The language of solace, and comets, and the girls we all become, in the end.

So maybe it wasn't the fairy tale. But those stories weren't real anyway. Mine were.

As I rolled over, stretching out, my only thought was to go back to the dream I'd been having, which I couldn't remember, other than that it had been good, in that distant, hopeful way unreal things can be.

So I learned another system: When in doubt, keep it out – out of earshot, out of the house – even if this meant, really, just keeping it in.

I knew this feeling, the 2 a.m. loneliness that I'd practically invented.

Like so many before them, they didn't care that my dad was only the messenger. They still wanted to shoot him.

Friends are honest with each other. Even if the truth hurts. -Maggie