"[She was] beautiful with the beauty that wins the heart as well as satisfies the eye, yet unmarred by vanity or affectation." – from The Tempest, by Louisa May Alcott

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My big brother Cody was a hero of mine growing up. He was everything I wanted to be like when I got to be his age, whatever age it was. In my youth I didn't have a very good understanding of age; I thought that someday, I would grow up faster than Cody or Moriah, and I might be older than them, just for a little bit before they caught up again. I'm not sure why I was so convinced of this, or when it was that I realized I would always be their younger sister—to Moriah, a sort of pesky younger sister, but to Cody, someone to look out for and be a good role model for. That's what I loved about Cody: at one point or another, my siblings made me feel as if my presence wasn't wanted, or that I was lacking in something. But Cody never did. He always made room for me at the table, or let me in on the joke, or explained a concept I didn't understand.

Usually, those concepts were church-related. We were already a religious family, but going to a Catholic school really pummeled doctrine into us. This could get confusing at times, because although we were Christians, we did not agree on everything that the Catholics taught us in school. When I was a freshman in high school, I started taking the bus that Moriah, Peter, and Cody were on (as opposed to being driven to school like my younger brother still was). As we came home from school, I often had doctrinal questions for Cody, asking him about what we believed versus something a Sister had told me in school. Sometimes Moriah rolled her eyes, wondering why I cared so much, and Peter would snicker at me, thinking I was stupid for not being able to get my own religion right. But Cody was always patient, and never made me feel ignorant.

I knew I could count on Cody anyway, because he always gave the answers in Sunday School and Seminary, not Peter. Seminary was a class that those of us who were high school age attended every weekday. Back in Utah, it was just a regular class, but out in Rhode Island, it was something we had to wake up for and go to at 6:00 in the morning. This meant I hardly ever got any sleep, because I shared a room with Moriah, and she—unlike the rest of us—couldn't bring herself to go to seminary looking anything other than ultra glamorous. She usually woke up at about 4:00, and though I think she tried not to disturb me, I always woke up. And I could never go back to sleep.

One day our teacher, Brother Morrison, was teaching us about the woman taken in adultery. Excuse my quick gospel lesson, but I should give you a brief recap in case you don't know the story—basically, a woman who was guilty of adultery was brought into a crowd where Christ stood. The Pharisees (local leaders in the town) asked Christ what should be done with the woman, thinking they could accuse Him no matter what His answer would be. According to the Law of Moses, she ought to have been stoned, but this law had long fallen out of favor with the Jews, and it would be looked upon very badly if Christ were to say she should be stoned. But if He were to say she should not be stoned, the Pharisees could accuse Him of breaking the Law of Moses.

What to do?

Well, Christ didn't answer them right away, but wound up saying "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone." And one by one, the crowd began to disperse until only the woman remained. "Where art thine accusers?" Christ asked her. "Hath no man condemned thee?" The woman replied, "No man, Lord." To which He said, "Neither do I condemn thee. Now go thy way, and sin no more."

"What does this story teach us?" Brother Morrison asked.

As was typical, a long silence followed the question. Those of us who were actually awake were afraid to venture forth an answer, or just too tired. Cody was sitting in his usual chair in the corner, leaning back with his arms folded as he surveyed the few other students. I knew he knew what to say, and I was sort of hoping he'd volunteer a response because I always loved hearing his input. But it looked as though he wanted to hear someone else answer for a change, and then he caught Moriah's eye and she sighed loudly.

"It means not to judge people?" she guessed.

Brother Morrison wrote "judge" in huge capital letters on the blackboard, making that extremely unpleasant screeching sound as he practically dug the chalk into the board (I think he did this on purpose as if to jolt us out of our sleepy state). "Did Christ judge the adulteress?" he asked.

Again, no one said anything. It sounded like a trick question. So Brother Morrison was forced to answer it himself.

"Yes. He judged with righteous judgment, and thus is setting an example for us. When he told the woman to sin no more, that is the key! Too often in today's world, people act in ways that are contrary to fundamental gospel principles, and they tell us to get over it. Just accept it, just go with the flow. It's no big deal. Can anyone think of any examples in our modern society?"

"Sex," Moriah sighed. Brother Morrison encouraged her to continue. Making a big show out of stretching, she went on: "It's pretty much considered mainstream to sleep with whoever, whenever you want, and marriage be darned."

