The music is as loud as the police will permit. And the windows are open, letting the drizzling rain cool our warm skin. The car doors are locked for safety in the middle of 10:45pm's crowded parking lot. The words to each song are sung like any other day, but the anticipation surrounding it is something new. I'm a nervous wreck, inexperienced and terrified of the future, but I'm with my best friend who understands. Though the yes-or-no question lingers, we sit in each other's company comfortably. There was no electricity like I'd expected, but my first kiss was perfect.

I know he's hurting because of her. She lures them all in with her proficient flirting routines, and when she's sure she's got them hooked, she leaves them to pine. I swear, that girl has at least eight boys trailing behind her, drooling over her every word, and laughing uncontrollably at her so-not-funny jokes. I don't know what they see in her, and I' m not saying that because I'm jealous. She's the one person I don't want to be like, because if I went out with my best friend's crush, I wouldn't be as fortunate as she has been.

1:30am, there was supposed to be a meteor shower in the northeast. Fifteen minutes prior to the awaited event, we changed into our warm clothes, minding the wind, and made our way to the beach. Because we wanted to see them so badly, we imagined meteors flying through the sky and thought they were real. I'm certain three of them were. When the clouds came out, everyone, tired and disheartened, returned to the campfire while the two of us remained on the beach for a while longer. As we walked back, our conversation was fake and meant to be so.

After a day of rest and chicken (no rice), skittles, and crocheted blankets, we each curled up in front of our separate computers to communicate. We're a network of friends with a solidity only further enforced by internet activities. We have our own pants, our inside-inside jokes, and a commonality that only eleven share. We're going to grow old together, live in a giant house, and have magical passwords for each secret entrance. We'll work in the same gigantic building and miss each other while away in the restrooms, because, by now, we're far too attached to ever be apart.

There are holes in the soles of his socks. With ice skates on, his feet will blister, we warn, but he prides himself on his masculinity and his ability to handle pain, so he skates. To be free, to be cold, to see our breaths against the blue curtains hanging from the ceiling, means that everything will be fine. Car rides, kisses, and The Atari's Astoria album will keep us from sleeping off the icy cold air. Without a moment to lose, we'll skate fast, and disappear together to a dimension where, four days from now, you'll still be here.

My parents always tell me how amazing my friends are. I know. Tonight, we sang at Robert's house, a little off key, but still gold or platinum. I can do that, though, dancing is still pretty much impossible. We all think it's kinda neat the way Jared sings along with Gloria Estefan. The words may be a little rushed, but the tune he carries is what really matters. They're planning on drinking tomorrow to conclude winter break. I changed my mind. I don't like it when he's drunk. It was so much easier caring for him as just a friend.

I was nervous. Our first important conversation as more-than-just-friends had finally commenced. We have two more days until California, and my heels are burning to make it stop. It was quiet, except for the murmur of the fish tank, and our occasional nonsensical blurbs. With my mind already made up, six years will pass. (I can be very stubborn.) Now, it's up to him. There's nothing more for me here, but there, there's an entire continent to conquer. Chris made it seem like this conversation would be so much easier. Anyway, we're thinking more tonight, and concluding this discussion tomorrow.

The shadows on the concrete were thick with a finality we both knew was approaching. The ground was the deepest I could see, but if I could, my stare would penetrate the earth's core. This was our goodbye-- an understanding that would preserve our friendship and save the rest for later. My tears wet his shoulder and his stained the letter, but with one last hug, everything mattered. Winter is over, and summer seems years away, but hopefully, by then, nothing besides our certainty will have changed. Tomorrow, California steals, and I haven't yet accepted it. I miss him already.

1pm airport goodbyes and watery eyes began our six months apart. I slipped a letter in his pocket and he handed me a picture we took of an unforgettable winter just like the movies. One last hug and a final glance later, we parted. The bus ride home was quiet and lonely, and the rain drowned me when I stepped off. A few more steps to break down in my room, but we're still young and happy. This is a healthy heartbreak, and our tears are meant to fall, because winter was phenomenal, and summer's here with each phone call.

In the mornings, every retired grandfather is standing at the end of their driveway of their suburban-country home, looking down the street, not even pretending to be doing something important. Later during the day, they find time to garden, check the mail, and push a stroller occupied by a spoiled grandchild around the block. I wonder if they still care about time and the things they need to do in life, or if they're content with what's already been done. It took me half an hour to walk to class today, and I still don't feel any closer to summer.

