Of the two girls, Abby is better. Lea’s no good. She lies so often that truth has ambiguous definition, and when you’re not looking she sometimes puts things of yours in her pockets or purse. Abby may lack in cleverness and endearing quirks, but she won’t let you down. And she loves for ages across worlds and against discouraging heartbreak. Abby, her outfits hug narrow hips and shoulders and are free from holes and frays. She likes black, remnants from high school years in the spike-clad unsocial ranks. She cut a little, but the scars still lingering shine pale and thin-the hurts were tentative and anxious, falling shallow as pain increased. Her dark lids and eyeliner thick like crayons, they’ve both been edited away from teenage drama and upgraded with glitter and gloss. Her edge is now college appropriate. The All-American teen would still whisper things about morbid poetry and suspected pain fetishes, but most would have secret dreams of breathy sex, her blond hair caught in the corners of her mouth.