"Drinking," said another girl in the class. "Even before it's legal."

"Being gay?" Cody volunteered.

Brother Morrison nodded and pointed the chalk at my brother. "Go on, Brother Duncan."

Cody shrugged. "Well…I dunno, I mean we just know that it's contrary to God's plan when people of the same sex get together. There is an eternal plan of happiness, and it all hinges on the family, which can only be created—naturally—through the union of a man and a woman, preferably in the bonds of marriage."

"That is exactly right," Brother Morrison said. "My cousin has a neighbor who is gay, and who pointed my cousin to this story about the adulteress and how Christ supposedly did not judge her. Clearly, he didn't understand the last vital bit wherein Christ told the woman to go her way and sin no more. I will repeat that to you as much as is necessary to get it in your heads. Christ did not tolerate the sin she was guilty of, which is obvious when this last line is taken into consideration."

A boy in the class half-raised his hand. "Okay so then, wait. If the woman was like, a lesbian, Christ would be cool with it if she'd done gay stuff but then never got with a chick again after he told her to leave?"

Some of the kids chuckled, and Brother Morrison pondered the question. "Well, Josh, I don't think it's ever the case that Christ would be 'cool' with our having sinned, but it is true that after we have sincerely repented of our sins, He remembers them not. But had the woman been gay, and continued to follow such a lifestyle after the Savior asked her to stop, then yes, she'd be right back on the road to hell."

"But wait," I cut in. "I don't understand—in the story, the woman didn't even repent, did she? I mean, the only thing we know she said was to tell the Lord that no one was accusing her anymore."

Brother Morrison didn't have much patience for me either; maybe that's because I was a freshman and he thought I was impertinent, I don't know. "What exactly are you trying to ask, Amy?"

"Well, I mean, just that…never mind."

This is how most of my inquiries or attempts to answer questions ended, with a mumbled "never mind" trailing off at the end. Usually on the bus ride to school, Cody would try to coax the question out of me to see if he could answer it. I acquiesced most of the time, but today, I just didn't feel like talking about it. He and I always sat together in the back row of the bus, he in his blue tie and blazer and slacks, and me in the exact same tie and blazer and button-up shirt, but with a plaid skirt and long socks. Moriah sat with our next-door-neighbors in the middle of the bus who went to the local public school, and Peter sat in the front row by the driver because kids were more wary of making fun of him when an adult was so near.

That was indeed a problem, at least for me. Because we shared the bus with kids going to the public school, we sometimes had to endure their teasing. At church, Cody was considered something of a heartthrob (he really was a good-looking boy), but I don't think the girls on the bus could see past his refusal to lower his standards for them. And so since they couldn't have him, they took to picking on me (and by extent, sometimes him). I dreaded the next year, when Cody would be a freshman in college and not be on this bus anymore. I didn't know who I'd sit with.

"Hey, um, Amy," said a girl who lived in town, turning around in her seat to face me. She nodded at the girl sitting next to her, trying to keep a straight face as she asked, "Marianne and I were just wondering—how's your imaginary friend doing?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What're you talking about?" I muttered.

"You know," Marianne chuckled. "You better grow up out of your little fantasy world soon, Amy. Because they lock up adults in asylums for having imaginary friends. And you've got one."

When I continued to stare at her, not knowing what she was on about, Cody leaned over and said, "Hey guys, cut it out."

"Oh, right," the other girl laughed. "Don't worry, Amy, he's your big brother's imaginary friend, too. You know, God, your big make-believe buddy!"

"Don't listen to them, Amy," Cody muttered.

Once I finally got it, I shrunk down in my seat and the girls, still laughing, finally turned back around and didn't talk to me again. To my shame, I could feel tears stinging at my eyes. What they'd said had really got to me. They thought God was just an imaginary friend that a loser like me needed to help make me feel better about myself. They didn't believe He was real. I was stupid, I was crazy, I was lame for believing something like that. The bus came to a stop at the public school, and as most of the kids got up to leave, Marianne twisted once more to look at me.

"Ha, ha! Eliza, look, she's crying! Aww!"

"Hey, we're sorry," Eliza said loudly so that the whole bus could hear. "We're sorry you're totally delusional!"

They continued their cackling until Moriah stuck her foot out and tripped them up. I guess sometimes she could be pretty cool.

