The day I meet Mara we are both in eighth grade, and even though I was at our school the year before and she is new, I can tell that she has it together way more than I do. She comes walking into the cafeteria with my friend Jen, moving like she doesn't care how many eyes are on her or not on her. I'm surprised there aren't more - she's gorgeous. At least to me. Tell you the truth, I'm a little jealous of her at first, just on principle. I've got these round glasses that make my eyes look all goggly, brown hair that's not straight or curly but goes every which way, lips that are too thin and peel constantly. I guess it doesn't help that I'm biting them all the time. But Mara- she has gorgeous black hair running down her back like a waterfall. Green eyes that seem to pierce out from her face and go deep in at the same time. And her skin- if you study it real close you can see all the undertones that shift color depending on the light. It sounds dumb, but her skin looks deep as her eyes do- deep enough to hide a secret in, like a crystal ball with the mists still swirling. I wonder if there is enough room there for me.

My only class with her is chemistry, fifth period. I make sure after she starts sitting with us at lunch to always grab the desk behind her. Sometimes we chat a little before class starts, stupid stuff like "Did you get the homework last night?" or "How do you think you did on that quiz?" It's nice- talking to her always is- but the real reason I like to sit by her has nothing to do with what she says. As Mrs. Campbell is up there ranting on about molecules and whatnot I study Mara. That's how I got that skin observation. I memorize the curves of her broad shoulders, admire their muscularity beneath the soft folds of her sweater. I picture my fingers reaching towards her, imagine the feel of her sweater under my palm. But I can't do it. It's like a sheet of glass stands between us and as my fingers approach I catch a glimpse of my own face and have to pull back. That's the only way I can explain it.
Over her shoulder I watch her scribbling notes in swift, angular strokes, hand crumpled around her pen. This is what I love most about her, this one imperfection. Her fingers are short and sort of twisted, the nails strangely shaped. Usually she keeps them up in the sleeves of her shirt when she's not writing. My hands, I write all over them. Reminders, little bits of poems I remember, doodles. One day in history I completely covered the left one with vines. I imagine her hands, with that beautiful deep skin cupped in mine, all inkstained though with perfect nails. Like a captive animal, maybe trembling a bit- one of those misunderstood animals no one thinks is beautiful, like a mouse or a mole. I wish I could make her see her hands like I do.

The other interesting thing about Mara is the way she talks. I sit at our lunch table every day and just listen to she and Jen go at it. They can talk about anything- sex, music, religion- but not in the way I've heard anyone else talk. It's all ideas, sometimes in this secret language they've got between them, this roundabout way of saying stuff that sounds awesome but blocks me and the other girls out of their world for the whole thirty minutes. This one time she announces to the table, grinning, that she got the whole class on a tangent in history, which she has with Jen, by asking why we're supposed to think Thomas Jefferson is so great if he slept with his slaves and then went around saying that slavery was so wrong. Which I never heard about before- and we have the same teacher- so I'm all ears. But then she and Jen start going on about how Mr. Sharps was so pissed off at her, how he seemed to take her comment as a personal insult, and was he insulted because Mara is a girl and she got control of his class, or because Thomas Jefferson is his hero and he doesn't want to face up to facts, and no wonder her mom says we never learn anything real in this school. Her eyes flash and she gets really intent and I know I'm not going to get a word in edgewise today, like usual. By the end of lunch Mara emerges mature and victorious from the frenzy of words. She rises from the table and shakes it all off, walks away to her next class looking completely calm except for the redness of her face. And as I walk off in the opposite direction, a sour fire is burning in my chest- the jealousy I'll be ashamed of all through afternoon classes, till I get home and have to think about other things.

It's not an obsession, really. Though I doubt that anyone would agree if I told them all this. I just think she's really cool. I keep trying to get up the nerve to talk to her- I mean really talk. I run it through in my head while I'm trying to fall asleep. I'll come up to her at her locker tomorrow morning and ask how her night was and she'll say Fine and ask me about mine. And I'll say Eh, so, so. You know how it goes or something like that, but I'll say it so she has to ask again- No really, you sure everything's fine? -- and then I can tell her how Dad blew up again last night after I told him I got a B+ on my last English paper and Mom got all icy so I couldn't even go back downstairs, cause the kitchen would be cold even after they'd gone. Mom in her room and Dad in the car probably. I never know. I don't ask. That's what I'll tell her. Then someone else besides me will know, and I won't have to pretend my life is peachy anymore, at least not all the time. Best of all, maybe she'll eventually tell me something back.

