you are tired,

(I think)

of the always puzzle of living and doing;

and so am I.

The summer between eighth and ninth grade changed things for us. We knew, by that point, that we would be going to McKinley together, and I honestly think that you badgered your dads into letting you transfer school districts so we could be together. I know it was because you didn't have any friends in your middle school – and the thought of going into high school without an ally scared you. I never pointed it out, because I knew it would make you uncomfortable; and I think that you didn't realize that I would pay attention to things like school districts.

I'm not as oblivious to things as you might think, Rachel. I hope by now you know that. Back then you certainly didn't – and you would lie by omission, hoping it would keep your secrets safe. I still knew what you were doing, but I let you have it. I knew it would embarrass you if I ever said anything about it, so I didn't. I let it slide because it wasn't important; even though it was important enough to you to go out of your way to keep me in the dark about some things.

I still remember the first time you asked me about how to shave your legs. It's a memory that sticks out, because you seemed so flustered and upset to even be asking, and I thought it peculiar that you were worried about what I would think. After all this time – after being friends since we were eight – did you think that I would somehow think less of you? I imagine that must have been the reason for it. It never ceases to amaze me that, after a lifetime of being friends, it's me that can make you self-conscious. I've loved you since before you knew how to pluck your eyebrows, Rachel. It doesn't bother me to see you at four in the morning with your hair in a loose bun and bags under your eyes, or with stinky morning breath, or with hairy armpits. I know you say you know that, now – but back then you didn't, and I learned to be gentle with you about it, because if I laughed or teased you at all, it would only make you withdraw.

We were fourteen and you asked me to teach you how to shave your legs, which was a little startling to me, because I'd been doing it since I was twelve – but, you know, I have an older sister who taught me these things – and, well, you only had your dads. You were so bashful and shy, the opposite of your usually outgoing (demanding) self. You always seem reticent when you realize there are things that I'm better at than you, as if you're ashamed that you aren't the best at everything. I don't understand that, either – do you ever spend time just enjoying something to enjoy it, rather than focusing on how you can be perfect at it? I knew enough about you from ballet that, at this point, I realized it would be a silly question to ask. You wouldn't be able to answer without tripping over yourself trying to explain why you had to be the best at everything, and it wouldn't even answer my question, anyway.

You sat on the edge of your bathtub with your sweatpants pushed up past your knees, and you watched with a critical eye as I lathered your calf with shaving cream. I was a little nervous, but only because it looks different from that end. You didn't even suspect that I might not know how to shave someone else's legs, and I didn't want to make you anxious. It was quiet in the bathroom and it made me tense, but after the first few swipes, I started to relax. It wasn't so different than shaving my own, and after I finished the first, I handed you the razor. "You try."

You looked at me uncertainly, but once you started, the tension eased out of your arms, and awkward, gawky movements became more natural. I smiled when you were finished, proud of what we had done together, and when I looked up at you, you were smiling, too.

"There. That's done." You sounded relieved.

I grinned, using the bath towel to wipe the tiny streaks of white away from your skin. "I sort of miss not shaving," I said, reminded of the first time I ever took a razor to my own legs.

"Why?"

"It's a hassle sometimes." I shrugged, swiped the towel over your feet, and grinned. "Ugly feet."

"Ballerina feet," You corrected immediately, and wiggled your toes. They were bruised and red, and I stroked my fingers over them idly. You flexed your foot and let out an appreciative groan. I rubbed harder, and you ran an affectionate hand down the length of my hair.

"I wish I was blonde," You said it quietly and musingly, and I'm sure you didn't mean to say it out loud.

"What? Why?" I looked up at you, curious.

You startled, freezing in place. "Uh, j-just because – uh." You shrugged, tugging your knees up to your chest. You picked a fingernail over the cuticle on your pinky toe. "Don't you ever want to try something different?"

"I like your hair, Rachel," I said, because I knew you were trying to deflect. "It's pretty."

You flushed, and shook your head. "No, but Brittany – you know how it is. All of the pretty, popular girls are blonde."

"Not all of them. That would be boring. Blonde is boring, Rachel,"

"You don't get it, because you've always been blonde."

I bit my lip and looked at your face, and I could watch the way you were struggling with yourself about something.

"Then just dye it blonde."

"I can't do that – I would look ridiculous."

I frowned. "What?"

"I'm Jewish, Brittany. I mean.. I would look absurd with blonde hair."

"I don't get what you being Jewish has to do with anything."

