. "And even though you're a self-centered control freak, I hope I don't move to New Zealand either."

I smile back at her.

"Goodbye, Sally."

"Goodbye, Shannon."

I step over the threshold and the door closes behind me.

I didn't drive to Sally's house. I walked because I decided I needed the fresh air. It's only a few blocks and it's not like I have any pressing engagements to hurry off to anyway. When I reach the end of Sally's neverending driveway, I turn right and nearly topple over Meg Jardin. We both jump back and freeze. She eyes me rather suspiciously. I don't blame her. I haven't been particularly friendly to her, even when she's attempted to be civil. Meg's holding a black and purple braided leash in her hand. At the other end of the leash is a brown and white shih-tzu with its hair pulled out of its eyes with a tiny lavender bow. I recognize the dog as Meg's aunt's.

"Is your aunt away for the holidays?" I ask.

"Yes. She went to France to spend Christmas with Aunt Beatrice."

"Is your mother aware that you're walking around the neighborhood with a dog?" I ask, ice creeping into my voice. I don't intend for it to burrow its way in. It just does.

Meg scowls. "Yes," she replies, shortly. "She said that if I insisted on walking the dog, then I could go ahead and do it."

"Your mother's loosening up," I observe. "Aren't you the one usually on the leash?"

Meg's scowl intensifies. I'm amazed that she still looks pretty, even with her eyes narrowed to slits and her cherry red lips puckered with irritation.

I start to feel bad. I remember that Meg used to be my friend. I used to like more things about her than I disliked.

"Did you have a nice holiday?" I ask in what I hope is a friendly tone.

Meg's scowl disappears. It melts away effortlessly. She's serenely beautiful again, instead of angrily beautiful. She shrugs. "It was the usual," she answers, nonchalantly. "Your dad got drunk at our Christmas Eve party. He hit on Kara Ferguison."

Even drunk my father should have better taste than Kara Ferguison.

"I'm not my father's keeper," I tell her.

"I know. It wasn't a big deal. I think Kara appreciated the attention. And anyway, my dad got drunk and felt up Mrs. Brown, so really, your father wasn't the biggest jerk of the evening."

Well, that's good to know.

"Are you still dating that Price Irving?" I ask. The word "jerk" brought him to mind.

Meg must realize that because she frowns at me. "Yes. We're still together," she answers, tightly.

"Why are you wasting your time on that imbecile?" I demand.

"He isn't an imbecile," Meg protests without passion. Maybe she doesn't believe herself either. "I think he's funny. And he can be very nice. Maybe if people would give him a chance, maybe if people would stop beating him up all the time, he could be himself. Ross Brown and his friends, all they ever do is pick on Price. Price has to defend himself. And it's not just the boys, girls are always beating him up, too! Punching him, biting him, headbutting him."

I roll my eyes. Yes, surely, Price is the victim in all this. "I still don't understand why you're wasting your time on him," I tell her, testily.

"Because it's my choice," she answers, simply. "I choose to date him. I've never been allowed to choose before."

"Well, you made the wrong choice."

"But it's my choice."

I regard Meg, my childhood friend. My mouth turns down slightly at the corners. Maybe I can't judge her. Maybe I am the last person who should judge.

"It's your choice," I agree.

Meg nods and looks down at the dog. She tugs lightly backward on its leash, clucks her tongue at it.

"How's your diet?" I ask.

"What diet?"

"Your wrists."

"Oh. That," Meg replies, still looking down at the dog. "It's fine. It's fine."

I watch her a moment more. "Your mother isn't doing anything to your wrists, is she?" I finally ask. "It's some bizarre Price Irving thing, isn't it?"

"I guess if we were still friends I'd tell you," Meg answers. It isn't mean. It isn't biting. It's spoken as the truth, not even a reluctant truth, but simply as truth that exists as known fact.

If we were still friends...

I know Meg and I will never be friends again. That time has ended for us. I will remember her in the future, near and distant. I will remember her and mourn her in little ways. But there is no turning back, no rewinding for a do-over, no changing the girls we've become. Meg and I say our goodbyes, wish each other a happy holiday season, and part ways. We move on in opposite directions, on the same narrow sidewalk, but backs to each other, furthering the distance between.

I walk the two blocks to Edgerstone where Greer lives. She's in her front yard with her brother, Beer. He's unwinding Christmas lights from the rose bushes. I suppose Greer's supposed to be helping. Instead she's on the front lawn swinging a squash racket.

"What are you doing?" I ask, turning up her driveway.

Greer stops swinging the racket. "Practicing," she says, like it's obvious. Greer's never played squash a day in her life. "My aunt and uncle gave me squash equipment for Christmas," she explains. "Kind of pretentious, isn't it? Very New England upper-class." Greer swings the racket again with frightening power. She could take someone's head off with that thing.

"I just saw Meg walking a dog," I inform her.

"Are you serious?" Greer asks with a laugh. "Meg Jardin?"

"It was oddly unsettling," I reply. I come to a stop a few feet from Greer. I slide my hands into the pockets of my coat. "I'm just coming from Sally's."

Greer laughs again. "Did she tell you I'm a moron?"

"Yes."