Anyway, Cody calmed me down so that by the time we had reached our schools, my tears had stopped. He and Peter departed for St. John and Paul's while Moriah and I trudged the familiar path up to Our Lady of Sorrows. I noticed that she had hemmed her skirt just the slightest bit. "Moriah, I wish you wouldn't do that. You know Sister Clarissa will notice."

"Ah, the old bat's blind as a…bat," Moriah snorted with a wave of her hand. She then spotted some friends of hers and quickly departed for them, leaving me feeling a bit worried about some of her life choices and then wondering whether or not I was indeed a sissy and worried too much.

Happily, though, Moriah's vacated spot by my side was quickly filled by my best friend, Claire Thompson. Claire's older sister had a car, which to my sadness meant that Claire always had a ride to school and never needed to take the bus.

"Amy, what's up? Have you been crying?" she asked in her kind and concerned voice. She was so sweet.

"No, no, I'm fine," I said, sniffing loudly.

Not surprisingly, she was unconvinced. Claire stopped walking and took my arm, forcing me to look at her. "Come on," she said gently. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I chuckled. "I'm just so sensitive is all." I resolutely headed towards the school building, and Claire hesitantly followed me, even as I decided to veer away from the hallway that led to our first class and instead went for the bathroom. If she'd been able to tell I was crying, I didn't want it to be as obvious to everyone else.

So we walked into the empty bathroom and Claire stood by the door as I bent in front of the sink to flush my eyes out. Had this been Moriah, she'd have been worried about ruining her makeup, but I never wore any. It made me feel fake somehow, maybe even cheap—which isn't fair, because most of the girls I know who wear makeup don't look cheap. Take Claire, for example. Claire had a lovely round face framed by light orange hair (as a kid, she was apparently called "Pumpkin-head" because of this, and I think it took her a while for that trauma to wear off). Lately she had taken to wearing as much eyeliner as our school would allow, which really made her light brown eyes stand out, and on the weekends, she'd dare to put on mascara and lipstick.

As for me, despite Moriah's constant harassment, I ignored makeup. Mascara weighed down my eyelashes, lipstick always looked too garish and/or I felt weird eating with it on, and the thought of eyeliner just didn't appeal to me. As I washed my face in the bathroom, I couldn't help but notice that the bad lighting of the school did sort of make me look even more pale than usual. I reached behind me for a paper towel, and although it wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing I could've used to wipe my face off with, it was sort of the only option I had on me. Well, my eyes did look a bit better now; the watery blue color of them was at least starting to overpower the waning red.

"Hey, you wanna borrow some blush?" Claire teased me as we walked back into the main hallway.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I laughed. "I look like a ghost today, don't I?"

"No, no, you look fine," Claire quickly said, as if worried that she had actually offended me.

"Moriah keeps telling me it's time to start wearing makeup. I dunno, maybe I should start listening to her."

Claire looked away when I glanced at her for her opinion. "Amy, I think you're the prettiest girl I know," she said, adding in a louder voice as I scoffed, "No, really. You're so… beautiful. And Moriah's just jealous of you if she can't see that."

I put my arm around her and said, "Aw, Claire, you're so nice. And I think you're pretty, too." That seemed to satisfy her, and we walked like this for a few more moments in silence until I changed the subject completely. "Hey um, Claire? You… you believe in God, right?"

She didn't answer me right away, and to be honest, that sort of concerned me. "Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"You guess so? Don't you know?"

"Well, I mean I guess I just sort of want to figure it out more on my own, you know? I mean we have it shoved down our throats by our families and then here at school all the time, and it's like, I guess He exists, but …I'm not like a fanatic or anything."

"Oh…right."

We were about to walk into our classroom when Claire stopped me and said, "Hey, are you still going to the sleepover at Cyndi's tomorrow?"

"Yeah, why? You still are, aren't you?"

At the note of distress in my tone, Claire smiled a bit, showing off the teeth that now looked nearly perfect since she'd gotten her braces off over the summer. "Yeah, I'm gonna go. I just wanted to make sure you were, too. It wouldn't be as much fun if you weren't going to be there."

Claire and I both hung out with other people, but we were really each other's best friends. She was the person I confided in the most outside of my family, because I knew she'd never judge me. Likewise, she said she felt as close to me as a sister, drawing the strength and love from our relationship that she never got from her parents. It took a while for her to feel comfortable enough to divulge that kind of information, but now I know she would trust me with anything.