"You wouldn't," You said, with a beleaguered sigh. "Just forget about it."

I squinted, and for once – I felt a hot spike of anger shoot through me. I'm usually incredibly patient with you, Rachel, but at fourteen, I hadn't learned how to be patient all of the time. And I was beginning to understand that you thought me incapable of grasping certain concepts.

Did you ever stop to realize that it wasn't me who had the problem? That it was actually you, because you make everything more complicated than it has to be?

"I don't even know why we're friends," I said, and I could tell that the tone of my voice shocked you. "If you don't think I can understand anything."

"Brittany, that's not what I meant—"

"It isn't?" I stood up slowly, and your eyes followed my face. I felt a cold ball in the pit of my stomach.

"No. I know that you understand things." You stood up, and we were very close to one another, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub – it was almost claustrophobic. "You're better at understanding things than I am, sometimes."

"You treat me like you think I'm stupid."

"No, I don't!" You were getting frustrated, and it made your forehead wrinkle up. "I just know that you couldn't – you could never understand what it's like, because you're you! Don't you get that?"

"No," I answered immediately.

"Brittany, you're pretty, you're blonde, you're – you're a picture-perfect WASP."

"A wasp? What?"

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, dismissing it. "You have a regular family, a mom and a dad and a sister. In every book, movie, television show – they're all about girls like you. You're normal, you have a normal life. I'm different, Brittany, and believe me – I like being different. I like being alternative. But it gets old, sometimes. It gets tiring. I just wish that there wasn't so much different about me, all of the time."

I sighed, and the anger washed out of me. It's hard to stay mad at you when you say things like that, things which are sad and honest and true. It was like you were opening a tiny window into yourself, giving me a glimpse of all the tender, vulnerable things inside.

"You're pretty, too, Rachel. I like your family. I like your differentness."

You smiled, a little sadly. "I know. I just wish everyone felt the same way that you do."

"Being normal is overrated." I said. "People expect you to always act or be a certain way. They're surprised when you aren't – just what they want." I shrugged. It was the closest I could do, to saying sad and true things. I'm not as good at opening windows as you are, Rachel. I'm not as good at saying things.

You looked at me with a peculiar expression, as if you were trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. Your eyes scanned my face, and you pressed your lips together. "Sometimes you surprise me,"

I smiled. "See what I mean?"

You nodded slowly. "It's a good thing, though.. to be surprising. To not be what everyone expects."

"Why is it good for me to be different, but not for you?"

You looked like I slapped you in the face, you were that shocked.

Why was it so easy for you to reassure me, but so hard for you to do it for yourself?

I can't say I've ever noticed anything really strange or abnormal about you, Rachel. Sure, you have two dads, but that's nothing really, is it? I know plenty of people who only have one mom or one dad, and I'm sure they'd be happy to have two of each if they could. You like showtunes, but so what? My little cousin is obsessed with Pokemon. It's all the same thing, right? I never understood your drive to fit in, which seemed to violently contradict your urge to stand out. I can say with all honesty that I've never done anything motivated by either desire, but somehow you were always jealous of my ability to do both things better than you. It's all in your head, I think. I think you make it harder on yourself than it has to be.

"Let's go watch Mary Poppins," You said, and I knew the conversation was over.

The next thing that surprised me happened that summer, and it might have been the single most pivotal thing that ever happened between us.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and my parents had let me come over after church. You kept telling me you had something important to show me, and I was lying down on your bed, flipping through a fashion magazine, waiting for you to come out of the bathroom.

I looked up when you opened the door, and I immediately noticed that you were topless. It made my eyes widen, but only because you're very careful to never be naked around me. You're always telling me that it's immodest to dress the way that I like, but I'm not even sure what immodest means and I don't know if it's worth getting mad at you for it, so I don't want to know. Anyway, you had your arms tucked over your chest and were giving me that skittish, nervous expression that means you're very unsure of yourself.

"What is it? Do you have a weird mole?" My cousin Theresa showed me a mole that looks like a stegosaurus on her ribcage once.

"What? No!" You took a few mincing steps forward, into the bedroom, and I sat up slowly. You kept looking around as if you were afraid that someone would come in. But your dads were outside gardening, and it was just us in the house.

"Do they look.. uneven to you?" You whispered, and slowly lowered your arms. You were watching my face, your lip caught between your teeth anxiously, and it made me realize I would have to try to be as neutral as possible. I wasn't sure what you were asking me, but I lowered my gaze, and that's the first time I ever saw your naked boobs.