Some nights I'm too tired to plan, so I just lie there and think about her in general. I try to picture her life from the inside, to hear her parents at the dinner table, to see her sleeping, to picture the wild dreams that I know must race through her head. I try to imagine being comfortable speaking in Mara's loud voice, hearing myself say something that's my opinion, and mine only, before anyone else has said it. But Mom always has an opinion, and look where it gets her with Dad. Always yelling that her voice doesn't count in this house, getting louder and louder as if that's going to make him hear her more.

They've been like this for years- I don't remember exactly how many. Ever since Dad switched jobs without asking Mom and we had to move across town for the lower rent, whenever the two of them are in the house together, the air gets thick. I hate being downstairs when they're home. I hate winter cause it keeps me inside, where its hard to stay out of their way, or at least out of shouting range. Most winter nights, and a lot of other ones too, I end up going to bed feeling all tight inside, and hollow.

Those are the kind of nights I almost wish I never met Mara. I could have just gone on being sort-of-best-friends with Jen, going to the movies, or out to Friendly's, letting her do most of the talking while I dreamed. I could have gone on not wanting anything. I've gotten so good in the past year at letting the classes slip by to get to afternoons reading in the woods, or hanging out with Jen, then waiting out each night to get to the next day. I still do that, kind of. At least I try. Except now there's practically no Jen, and I spend most of my time with my trees and my Madeleine L'Engle, seeing Mara on every page.

Still, almost every night I fall sleep thinking about her. I feel a little guilty at first that I'm not thinking about Jen, but then I never thought all that much about her before, so I get over it pretty quick once I stop seeing her so much. I lie awake thinking about what to say to Mara every night for months until one night I finally talk myself into it. Just do it already, I say to myself, What the hell's stopping you? When I wake up it's the first thing I think about- just picture myself walking up to her locker, leaning on the door and saying Hey like it was something I did every day. I keep that picture in my mind all the way to school, scared that if I don't I'll go straight from my own locker to class and be ashamed of myself the rest of the day, maybe not even say anything to anyone in class or in lunch. It's happened before, and let me tell you, it's not pleasant. It's like you've got this dead feeling in your throat that blocks all the words rising up from wherever they come from, and they just stick there in a lump. Your mouth starts to feel empty and your chest too full, but at the same time empty too. By the end of a day like that you just want to scream, though you know you can't.

Anyway, I'm so intent on making myself go see Mara before class that I completely forget to stop at my own locker first. I'm floating across the floor, sure I'm someone else. I'm not even watching the jostle of coat sleeves and bags- come to think of it I'm not sure I really see anything but the pictures I stuck into my head the night before. So when I get to her open locker and she's not there I just stand there a minute, looking stupid. I start looking at the pictures she has up inside the door, to keep myself from walking away, not really snooping. There's a picture of her family, all six of them dark haired and big-eyed, smiling in front of some tourist attraction. Below that is a magazine clipping that says Behold the Power of Cheese, held up by one of those little magnetic mirrors with the plastic basket attached, and a sticker that says A Woman Without A Man Is Like A Fish Without A Bicycle. Inside the little basket are a bunch of lipsticks, pretty beaten up, and a tube of chapstick. I open it and put some on. I don't know why. I usually ask about using other people's stuff, but once I open it up and smell it, it's like I have to. It's wintergreen, and it makes my lips all cold and tingly. I think to myself So this is what it tastes like in her world. I've seen her putting the stuff on obsessively, and the tube shows it, the waxy white spread all over the inside of the cap and around the rim. I start to move on to the lipstick, to see what colors she likes. I never knew she wore lipstick, her mouth always looked so normal. The five-minute warning bell rings loud, while I've got three of them in my hand, plus the chapstick, and I suddenly realize I've been nosing around in Mara's stuff, not watching and she could be coming back to her locker any minute now, and I still haven't gotten my books for class. I stuff the tubes into my pocket, my stomach suddenly hurting, and head off towards my own locker almost at a run.

