Author's Note: Thanks for reviewing the first chapter! This definitely isn't my best writing, but it could probably suck more. If I were to re-read it in a few hours, I'm sure I would edit it completely and it would be a totally different chapter, so it's probably for the best just to leave it. If you would care to review and, in doing so, make me happy, it would be an incredibly kind thing to do. I'm starting tenth grade tomorrow, and I need all the happiness I can get. Thanks!

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I'm really not the type to give myself pep-talks. I'm more the type to just go for things.

So I guess the fact that my internal monologue all morning over and over went something like, it's okay, Naomi. You can do this. Just do it for Emily. You can handle this Naomi, was indicative of the fact that this day was different than others in my life.

I had gotten up morning intentionally early, way before Emily. Actually, I hadn't so much gotten up early as not been able to sleep much all night. I mostly spent the night staring at Emily and trying to figure out what to say the next day. I'd also spent some time holding her tighter when she seemed restless, like she was having bad dreams.

Finally, when I could detect faint light streaming through my window, I gently untangled myself from her and wrote a note for her, explaining that I had some political rally to organize. In actuality, the rally was next week (Ironically, it was a rally for gay rights, which I'd cared about long before I had a girlfriend, or, you know, been attracted to a girl.) and I wasn't even sure if I was going now or if I was going to tell Ems what sort of rally it was because she might want to go with me or something and I wasn't even sure yet if I was a true fucking homosexual or not.

So, anyway, the note didn't mention the rally's subject. It just said that I loved her and would be back as soon a possible and urged her to stay there.

She and my mum were actually disturbingly friendly with each other and would be perfectly fine without me for a little while.

After I left my house, I went to get some coffee because I was really going to need some coffee for this endeavor.

And then, before I knew it, there I was. On the front porch of the lovely Fitch home.

The truth is that I was bloody terrified. Still, somehow, against all instinct, I found myself knocking on the door. I took a few deep, calming breaths before the front door swung open and I found myself face to face with . . . Emily's little brother?

He had been muttering something under his breath about a Gordon McPherson, but, when he saw me, I instantly had his interest. His expression was thoughtful as he stared at me.

"Um, hello," I said awkwardly. I don't know why I had been expecting Emily's mum to answer the door. I guess that was stupid. Oh, fuck, I thought, feeling like I shouldn't have come, is Katie here, too?

"Is your mother home?" I inquired.

"Are you Naomi?" he asked excitedly.

"Yes?" I answered, wondering if that was the right answer.

"Wow," he said. "Cool. You're the girl Emily was 'making love' to a few months ago, when she came home and looked like she'd been fighting with a boy."

"Yeah, I guess I am," I told him uncomfortably. "Would you mind getting your mum?"

He nodded at me, smirking a bit. "Mum!" he called. "It's Emily's girlfriend!"

And then he ran away.

I'm not even really the anxious type either, but, in that moment, I felt like developing some sort of nervous tick, like biting my fingernails or something. Or clawing out my eyes, whichever was easiest.

My plans to claw were interrupted quickly, though. She had left her home with urgency to come and meet me on the porch.

It seemed to be her goal that her stare penetrate me somehow, like her eyes were lasers. I fought against my anger, which was threatening to take over.

"Hello, Mrs. Fitch." I did not smile or extend a hand, but I did try to keep the sneer off of my face as I gave her a nod of acknowledgement.

"What are you doing here?" She looked at me like I was gum stuck to her most expensive shoes.

"I thought we could talk," I told her honestly, still fighting futilely against my fury.

"Where's my daughter?" she demanded, as if I had kidnapped her and had come by to collect ransom.

We were still outside and it seemed unlikely that she would be inviting me in. She had closed the door.

"Emily," I said, "is at my house eating breakfast with my mother. She arrived last night at nearly 2 a.m."

"Why would my daughter be at your house?" she asked, playing dumb, I guess. I ignored the question, as we both knew the answer.

"What did you say to her last night?" I demanded, wanting this conversation to go somewhere.

"Nothing of your concern."

"You see, Mrs. Fitch, that's not true. If you are doing something that hurts Emily then it is entirely of my concern," I told her truthfully, wondering why I seemed to be reciting lines from some after-school special.

She looked at me with disdain. I know the look; I give it to plenty of people. "Naomi," she said forcefully, "it is not acceptable for you to corrupt my beautiful daughter like this. Last night, I simply told her the truth. We have been over this before, Naomi, but it seems you need reiterating: my daughter is not gay." She released the word disgustedly. "Emily is weak, and she's eager for attention. You have been planting ideas in her head that are simply not true. Emily needs to know that it is not acceptable to wake up one morning and decide to be gay."

I bet there are people who would pay money for a glance at the expression on my face at that moment: horror mixed with disgust and anger and then mixed with complete shock at the stupidity of the person in front of me.

There were so many things wrong with her little speech that I initially couldn't decide what to contradict first. So I started with what made me angriest. "Emily is not weak. Not at all. And, with all due respect, ma'am," I spat, trying to smirk a bit, "if anyone's been corrupting anyone, it's been her. Your daughter is gay, Mrs. Fitch. I can't even begin to understand how you could delude yourself into thinking otherwise. She always has been. She didn't decide anything.

"What is true, though, is that Emily left your house last night more hurt than I have ever seen her. More hurt than I would ever even want to imagine her being. What is unacceptable, Mrs. Fitch, is your making her feel that way."

I paused, trying to make my unnaturally rapid breathing return to normal. Mrs. Fitch remained perfectly silent, so I continued.

"She isn't Katie," I said, "Thank God she isn't Katie! And she doesn't need to be changed or fixed. I can't imagine her more perfect than she is right now. And I hate that you can't see that.

"God, last night, she was so sure that you didn't even care about her at all. And you're her mother!"

"That's not true!" she protested vehemently, suddenly looking less confident with herself. Her eyes looked less like daggers, too.

"Look," I said, trying to be calm, "I know that you do care about Emily. But she doesn't know that. And she won't until you get over all of your ignorant crap and just accept her. You don't have to like me at all. I don't care about that." I took a much-needed deep breath. I was feeling more emotional than I was comfortable with. "But you do have to love her."

She kept looking at me, struggling to appear stoic. "Yes, well . . ." she said, not willing to seem fazed or to give in. But I could tell she was at least influenced by what I'd said to her. "I do love my daughter, Naomi."

And then something entirely unexpected occurred: Emily's mum was crying. At first, just slow, solitary tears, but then she was sobbing. "I just want my children to be normal . . . and happy," she choked.

"Emily is happy," I said as kindly as I could manage. "At least, I think she is, most of the time. She isn't happy right now, though." I tried to deliver my accusing look as gently as possible.

"I suppose . . . maybe . . . I've made a bit of a mistake in the way I've been reacting." Tears were still running down her face, succeeding in communicating what she was too proud to speak out loud. She knew she'd been wrong.

Then she looked at me with something new in her eyes: fear. "So . . . Emily hates me, then?"

Very lightly, I shook my head. "I think that, when she's ready, you should let her talk to you."

And then I turned around and walked away.

Towards Emily.

AN: Maybe this is a bit unrealistic and out of character. But I'm striving for realism, not reality. Haha . . .

There definitely will be more, but I'm not sure how substantial it will be. Let me know if you have suggestions!