"There is someone," said Audette, "living in my basement.”

“Oh?” asked Annette. “Is that so?” then she took another sip of her coffee and pushed the remains of her almond croissant towards her sister. Audette frowned and picked at the crust.

“Do you think I should call an Exterminator?” she asked through a mouthful of sugar.

“Oh no. No, no. I think whoever it is, they’ll most likely go away on their own. I mean, remember Georgie?” she shuddered slightly.

Audette did remember Georgie. He had lived in Annette’s attic crawlspace for almost two months, causing her no end of grief. Audette remembered this especially because their meetings during those two months had been even more strained than usual. She nodded sympathetically.

“I mean, I had Georgie in the attic for the longest time. I would always say things like, ‘Georgie, don’t you think it’s time?’ or, ‘Georgie, I really must insist.’ But he would just tip his hat at me every time and give me that mournful smile.” She put her chin in her hands and sighed. “He was always so moody. And then that day Carmilla decided to eat all of my day lilies and throw up in the pantry, I’d just had enough of him. So I just let him stay there for two weeks. I didn’t say a word.” she flared her nostrils. “ But then I guess I felt guilty. So I put on a pot of tea and brought him up some cookies, but he’d gone!” she smiled at Audette and drained her coffee. “See dear? It all works itself out you know. No need to go spending a fortune on an Exterminator. Especially these days!” Annette glanced at her watch and gasped “Eight forty-five! The museum opens in fifteen minutes! We’re going to have to run if we want to get there before the rush.” Then she gathered up her things and took off towards the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Audette!”

“Just a second.” Audette frowned again at the remainder of her breakfast, and then wrapped it carefully in a napkin and placed it in her shoulder bag.

The problem, and she wasn’t sure if Annette would understand, was that she didn’t exactly mind whoever it was being there. She was glad for the company. She thought about this as Annette made tiny exclamations over Monet and Matisse. Annette wouldn’t, no, couldn’t understand. She had Carmilla, and all those men. Audette never liked dogs, and she wasn’t very good with people. Annette was the social one, she, Audette... She stared at a goldfish.

She was the dreamer.

It's harder for us real girls. The ones made of flesh and bone, not saline. 100% real, no additives-ever. That's me.

We used to peel hard boiled eggs at the sink- cracked porcelain- washed our hands with an old bar of Ivory soap, like our mothers taught us to scrub real hard, peel real carefully, so we wouldn't get cut on the egg shell. Hard boiled eggs and coffee so old it stained your tongue and your memories. Hit your stomach and made you really think. Made me think about an egg shell protecting a universe, my universe. Made me think about girls, think about me, think about me and girls and how my mother never taught me anything useful.

I sucked at the cut on my finger and washed the blood and tiny white shell pieces down the drain.

It's easy to pretend you care when you don't- sort of like crying when you cut up an onion- except the onion's optional. Love is tricky though. It's not as easy to pretend you're in love with somebody. Not like cutting an onion, not even like peeling an egg. It's much easier to get hurt.

When we felt like being bad we'd take off our pants and eat fried chicken on the couch. Toss our jeans to the floor and wiggle our toenails- painted different colors, depending on the time of year and what type of moods we were in. I always felt like my eyes lingered a little too long on her-

feet.

I am a real girl- a girl who drinks days old coffee and eats hard boiled eggs in her underwear, a girl who combs out her hair right after she gets out of the shower and wonders about what color to paint her toenails that don’t need to be painted, because no one will ever see them, except her. A girl who is capable of falling in love- but who would rather cut onions and think about an entire universe contained in a single white egg.

I am a 100% real girl.

And I have never been lonelier.

~*~

“Do you want some gum?” I asked her- that day on the beach was windy with a fair amount of rain- the occasional burst of ice cold precipitation that would just blast you on the back of the neck, long enough to make you wish you’d brought your jacket, short enough to make you change your mind about going back to the car.

“What kind?” She asked me, but before I had a chance to answer she’d grabbed my hand and opened it to check for herself. I loved that about her, that kind of intrusive intimacy that added so many layers to our relationship.

I forget what kind of gum it was, or whether or not she had had any. But later on, when I kissed her, down by the water’s edge, her breath tasted sharp and cool- like peppermint.

Her name was caramel melting in my mouth and her skin was soft underneath my calloused hands. I used to trace circles on her stomach as we lay in bed. Of all the girls I’d ever been around, she was the best at being soft. I talked to her about the universe a few times, but she wasn’t really interested.

There was this one girl who sang all the time, even though she wasn’t really good at it. And another who knew how to build a fire in all kinds of weather. There was one who could take things apart and put them back together, another who could peel an apple all in one peel. There was even one girl who knew how to make true darkness by putting her palms over my eyes. But I've only ever known one other 100% real girl.

