To know that something brews during your twelfth year

has you disconcerted, not scared.

Amber stands by you, a golden halo surrounding her body while you two wait to be served.

She is not your friend,

Nor is this a friendship.

But in the preteen haze of lunch, boundaries dissolve -

And you can ask her about her dog.





Stung by sharp replies, you scan posters you have read before,

But it's fine.

She isn't your friend, nor could this be a friendship;

That much you know.

She'd need scraped knees and frizzy hair for that,

but she has hazelnut eyes:

A fully-formed girl.