Okay, even at fourteen, I had a healthy appreciation for boobs. I really liked to look at them on other girls, and I liked looking at my own, too. I think I've always been probably too aware of them, because my mom likes to tell this story about when I was a baby, how I would always reach out and grab boobs. She called it "boob envy" and said it would go away when I grew my own.

Well, I don't just randomly grab other people's boobs anymore, but I still like them. And I had noticed your boobs before – I mean, I've been to your ballet recitals, and those leotards don't leave much up to the imagination – but I'd never seen them like this. You were being so tense and shy, though, I knew it wouldn't be appropriate to point out how I'd spent time thinking about what they look like.

"Brittany," You said, your tone a little terse. "Are they uneven?"

"Um," I frowned, and looked from one to the other. "Stand up straight."

You straightened your spine, but your hands were doing a crazy, fidgety dance by your hips, and I could tell you were itching to cover them back up again.

"I think they're fine." I said finally.

"No! This one is bigger! Look," You pointed, looking down at yourself, and then back to me, to see if I was paying proper attention.

I just nodded. "It is a little bit bigger."

You made a strangled yelping noise and your arms leapt over your chest again. "What's wrong with me?!"

I chuckled a little, because you were being overdramatic, as always. "There's nothing wrong with you. It's normal."

"How can it be normal?" Your eyes narrowed, and you looked down at my boobs speculatively. "Yours aren't uneven."

I rolled my eyes, and then with one quick, easy movement, I pulled my shirt over my head. It took me less than second to unbutton my bra, and when it slid away, I shifted so that I was kneeling on your bed instead of sitting. You frowned, your expression slightly puzzled, and you seemed almost reluctant when you dragged your gaze from my face to my breasts.

I could tell you were doing more than just checking them for evenness. I watched your eyes study them, glancing from one to the other, and even though I'm much more comfortable with my own nakedness than you are, it made me feel sort of warm and jittery. Eventually, when your eyes met mine, they seemed troubled, and I had no idea why.

"See? Mine are a little uneven. But so are everyone's."

"Yours look different," You whispered, slowly relaxing your shoulders. "Your.. nipples."

I glanced down, and then towards yours. "A little bit."

You gnawed on your lip. "They're pretty." You said it with a sigh, and you ran a hand through your hair almost morosely.

"Yours are pretty too, Rachel," I laughed. It was an odd thing to say about something as innocuous as nipples.

"Mine are too big," You said, your eyebrows knitting together. "And they're brown."

"Tan, I'd say," I corrected. "And who says they're too big? They look fine to me."

"You're just saying that to be nice." You were going into a full on pout, now. You sat down heavily on the mattress, your head bowed, with your hair hanging dramatically over your shoulders. I scooted until I was sitting next to you, and I gave you a little pat on your knee.

"I don't know why you worry about things like this so much."

You wouldn't look at me. Instead, you were staring off into the corner of your room, maybe at the motivational poster tacked to your wall.

"I just.." You sighed. "It's hard not having a mom."

I knew it caused you a lot of trouble. I've seen you watch my mom, sometimes, when we have dinner parties and you come over when she's still cooking or setting up. I guess I take her for granted, since she's always been around.

"I don't really have anyone to ask about stuff like this." You gestured to yourself with a sweeping motion. "Do you remember when I first got my period?"

I laughed, and you elbowed me halfheartedly.

"See? It's funny to you, but that was one of the most terrible experiences of my life,"

"Rachel, you're being melodramatic." I gave you a slanted look. "It wasn't that bad. And honestly, getting your period is probably bad for everyone, even us with moms,"

You groaned, and rubbed your hands over your face. "What am I going to do?"

"Well, there's always the internet," I gave a half shrug. "And you can ask me stuff."

Your smile was weak, but it was there, and I always liked seeing it. I grinned at you, trying to encourage you into cheering up, but you just sighed.

"Will it ever get any easier?"

I didn't know exactly what you were talking about – you did this a lot back then, and you still do it now – but I thought I could guess. Did you mean growing up? You know, by now, it never really does. And it got worse before it got better.

"I don't know," I tried to be as honest as possible with you, Rachel. I always have.

"Maybe we should put some clothes on," You whispered.

I smiled again, aware of how we were topless and sitting together on the edge of your bed. Your elbow grazed my bare side, and my hand was sitting on your knee. I squeezed it gently, and you turned a more sincere smile at me.

"Thanks for putting up with me." You rolled your eyes. "I know I can be a bit crazy sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

I laughed when you poked me.