We first became friends in sixth grade, when after my family had been in Providence for a year, I was still considered "the new kid." Being a stellar example of an introvert, I despaired at my inability to make friends like my siblings had. Not even the teachers liked me, and in particular, Sister Catherine seemed to have some sort of personal vendetta against me. She taught us art, which was one of my favorite subjects until I became her pupil. It wasn't in my nature to boast of any skills I might have had, but I do think I must have had some talent, because Sister Catherine regularly made a big show out of telling me that I was too prideful in my work. As a means of humbling me, she would routinely take the piece I was working on to the front of the room and tell everybody what was the matter with it, paying no mind to how flushed I became or the way I shrunk back down in my seat, wanting nothing more than to just melt into the floor. Then she'd return the piece to me and demand I start entirely over, which meant I always handed in my assignments late.

I felt sort of like Jane Eyre when she was at Lowood and Mr. Brocklehurst did not allow any of the other girls to talk to her. Sister Catherine never said outright that my classmates were not to fraternize with me, but the respect she commanded and the fear of what might happen if one were to cross her kept the other girls from wanting to hang around me. Fortunately, Claire was to soon become the Helen to my Jane Eyre.

It happened near Easter, when we were each supposed to be drawing a portrait of the Christ. In a move that would have been seen as shockingly sacrilegious had it been done by anyone else, Sister Catherine swiped my paper off my desk and tore it in two. The silence that the Sister always maintained in the room seemed to increase now; it felt heavy. I was shaking in my seat, terrified of the look of disgust that Sister Catherine was sending directly at me, almost half-afraid that she was actually going to try and rip me into pieces.

"That," she said emphatically, pointing to my torn drawing where it now lay on the floor, "was not Jesus Christ. That is what He looks like!" she said, shifting her pointing finger to the portrait of the Savior that hung in the front of the classroom. It wasn't until much later that I realized she was saying I had not captured the essence of the Catholic image of Christ, which does not differ greatly from how my religion perceives him, but it was enough of a distinction for Sister Catherine—who knew I was not Catholic—to think my picture had been blasphemous. She beckoned me to follow her to the front of the classroom, where she sat down at her desk and pulled out the folder of all the work I'd done that year. Sister Catherine kept her eye on me as she pulled each piece out of the folder, as if daring me to verbally defy her or push her aside as she calmly ripped each paper into halves or even fourths. "I have seen more promising artistic talent among children less than half your age," she said in a level voice. Then she stood up, but as she had not given me permission to return to my seat, I knew she wasn't through with me yet.

The bell rang suddenly, but I did not hear anyone behind me preparing to leave. "You may all go," Sister Catherine said in her thick, low voice that would not be refused. From the way she was looking at me, I knew that I was not yet excused, and I determinedly kept my eyes on her as the other girls filed past me, trying to see my face. I thought that they had all gone when Sister Catherine said, "You too, Miss Thompson."

A short, orange-haired girl who always sat in the third row passed slowly by me. Something made me decide to catch her eye, and I saw her mouth "sorry" as she walked out of the classroom and closed the door behind her.

I wasn't too surprised when Sister Catherine pulled a ruler out of her desk and instructed me to hold out my palm. Actually, the only thing that did surprise me was that this hadn't come sooner. My hand felt numb after she had struck it three times, and as she silently placed the ruler back in its drawer, I allowed myself to glance down and see how red my palm was becoming. I knew that Sister Catherine expected me to tell no one of this; she knew I was too afraid of her and was too weak to ask someone for help.

"And clean up this mess," she said, nodding at the tatters on her desk that where the remains of what had been my attempts at art. The door closed behind her with a loud and resolute "boom," almost like a thunder crash. After she'd been gone nearly a minute and I was sure she wouldn't come back, I sat down at the closest desk.

Feeling was starting to seep back into my hand, and the feeling was pain. The gash left by the ruler was startlingly red and seemed to be growing. Hot tears were coursing down my cheeks, tears of shame and embarrassment, of fear and pain. I jumped when the door slowly creaked open, and I nearly tripped in my haste to get over to the Sister's desk because I thought she had come back to check on my progress. But it wasn't Sister Catherine, it was the girl who had lingered behind.

"Hi," she said a little breathlessly. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of my hand, and she hurried over to me, grabbing my wrist and pulling it towards her. "Oh, I'm sorry," she quickly apologized, worrying that her rough movement might have hurt me. "I can't believe Sister Catherine did that to you." She then went on to call our teacher a word that actually made me blush as she pulled me over to the sink. "Here, put your hand under there," she gently said, turning on the water.