I've been killing myself trying to remember the name of the song that played that night. I didn't care for it-- the thing wasn't even English. But, the remembrance of J dancing with his seatbelt on and the seemingly rehearsed duet with Robert brings me back to that carefree winter night-- and I'd do anything to be there again. We ordered sandwiches and sodas from the Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru and were deathly afraid of what was really in our food. God, I miss winter-- and that song-- maybe it's better I don't hear it again; the one night was grand enough.

This is what you call keeping it loose-- laissez-faire. I can't be upset or anything. This is the way California rolls, and you never know what's going to happen. I won't pine publicly, and the internal pining will be no threat to my small intestines. I knew this several days ago, but come summertime, I don't want to be the only one still stuck in winter. Robert is sure that if summer is a success, the rest is cake, and I want to believe it. I could use a new environment-- something fresh and exciting like Rome... with a boy.

Our junior-high selves will always be best friends. We belonged to our Notebook, our crush stories, our Pokemon cards, and our fake tattoos. Five years has passed, and it's finally okay to move on. Now that she has real tattoos and body piercings, goes to clubs, drinks, and smokes, it is clear that we belong to two different worlds. I don't know her anymore. We can smile at each other and remember those six hour phone calls, occasionally reminisce about high-school boyfriends, and wish each other happy birthdays, but other than the memories, we are strangers in a small town.

It's empowering to be at the receiving end of signals, especially when the boy on the other end is the one I like. Partly because I was busy watching a movie (still, one that could easily be paused or rewinded), I didn't answer the phone. If things were like they were in our only-best-friend days, his phone calls would merely be endured and some even avoided. I simply prefer person-to-person contact or handwritten letters. If all goes to Devious Plan, he'll be the one worrying about whether or not I still like him. I mean, he'll be the obvious one.

School-day enclosed weekends put a damper on our creativity. Nine dollar movies are overdone and poker bores me. When we can afford to stay out late, when classes start after noon, our homework is done, and there are no tests in the near future, we should embark on one of those adventures we've always talked about. A road trip around the island will take three hours, leaving lots of time for us to trespass on private property, slow dance on railroad tracks, and explore abandoned warehouses with nothing but our youthful energy and excitement to keep us awake until dawn.

"Grandma, how do you know all this?"I asked after she'd given me the history of the residents in the house next door.
"They talk loudly,"she said. "And the fence is short.-
We laughed. I tried picturing her peering over the wooden fence in her leisure time, but the image wouldn't come.
"That man's always yelling. At least the old ones were quiet while the weeds overtook their house... They have a pretty flower growing on their roof. Did you see the pretty flower?-
She paused, and I could see, that we are all our own, entwined in others.

That five minute nap I took this afternoon must have been powerful. This sudden burst of energy is something to take note of; my mind is racing, preventing any decent shuteye. This is sheer insanity, or something resembling insomnia. I'll usually sleep before waking up for class the next morning, but when the sun comes up today, I'll be "waking up"having not slept a wink. In the meantime, I'll converse via instant messages to the couple of my friends who have made this wakefulness their norm. I've beaten the Maven in internet Scrabble thrice, and it never gets old.

He swore and apologized, saying that those four letters on my computer screen were just figments of my imagination. We talked about December and what vulnerable hearts had been cast for us there. It was fine to think about the beach, the fireworks, and the stars. However, it was far from fine to obsess over them. Words aren't meant to be so abused. I "talk"too much, and my mind is getting the best of my heart, or maybe it's the other way around, but I can't tell anymore, because we're postponing conversation for later when he isn't so drunk.

You search for meaning in every word he says, but the truth is, no one really cares, and we're all afraid to admit it. Boys like sports and alcohol, and unless you're drop-dead gorgeous like the girls in magazines or highly sought by others, you're expendable, and a wonderful friend. This song is just a song from a movie you used to love, and he doesn't recall the plans that you've made to live like it. Details are for girls to notice, because he doesn't recognize them anymore, and maybe this is your fault because you were always so available.

This is the start of something new.

We can laugh because we're inexperienced and not alone. Huddled over our French notes in the back of the classroom, we take turns trying to pronounce what everyone else seems to do so easily. He writes in a notebook meant for poets and watches foreign films.

The other sits up front and asks about the quiz schedule frequently even though his French is good enough to not care. He's got long brown hair, a skateboard, and a charming way of being there.

We've got the pieces, and we don't know what we're building.

It's almost like feeling something furry scurry over your foot, and you look down to see that it is not a mouse, but just a tissue you dropped under your desk earlier that day, and the mixture of relief and disappointment, because if it were a rodent, you'd have to scream, cry, and shower at the same time, but you'd also have an amazing gross-out story for your friends' next lunch. And if he did like you as much as you did him, it would be a lot harder to be happy and move on like how we should now.