I still don't know why I did it. All through chemistry I sit there promising myself I'll put the stuff back in her locker at the end of the day, or slip it into her bag while she's in the lunch line. But I don't. I keep putting on that chapstick between every class, then a couple of times in each class, just absorbed in that taste, it brings me so close to her somehow. Then I get this idea that I'll just try on some of the lipstick at home tonight, to get my mind off things. It'll be almost like I actually did talk to her- she'll be making me feel better without even knowing it. When I get home I set all four tubes carefully on the corner of my nightstand and sit down to get my homework over with. I work a couple of hours, get to my chemistry reading and can't concentrate. I keep staring up at the corner of my nightstand with a tight feeling all over. I don't even want to play around with the lipstick now. I go to bed early, and the next morning I leave the tubes at home. I try to forget about them during school that day, and the next day, and the next. At night I'll put some of the chapstick on, and lie in the dark, lips burning, trying to talk myself back into seeing Mara before class the next day. I can't get into like I used to though, and it takes me forever to fall asleep.

On the fourth day I come home tired, with my mouth empty and my chest full. I'm staring at my chemistry problems, but all I can think about it how Mara must have smelled her chapstick on me that day in class, how I'm an idiot for hoping she wouldn't notice all the stuff was gone, or wouldn't be suspicious about its sudden return. I try to think what I can do, but that only makes my stomach feel worse. Then I hear Dad yelling downstairs and a silence, a door slamming, and Mom crying. Suddenly my stomach's so tight it's hurting my throat and I run for the bathroom, but don't make it. I'm on my hands and knees in the hallway, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, my face all hot and wet. I clean up as quietly as I can, so Mom won't find out and yell at me. By the time I get back to my room I'm really crying, like I haven't done since the fighting started. I hug my knees, but it isn't enough. I try the chapstick, now almost gone, but all I can taste is the bitter petroleum. I snatch up all four of the tubes, hurl them into the garbage, and crawl into bed.

Next morning I wake up still in my dirty shirt, barely able to open my eyes. I squint into the mirror and almost start crying again. I can't go back to school this way. But I've got to take a history test, so I force myself into some clothes and leave without a second glance at my face. I walk into the building with my head down and try to look around as little as possible. The fluorescent lights are killing my eyes, and I'm so tired I rest my head on the pile of notebooks in the relative dark of my locker. I can't make it through this day, I tell myself, It's impossible. Then there's a hand on my back, and I whip around, cracking my temple on the metal shelf. The hand is on my face, briefly, over my own, and it's Mara saying Careful! Are you Ok?, in that laughing voice not exactly meant to be unkind. She says something about Let me kiss it better, still laughing, pulls my hand away from the bruising spot and gives it a playful peck. She smells like wintergreen. I'm speechless and I know she's about to say something about my swollen eyes, and the words are rising up in my throat, they'll all spill out if I don't do something, and I know it can't happen here, not now, it wouldn't be right.

I look down and see my hand still gripped in her fingertips, the rest of her hands buried in her sleeves. Before I know what I'm doing, both her hands are bare, cupped in my own. I look up at her, back at our hands, up again and she's stopped laughing, her hands are trembling ever so slightly like moths, perfect white moths. A second goes by, and I'm not keeping her there but she doesn't move. Thanks, I say, all quavery, and I lift her hands up and kiss them each once, each palm. I look back up at her face, and her mouth is twisted between disbelief and amusement and fear. I've never seen it look like that before, almost naked without its habitual composure. I smile, and hold her hands tighter. I can't believe this is happening. I'm looking her straight in the eyes and she's looking back, and suddenly the words stop pushing up in my throat and disappear. But it doesn't bother me cause I know they'll be back, though in a different way, a good way. I feel light, instead of hollow, and full like there's a sun exploding inside of me. I can almost see it, radiating out from between us, and above it Mara's hands fluttering bare and free.