Girls like her are few and far between. Girls like her eat fried chicken half naked on overstuffed couches and know all about eggshells, and stained memories. Girls like her are pitfalls for people who’d rather not fall in love.

~*~

I remember a time when everything was vintage, but we didn't call it that. When I was twelve, I spent the majority of my time at my mother's boutique, where everything smelled like lavender and even the air appeared to be purple. If there was ever a woman in the world more feminine then my mother, I hadn't met her. My mother reeked of femininity, which of course, smelled like lavender.

I smelled like summer- dirt and sunlight, grass stains and clean laundry.

I got my first kiss when I was twelve. That summer we were all down by the old Pepsi-Cola sign, it was a dare, more accurately a triple-dog dare, and no kid in their right mind who doesn't want to be labeled chicken for life refuses a triple-dog dare. The darer was a grungy kid, I'd picked that word up from my mother, dirt under his finger nails, hair that hadn't been washed in weeks- this was the kind of kid who never ever washed behind his ears.

"Kiss her." He said, pushing me.

"No way!" I had to protect her. From him, from me.

"Kiss her! C'mon, you guys spend so much time together anyway, you might as well get married!" His voice broke into that sing-song-y style kids our age used as emphasis, his mouth puckered and he made kiss-y lips in my direction.

The bastard.

"C'mon, I dare you."

"Go away!" I yelled, my fists raised. I could feel her trembling behind me.

I couldn't kiss her! Such an action surely meant humiliation for her. It was a different situation for me, I'd already been labeled the tom-boy sort, I'd only be in trouble if I refused the dare, but for her, it was a lose-lose situation.

If I kissed her, than she'd be the girl who'd been kissed by the tom-boy.

If I didn't kiss her than she'd be the girl who couldn't get kissed.

Such humiliations weigh heavily on the shoulders of twelve year olds. Little did any of them know that I'd been wanting to kiss her for a while. But not like this. Not in front of everyone. Not when she was standing there in the dirt, her sundress wrinkled from crawling under porches, tears streaming down her smudged face- her eyes so blue in the summer sun.

"C'mon, I double-dog dare you!" He smirked, hands on his smug little hips, as his cohorts whistled in awe behind him, their eyebrows lifting, eyes widening as the stakes were raised.

I grabbed for her wrist behind me- I knew what was coming, and I was getting us ready.

"Triple-dog dare you." His voice was strangely calm now. He knew he had me check and mate. I'd have to be out of my mind to back down from this one.

"Come on!" I yanked her arm and we took off running. We left them all in a cloud of dust so big when it cleared they were wondering whether or not it had all been a dream. At least that's what I hoped.

I led the way and she, brave, loyal soul that she was, followed me blindly, with complete and utter trust. I was, after all, her 'best' friend. Such a title carried with it more than just broken necklaces and slumber parties. I was her leader of sorts, in that summer of scraped knees and tadpoles, I was her teacher and I had one more thing to show her.

When we finally stopped we were both so out of breath we had to sit down on the pavement and drool for a while, squinting in concentration trying not to throw up. A few minutes later we looked at each other, our faces split with goofy smiles, tears in our eyes.

I leaned over then, and kissed her. On the lips, where it counts. I was no chicken and she and I both knew it.

Of course, that was the summer before I learned that kissing girls is not allowed.

My mother came hurtling out of her boutique trailing streams of lavender smoke like purple fire behind her. In our haste I'd brought us to the one place I thought we'd be truly safe. Instead, I ended up stuffing more bags of potpourri that summer than I'd ever hoped to stuff in my life.

I didn't see her again until eighth grade started that fall. But when I did, she didn't seem as happy to see me as I was to see her.

Life's like that.

My eggshell was more fragile back then.

Over the years I've built it up to be stronger, better. Tougher. The only downside to having a thicker shell, is if it breaks, you'll get cut worse than you ever got cut before.

And if you break- who'll be there to pick up the pieces?

~*~

I met her in one of those culture markets downtown. The kind that refers to everything as fresh and homegrown. She was buying coffee and cigarettes, my kind of woman. Later that night, back at my apartment, she and I smoked cigarettes and drank our way through two bottles of red wine before we realized, life was nothing like either of us had expected.

She was gorgeous, even more so with the water cascading around her shoulders and breasts. She leaned into me to turn the water tap to hot, and as her hands slid down my back she whispered in my ear-

"Nothing is ever what you expect it to be."

She was right.

I used to know a girl, who was 100% authentic. I kissed her once. But the thing is, people change, and nothing is ever what you expect it to be. She's probably not 100% anymore. Come to think of it, neither am I.