I did as she said, but mumbled, "You shouldn't be here—if Sister Catherine comes back, she'll be mad at you."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of her," the girl said. "I'm Claire, by the way."

"Right, hi. I'm Amy."

"Yeah, I know." I looked at her curiously, and she went a bit red, shutting off the water and taking my hand again. "I just, um, I just have a good memory for names, and I remember when you moved h-here, uh…" She made a big show out of inspecting my hand, clearly trying to distract me from the fact that she'd known my name. I didn't know what she had to be embarrassed about, though, as she opened her bag and got out a bandage and some ointment. "My mom's a nurse," she explained. "So I always have this stuff, just in case one of my friends gets hurt."

The ointment stung a little bit, but when Claire applied the bandage, my hand felt better almost right away. "Are we friends?" I heard myself asking, sounding rather stupid. "I mean—can we be friends?" The unspoken "please" was audible through the desperation of my tone, and to my great relief, Claire smiled at me.

"Yeah, of course."

She went on to say that she should've said hi to me sooner, and that she ought to ask God to forgive her for not being a friend to me the moment I'd come to the school for the first time. Though I told her repeatedly that she didn't have to help me, Claire insisted on clearing up the mess of papers that Sister Catherine had left on her desk. I just tossed everything into the garbage can, but Claire was trying to salvage some of it, telling me that I was the best artist she'd seen.

"Well, Sister Catherine doesn't agree with you."

"Don't listen to her, what does she know?"

"She IS the teacher."

Claire waved her hand dismissively and said, "My older sister heard that she's on her way out, though. Apparently you're not the first student she's snapped at. Just wait until we get to Our Lady of Sorrows; my sister said the teacher there, Sister Annalisa, is much nicer and a better teacher."

But that didn't really matter to me. Sister Catherine's repulsion at my art cut me so deeply that I didn't think it'd be worth it to ever try again. When I got home that day, my mother saw what had happened to my hand. Though I tried to come up with some other explanation as to what might've caused it, I eventually had to give in and tell her the truth. One phone call to the school later, I never had to see Sister Catherine again.

Sorry—that was sort of a long digression to explain how my and Claire's friendship began. But now you're caught up, and back to the present: Claire and I were eagerly awaiting the weekend, when we'd be going to a sleepover at Cyndi Stewart's house. Cyndi was a well-liked girl who had become friends with me in eighth grade, when we were assigned to work on a project for European history together. She was talkative enough to counterbalance my shyness, and after several hours of working together, she felt comfortable enough around me to call me her friend.

At the sleepover, we did all those silly things that teenage girls do: we sat in a circle in our pajamas, talking about the latest fashions, our favorite TV programs, who the best and worst teachers were at Our Lady of Sorrows, and Hollywood heartthrobs we all had crushes on. This soon led to a discussion of more "realistic" crushes (guys we might actually have a chance with someday), and Cyndi brought up my brother.

"Cody Duncan is a hottie!" she laughed, and the other girls joined in, nodding and giggling. "Seriously, Amy, do you even know?"

"Yes, yes, I know!" I chuckled, pulling my knees up to my chest and rolling my eyes at Claire, who only half-smiled back at me.

They only knew him from times they had been at my house, or run into him in town, or seen him leaving school, yet somehow they all seemed to know everything about him. In surprising detail, they described the way the sun caught his wavy, auburn hair, and the beauty in the contrast of that hair with his blue eyes. He had a strong, "manly" jaw and a smile that was capable of actually melting your heart—I was always convinced that if Cody had ever been the kind of kid who needed to get out of trouble, that smile would've done all the work. But he was a good kid, and these girls knew it. Never had they heard of a more respectful and gracious boy, who was kind to his parents and looked out for his brothers and sisters. They also all seemed to be aware of how protective Cody was of me.

"Let's face it, Amy, you can be kind of a… um…"

"Easy target?" I suggested.

Cyndi chuckled. "I mean don't take it the wrong way, but yeah. You have to stick up for yourself more, you know? Be assertive. One day you're gonna grow up, and Cody won't always be there to protect you."

"Well sure," said a girl named Deborah. "But then she'll have a boyfriend or her husband for her to do that!"

This sent us all into another tirade of giggles, and once it was under control, I was still blushing but said, "I swear, that day's never gonna come! I'm too weird. No guy in his right mind would want to get with me."