The moment hung, suspended between us, and in my memory it's framed as perfectly as a photo, like an instant frozen in time. You looked at me from beneath your eyelashes, and your crooked smile brought your dimples out. You needed a haircut – your bangs were shading your eyes unevenly, and it was almost a habit for me to brush them out of your face. Your smile weakened and then faltered, but only because I think you could sense what was going to happen before it actually did.

"Rachel." I murmured, "I'm going to kiss you."

Your throat worked to swallow, and I could swear I heard you breathe "okay," the moment before I leaned in and touched our lips together.

It was almost a shock, the way it felt; soft and tremulous, but warm, and I could feel your breath against my cheek. I heard the sharp way you inhaled, and even though neither of us were moving, it felt like the entire world was slowly tilting off-center. You were tense and tight, and nervous, so I kissed you more firmly, pressing closer to you. You made a tiny noise – a hum – in the back of your throat, and your hands wound tightly into your bedsheets. You tasted like skin and, faintly, of morning toothpaste. You smelled like the laundry detergent your dads always liked to use – Tide, I think. It was always a smell I loved more than anything, because it was clean and honest and you, and I used to bury my face against the crook of your neck so I could be immersed in it. Kissing you, the first time, was a lot like that: clean, honest, and overwhelmingly Rachel. Not Rachel-I'm-gonna-be-a-star-someday-and-I-know-it-Berry, but Rachel the girl, Rachel my friend. Rachel, who is afraid of being alone and despised, and who misses a mother she never got the chance to know.

When I leaned away from you, your eyes were screwed tight, and your face had an expression of confusion mixed with excitement and maybe a touch of fear. I just felt warm all over, like my skin was golden and glowing, and I couldn't help but smile. When you opened your eyes, relief seemed to wash over you.

"Was that okay?" You asked quietly.

"Rachel – of course it was okay!" I couldn't stop myself from laughing. "I kissed you, remember?"

"Oh." You squinted at me. "Oh! Brittany! We're kissing and we're naked! What are we doing?"

"We aren't naked," I pointed out. "Don't freak out, Rachel."

"I'm not gonna—I'm not – um, not freaking out. Not going to freak out. Okay."

Your hands fluttered, and they reminded me of nervous birds. Your mouth kept opening and closing, as if you couldn't think of what to say. I reached over and closed my hands around yours, stilling them, and waited until you looked me in the eye.

"Rachel. It was nice. I liked it. Did you like it?"

You hesitated, but then admitted: "Yes," A breath, "Yes, I liked it. But Brittany! What are we doing?"

"Nothing," I couldn't help the way my smile spread over my face, slow and feline (and maybe a little smug). "Just kissing."

"I don't know—"

"Shh," I hushed you, and then leaned in and kissed you again. It was quick and easy, different from the first one, and when I pulled away, you were gasping.

"Will you stop doing that?" You huffed, rubbed your palms over your legs uneasily.

"Why?" I tilted my head. "We like it. You like it. So let's keep doing it."

"Brittany—" You chewed on your bottom lip. A second ticked by, and then another, and while you watched my face, I tried to be still and calm. You released one heavy breath and then you edged closer to me, haltingly, as if it took everything in your strength to close the miniscule gap between our bodies. "I don't know what to think about this," You whispered, so quietly that I almost didn't hear it over the blood roaring in my ears. Your tentative progress towards me set me off balance, somehow, even though just a moment before I had kissed you without fear. I felt my lungs constricting, and I swallowed just before you brushed our lips together. I stayed still, because it felt like you were a hummingbird – jittery, fluttery, afraid – and I was a flower you were sampling. Any quick movements would send you darting away, zipping into the wilderness. It made me flush and warm, and it made me feel much more than our other two kisses, or even the ones before that with other people. It made my belly tight and hot, and my heart thundered in my chest.

This time, when our bodies peeled apart, it was me who couldn't breathe.

"So don't," I managed, the words punctuated by a ragged gasp. "You don't have to think about it."

Your smile was bright, even though your cheeks were pink. Your eyes glittered and I couldn't read the emotion there, whether it was excitement or anxiety or anticipation, or maybe all three.

"This feels crazy."

"It feels good," I lifted my hand and stroked my thumb down your cheek.

"Yes," You agreed, tilting your head into my palm. "It does."

It made me happy to hear you say that.

come with me, then,

and we'll leave it far and far away—

(only you and I, understand!)

I think this might turn into a five part fic.