women who grew up only wanting to be moms, they don’t want anything else. “There’s nothing else up here,” she’d said, tapping the side of her head. When I grew up I wanted to be a mom like my mom and not like the other moms. Not like the moms with nothing else up there. I pictured empty rooms filled with empty cribs and empty milk bottles rolling against one another—a creepy, dirty mobile sputtering out a slow “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on almost-dead batteries.
Hannah had a black boyfriend. Claire’s boyfriend was from Mexico. I liked a white boy called Milo because his name was Milo. I didn’t know where he was from. He was friends with their boyfriends. Our plan was to sneak out of Claire’s bedroom window once her parents had gone to bed and meet the boys by the railroad tracks. We wanted to be out when the moon was full and high. Midnight. We weren’t allowed to stay out past eleven. We’d been feeling dreamy all day, drunk on summer sun and tart strawberries and fizzy water. It was July and the day was dangerous; the words twenty-second made my mouth move like a kiss and a bite. Claire’s house was big and her parents never woke up until morning. We’d showered and sat on her bed listening to music and watching the clock until it was time to leave.
Window open.
Climb out.
Reach back inside.
“Quiet.”
“Be quiet.”
“Seriously, shut UP.”
Window closed.
“Where is Milo from?” Hannah asked quietly as we walked through Claire’s neighbor’s wet grass.
“Shh,” Claire said.
“I’m whispering,” Hannah snapped.
“It’s not a question you need to know the answer to right this second. You can never chill,” Claire said.
I laughed.
“Shh,” Claire said again.
“Your shushing is louder than our laughing and whispering,” Hannah said.
Claire laughed too. We were at the end of the street and finally Claire felt free. We all felt free. Somehow, her face was even frecklier by moonlight and I stood there looking at her, her purple hood pulled up, the little black-and-white shorts we passed between the three of us like an accidental Sisterhood of the Traveling Black-and-White Shorts. I loved Claire. I loved her so much. I loved Hannah too. I felt blessed by them and felt blessed to know it. I was one thing when I was alone. I was another, better thing when the three of us were together. We were walking quick, but I still prayed all lit up under the streetlight that we’d be friends forever. I was thinking amen when I heard Hannah’s boyfriend psst us in the darkness. Apsstmen. We’d hung out so much, I even recognized his psst.
“Baby girl,” Claire’s boyfriend said. I saw him reach for Claire when we were in the light. I heard the chain fence rattle next to me. Milo’s black hair, full moon-white skin. Hannah had already smashed herself into her boyfriend’s arms.
“Hey,” Milo said.
“Where are you from?” Hannah asked him immediately.
“Spearfish, South Dakota,” he said.
“Who’s from South Dakota?” Hannah asked, laughing.
“Me,” he said plainly.
I decided I was in love with him.
He cupped his hand and lit his cigarette. His hair twitched across his face. I begged for mercy. He whipped his head back to adjust it. Mercy denied. I decided I would die for him—slit my neck and bleed out on top of him. Soak him like some Shakespearean tragedy. You know, if he wanted me to. Like, for love.
“Come up here,” Claire said from the train tracks stage. The moon, a spotlight.
We went up there and the boys talked about some other places we could go. They creeped us out talking about the Pope Lick Monster that haunted the railroad trestle bridge on the other side of town. Made people fall to their death.
“But that’s not real,” Hannah said.
“Trust me, it’s real,” her boyfriend said.
They started kissing. Claire’s boyfriend asked her if she was scared of the monster and she said yes. Milo ignored them and told me he liked my watch. I pushed the little button on the side so he could see it light up. The blue of it, coloring the tip of his nose.
* * *
If we were feeling bold, but not bold enough to challenge the Pope Lick Monster, we could hop the next train. Maybe we’d make it and disappear. I’d start calling Milo Moon and I’d change my name too. I’d be Dakota so I could always remind him who he was, where he came from. He’d grow his black hair out and I’d braid