"What? Oh come on," scoffed Deborah. "I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in thinking you're the prettiest girl here, I mean, am I right?" The others all assented, and Deborah talked over me: "Deny it all you want, but you are beautiful! Haven't you ever noticed the line of guys by the bus at St. John and Paul's who are always looking at you?"

"Um…no."

"I have," Claire said, speaking up for the first time in a while. She blew her bangs out of her face and said, "It's kind of creepy, actually."

"Uh, more like awesome," said another girl. "Amy, you could probably have any guy you wanted, if you'd just talk to him! Come on, who do you have a crush on?"

"I dunno, not anyone, really." But they would have none of that, and forced me into giving some kind of answer. "Gah—okay! Tommy Carpino."

They were delighted to hear this, and spent several minutes wondering how plausible a relationship between me and Tommy could be. After what felt like forever, they finally moved on to Claire, but she refused to name any names. Though they pestered her and needled her and tried to trick her into answering, she remained mute. Two girls I didn't know very well said that they knew who Claire liked, and I thought they must be lying, but the dark glare that Claire shot at them was so serious that I felt these girls must actually know. I was then a little offended that Claire had confided in them, and not in me. Why wouldn't she tell me, her own best friend?

Well, she was going to tell me within a few hours. I will say right now that the story I'm about to tell is one that causes me to feel great personal shame even now, more than twenty years later. I'm ashamed not because of what happened, but because of how I reacted to it. So as you read this, please keep in mind that I was just a stupid teenager who let feelings and uncertainty get in the way of what was right.

Most of the girls at the sleepover were still up, watching Grease, but I didn't care too much for this movie and was feeling pretty tired anyway. I whispered to Claire that I was going to go to sleep, and she yawned and followed me upstairs. Cyndi had said that Claire and I could use her sister's room, because her sister was at college. Neither of us had felt comfortable using the bed, though, so we'd each brought a sleeping bag and lay them down next to each other. As I said an evening prayer, Claire set up her sleeping bag and took her hair out of its short ponytail.

I finished my prayer and turned around, sitting against the bedpost. "Claire," I said. "How come you told Diana and what's-her-name who you have a crush on, and you didn't tell me?"

Claire unzipped her bag and avoided my gaze. "I didn't tell them anything. They were lying."

"No they weren't," I protested. "I saw the look you gave them! It's the kind that Moriah gave me when I said I'd tell Sister Martha that she was planning to pull a prank during study hour!"

"Really? What kind of prank?"

"Claire! That's not the point. Come on, tell me what boy you like!"

She had half-gotten into her sleeping bag, but appeared to have just made up her mind about something, and so she pulled herself out of it and crawled over to me. "Amy, I don't like any boys."

"Come on, you can tell me! I promise I won't spill, not even to Moriah, who probably knows him and would say something."

"There is no 'him,' Amy." She was sitting right up next to me, looking me in the eye as I tried to understand. "There's only you."

I snorted a laugh. "What?"

And then the moment before she did it, I realized what Claire was about to do. She just leaned towards me and kissed me on the mouth. Nothing else touched, only our lips, and I sat there dumbly in pure shock as she opened her mouth a little. But then she pulled away, and my head was reeling. I had never been kissed before, and I don't think she had, either. My mind was screaming at me to stand up, to move, to do something or at least speak, but the inherent astonishment that was coursing through every cell of my body kept me rooted to the spot. A nervous little smile appeared on Claire's face, as though she was glad that I hadn't made any dramatic movement or said something to discourage her. So this time she put her arms around me and a small sigh of happiness escaped her before she kissed me again. Her hand touched the back of my neck, her fingers twisting in my hair.

Finally, my senses came back to me and I lifted my hands, pushing Claire away from me. I had been perhaps a bit too forceful, but to emphasize my point, I stumbled to my feet. "Wh-what're you doing?" I gasped, looking down at her.

She was crestfallen, remaining where she was on the floor. "I—I'm sorry, I just …I mean, it just kind of h-happened." But she shook her head, looking away from me and biting her lip. "No, it didn't …I've been wanting to do that for a really long time, Amy. Almost since I met you. Please—"

"Don't," I said as she made to get up. I backed up slowly for the door, feeling as if I might throw up any second. "Don't."

"Amy, please," she whispered, starting to tear up. I looked at her a moment longer, then turned and hurried out the door. A moment later, I could hear her following me. "Where are you going?"