"She told me, too. Come on, let's go inside. Finish up, Beer!" she shouts to her brother and whacks him playfully with the racket as she jogs past.

The inside of Greer's house is still decorated for Christmas. The three Christmas trees are still lined up in front of the windows, their blue, green, and purple bulbs gleaming and shimmering in the light streaming in from the outside. Some of the needles have dried and dropped off, scattering underneath on the cream-colored carpet. Greer's house even still smells like Christmas, like sharp and spicy cinnamon. I exchange hellos with Mr. and Mrs. Carson, who are seated side by side on the living room couch, flipping through a stack of photographs. Then I follow Greer up the stairs. Red and gold garland winds up the banister. When we reach the top of the stairs, I look back over my shoulder, down at the ground floor of Greer's house, at the glimmering Christmas trees and the glittery garland and the candy dishes and holiday knick-knacks set out on the coffee tables. And there is a sadness, a disappointment in my own life, sweeping over me.

"Are you coming?" Greer asks. She's halfway down the hallway already.

I turn back around and follow. I close the door to her bedroom behind us, then sit down on Greer's bed. I scoot back and lean against the headboard, Greer's down pillows cushioning my back. Greer flops down in her recliner, throwing a leg over an arm. She props an elbow on the other arm and rests her chin in her hand. A couple auburn curls fall over her eyes. She brushes them away.

"So, how are you feeling?" Greer asks.

I wonder how much longer people will ask me that. Forever? I hope not. But at least people care.

"Right now? I feel okay," I reply. I pick up a small stuffed duck from on top of Greer's alarm clock. It's wearing a tiny Yale t-shirt. "Did Beer give you this?"

"Yep."

"It's cute." I set the duck back on its perch. "I don't really want to talk about the abortion anymore," I tell Greer. I'm all talked out. I'm drained in so many way. Emptied out.

"Oh?" Greer says, cocking an eyebrow. Of course she's surprised. She's been away, having a happy holiday. "All right. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't. What else is new?"

I shrug and cross my legs and fold my hands over my stomach. There's so much. So much has happened in a span of five days. Less than a week of my life. A handful of days and I am altered forever because of them. How can Greer understand? Truly understand? Her life is carefree and uninterrupted. She can afford to be irresponsible. No one leans on her.

"What about this guy from the coffee shop?" I ask. I don't need to talk about myself all the time. I've learned that.

"Harold?"

"Did you pick up more than one boy at a coffee shop this weekend?" I ask, although I wouldn't be shocked at all. She was away for three and a half days.

"No. Just the one. And I really didn't pick him up, he picked me up. His name's Harold and he goes to Columbia. He's nineteen and he's really cute. I may see him again the next time I go into the city."

"His name is Harold?" I ask, wrinkling my nose. That sounds like the name of an old man. "You slept with a guy named Harold?"

"I didn't sleep with him," Greer replies. "Apparently, not all guys are into one night stands. Maybe I'll get him next time. It could be a fun pursuit. I need a challenge in my life." Greer smiles and leans her head back. "No, I've still only racked up six conquests. I'm still on the lookout for lucky number seven. Hey, maybe I'll make it to ten by graduation. I could make a top ten list."

I frown at her. "Why do you do this?" I ask. "It's dangerous, running off with boys you don't know and having sex with them."

"I know. That's why it's exciting."

I don't understand Greer. It's strange that we were once best friends. We're such separate people now. Maybe we'll always be friends, friends on some level, but I'll probably never understand her completely. I'll probably not always like her either.

"Don't you want to be in love?" I ask Greer. "Don't you want to have sex with someone you love?"

"Not really. I mean, not right now. I'm too young and selfish to fall in love," Greer answers and shakes another curl out of her eyes. "I just want to have fun. And I think, maybe being in love isn't so great. It seems like a lot of work. It's too much responsibility. And...well...you were in love and things didn't exactly work out too swell for you." Greer blushes slightly at her rudeness.

I'm actually not offended. She speaks the truth.

"No, it didn't work out too swell," I agree. "But that had nothing to do with love. It's all because I lied. It's my own fault." I pause and consider my next words, carefully, wondering if I can actually speak them out loud. I decide I can. "I regret what I did. I really do. But in a way, I'm actually glad Wes was my first. Or more, that my first was someone who truly cared about me. I'm glad I didn't give up my virginity to the first boy who wanted it, or to some boy who didn't honestly feel anything for me. Is that awful, Greer? After everything that's happened, is that an awful, selfish way to feel?"

Greer studies me, thoughtfully, the seconds dragging, ticking away. She thinks. She considers.

"I don't know," she finally says. "Maybe all feelings are a little selfish. Maybe you can't help that. But I don't think you're awful for feeling that way. You aren't relieved about what you've done. You're relieved that your first time wasn't terrible. You're grateful that you were loved."

I nod and then rest my head back against the headboard. "Maybe you're right," I say. "I'm still so confused about everything. My mind changes all the time about every little thing. I don't know how I really feel about anything. Not anything at all. But I do know, I'm done with sex and love. For a while at least. Maybe a long while."

"That's probably for the best."

"Yes," I agree. "It's for the best."