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lighter from her purse and flicked it, then set the corner of the printout on fire.
    “Jordan!” Teva and I cried together. “God.” Teva laughed. She grabbed the paper and flung it to the ground. “You’re a pyro.”
     She stomped it.
    Jordan watched the paper curl, eyes glazing over. “Fire is life,” she said vacantly. Teva’s eyes met Jordan’s, catching fire.
     The heat between them made my throat close.
    My mind shifted to Alex’s words, her letter. Sitting in the dark reading her e-mail over and over.
I need you. I want you back
. How long had I waited to hear those words?
I need you
. Missing her.
I want you
. Wanting her desperately. If it wasn’t for Jordan and Teva dragging me out of my room occasionally, I’d shrivel up and die.
     I wanted to.
    The constant presence of Alex in my life, the notes and calls and nights and weekends together. Being together. Alex and Rachael.
     We were a couple. Her arm around my shoulders, my waist, her holding my hand, holding me. Kissing me, steering me into a restroom
     for a couple of minutes alone together before class. Her hand sliding up the front of my shirt. Not caring about getting caught,
     or being known.That was Alex. She loved me. She loved me for all the world to see.
    “We hate Alex,” Jordan said, dropping her lighter back into her bag.
    “Yeah,” Teva went. “After what she did to you? We hate her.”
    I hate her too. No, I don’t. I hate what she did.
    Alex came out when she was thirteen. At seventeen, two years into it, I was still struggling. I was gay, yeah. A lesbian,
     no question. It was just harder for me. Telling Mom. My friends. Mom didn’t believe it. She said, “How do you know? You can’t
     know. You’re only fifteen.” Yes, Mother. You know at fifteen. You know at twelve, thirteen. You look at girls and you know.
     You sit next to them in class and you feel it. The attraction, the desire. You hold it inside because you’re afraid of it,
     afraid of what it means. You never tell anyone. You hope it goes away. You hope it doesn’t mean what you know it does.
    Mom didn’t believe I was gay. Not until Alex.
    Mom liked Alex right away. Alex is easy to like. I mean, she was. She gave off this joie de vivre. She laughed, joked, mimicked
     people. She had Teva down, how Teva sort of waddled when she walked. It was funny. Kind of mean. Alex practically lived at
     our condo.
    It was easier for Alex. Maybe because she got there sooner, came out to herself, she was more comfortable with it. The whole
     idea of being gay, being different. Her fuck-you-if-you’ve-got-a-problem-with-it attitude. People respected her. I did. She
     had thick skin and red blood. When Alex beganto skip the restroom and kiss me in the hall — do other stuff — I showed my skin. I pushed her away.
    She said, “What’s the matter, Rach? Don’t you love me?”
    Of course I loved her. I just… I didn’t want people… ogling. Or sniggering behind our backs. I told her that.
    “Who gives a fuck?” Alex had said.
    I did. I don’t know, it made me feel weird. It hurt my feelings to be called names.
    “They’ll destroy you,” Alex told me. “If you let them control you, they’ll fuck with your head. You give them power over you,
     Rachael.”
    Yeah, I did. I hated myself for it.
    “You can’t live your life trying to please other people.”
    I don’t. I do.

    It was Thanksgiving weekend and we were riding home on the train from Winter Park. A ski trip. I’d finally gotten up the nerve
     to join the Gay/Straight Alliance at school, after Jordan’s pressuring. Not pressuring. Encouraging. People were quiet on
     the train, dozing. It’d been an awesome day of skiing. A long day, though. I’d been up since five a.m. to rent equipment and
     have Mom drive me downtown to the ski train. She and Dad had had a fight on the phone the night before about child support
     or something and she was raggingon me about how expensive this trip was and how we both