She was afraid I was off to announce what had just happened to the rest of the girls, who were still in the basement. But I stopped at the front door, putting my hand on the knob and saying, "I'm going home." Though it was 1:00 in the morning, I wasn't afraid—Cyndi only lived a block away from me, and I would rather risk running home than having to stay there a minute longer and risk seeing what else Claire might try.

To my surprise, she was behind me. "Amy, please, I'm sorry!"

"Is that the only reason you wanted to be friends with me?!" I called out, coming to a stop. "Because you wanted to get with me, is that it?!"

"What? No!" she said, taking my arm. "I really like you, Amy, I mean you're the best friend I've got—"

I yanked myself out of her grip, and I was crying as well. "Don't follow me!" I said, turning once again and running flat-out to my house. I'd never run this fast in my life; it felt as if a knife was piercing my side with every step I took as my feet pounded against the pavement, delivering me to the only safe haven I had. My lungs felt ready to collapse uselessly on themselves as I finally reached home. At first I went to ring the bell (because the door would obviously be locked at this hour), but I quickly realized that would wake everyone in the house. I didn't want to do that, nor did I want to have to explain to them all why I'd come home in the middle of a sleepover.

But I had to tell someone, and I narrowed it down to either mom or Cody. The only reason I chose the latter was because I was too embarrassed to tell my mother, fearful that she might think I had led Claire on. To this day I wonder what might have become of me and Claire if I had actually decided to confide in my mother, and not in Cody. God bless my brother, but I should have known to go to an adult for advice this time, and not another kid.

I saw the light on in his room, and threw several pebbles up to the window. Just as I was preparing to toss up a fifth, he appeared and saw me. He came down and opened the front door for me, looking very worried at my distress. We talked in whispers as we went back up to his room, and I told him Cyndi was fine and her house was fine and that everything was okay. Oh, why did I panic so much? If I had calmed down, I never would've had to tell him. Instead, I told to him that Claire had basically revealed to me that she was gay.

"Okay," he said softly, embracing me and giving my back a reassuring pat. "Amy, just calm down, it's going to be all right. I understand how that could make you nervous, but remember: we are to love the sinner, and hate the sin."

"That's the problem," I cried, wiping my eyes. "Claire loves me, she's in love with me—sh-she kissed me!"

This, it appeared, threw the story into a whole other light. Cody released me and asked me to repeat what I'd said. Trembling, I obliged, and he looked at me for a very long time. I asked him what I should do, if it had been stupid and over-reactive of me to leave the sleepover.

"If she kissed you," he said, and I could see the surprise and repulsion in his expression. "You have to let her alone for a while. 'If thy right hand offends thee, thou shalt cut it off.' You've got to cut her off, Amy. If you don't, she's going to pull you in, and pull you down. Stay on the right path."

For whatever reason, I listened to him and didn't tell anyone else in my family what had happened. Cody, for his part, also maintained silence. Now please, don't think too badly of him. I know what he said was wrong, and I think that now, he knows that as well. But we were just kids, and he was older, repeating to me what he'd heard others say to him. He wasn't old enough yet or experienced enough yet to see the ignorance behind that train of thought, and I want you to know what a good kid he was aside from that. There was actually a boy at St. John and Paul's named Jack Davison who, we later learned, was gay. A bunch of boys tried to corner him after school, but when someone tipped off Cody, he literally went to Jack's rescue. Two of the bullies got black eyes and the others suffered several bruises as Cody fought them all off.

That was the sort of story that made me love and respect my brother, but it's also the kind that confused me. He was allowed to help Jack because Jack had never hit on him? Why couldn't I still be friends with Claire when she had never tried to hurt me? And the answer to that of course was that I could have still been friends with her, but what Cody had told me scared me away from her. I really wish I could have been better, and that's what I ask Christ to forgive me for now: for abandoning her when I should have been there for her.

We stopped hanging out, and my family attributed it to the notion that girls of our age usually drifted apart, changing our group of friends. I told myself this same thing, that we probably would've had falling out at some point anyway. I haven't seen her since graduation, and very highly doubt that I ever will again. Just know how sorry I am about that, that I never made amends. I've made tremendous strides since then, or at least I sincerely hope I have.

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A/N: Writing this is tough…phew. Thanks for reading. Especially Sophie. You are awesome. As are reviews.