We could sing whenever we wanted, cry in public, laugh for no reason, and dance without caring what we looked like. Nothing really mattered, and that meant the world to us. Afternoon showers in the streets left puddles in the driveway where we spent hours splashing, soaking the legs of our pants, and screaming our deepest secrets into the empty metal mailbox. With the rumble of thunder in the distance and flashes of lightning in the brilliant sky, we were reminded that not even this was as perfect as it could get. What we really needed was our pirate ship.

The way he sat, with his nose in a book and the arch of his back that could make you ache, was so familiar. If he was the boy, we've got a history. One hour every week, we had a silent agreement to meet the same place we did the first. We'd bring our books, a pen, music, and those eyes, because we can't communicate without them. Stare, smile, and turn away-- that was the routine. If I didn't have the controls to my heart, I'd be attached, stuck, and soaring along with the other impossibilities infatuation-driven teenage minds conjure.

They say words flow, but mine dance toward the shore then recede again. How many times have I tried to express this feeling? Tens and teens of words are thoughtlessly drawn in the margins of my history notes just in case I'll need them later. They're the kinds of words you don't want to forget, but do, and often, because you think about them way too much. Coming back to them is always a disappointment, because the feeling that it matched has already changed, and the word is just any word that you'd find like a dime in the street.

We're close enough to whisper and secrets could be exchanged, but words like those steal the mysteries that make this so exciting. When he asked, I told him that we wouldn‘t be quizzed. Of course, the few times that I'm almost sure of something, I'm wrong, and I realize I should have just said that I didn't know, like usual. "Close your books and take out a clean sheet of paper."Both jaw-dropped and worried, we turned to each other and gasped. We were quizzed, and I didn't get the chance to tell him that I knew he'd do fine.

It's a song that plays like the scene from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang when they were toys, twirling to the music from the box that spun them. It has that pronounced doot doot you'd think only came from a music box-- the kind of music box that you'd get from your mom who got it from her mom decades ago. It's a song that reminds you of the sand dollar you got in fourth grade from the curly-haired boy who gave them to everyone else, just because it lived in that music box and played a song similar to this.

Apparently, there's this guy that can stop and start his heart through meditation and slow breathing. One breath can last longer than twenty seconds, and as the time between each breath increases, so does the heartbeat. I wanted to see if I could do it-- you know, stop and start my heart-- so I breathed real long and slow, trying not to think about anything. It wasn't very exciting, and I ended up asleep, face down in the carpet. I must've been really tired. It would be great if I learned something that could keep me awake during the day.

She was choking, and I couldn't do anything but ask if everything was okay. All she wanted was a new box of black hair dye. Confused, I darted out the exit door and flew down several flights of stairs. I'd find the dye in a crowded bookstore where apparently, anything and everything could be purchased. Ready to make my way upstairs, I was overwhelmed by an enormous gathering of people that had formed outside while I wasn't looking. A bunch of us held boxes of black hair dye, while the rest protested with pastel-colored dots on their clothing and faces.

I can almost feel myself getting fatter on this Sunday afternoon. This is the retired life of 11am breakfast omelets and crossword puzzles, napping at 4, and waking at 5 to start dinner. Leftover spaghetti and a fresh batch of toasted garlic bread are ready to eat in an hour, and as I chew, it becomes clear that it doesn't matter anymore, because everyone is too caught up in themselves to care how much you eat, and I'm perfectly content with the way things are. Besides, I wouldn't want to die tomorrow having not had a nice hearty last meal.

Like old times, old friends conversed. Memories and confessions are best obscured until next winter where snow refuses to fall, and new and old stars gather to bear witness to our sandy recollections. Talk is to keep in touch, and nothing deeper than outrageous dreams and late night meals are revealed, because we can't afford much more than this. The days are getting longer, and for the longest, he'll be here to rewrite summer stories of the dates we all remember when everything was far less complex, but not as snug as last winter each scene played like a movie.

It's a thicker form of paper with one smooth side, and the other normal, for signing. There's a holographic sticker on the smooth side that says FEB06 YOUTH. I've been a child under 13 years of age for 18 years now. I guess it's good to be young, but I know how to drive, I can use a knife, and I make my own bedtimes. I catch the bus alone, and sometimes, I even talk to strangers. You know me-- living on the edge, making every minute an adventure. I'm wild and unpredictable, crazy, and just your ordinary teenage maniac.