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It wasn't.

I had never had or participated in a pajama party. Ice and Cinnamon said they had never, either. but Rose told us she had when she was fourteen.

"I had made some friends and thought I was finally going to have a life. Shortly afterward, my father came hom

e and told my mother and me we were moving again. I remember I cried a lot this time, just rained a storm of tears down my cheeks until the well of sorrow inside me dried up and left my heart aching."

"I bet you were afraid to make friends after that," Cinnamon said.

"Exactly. I was terrified of becoming too close to anyone or too involved in any activity. Good-byes were like tiny pins jabbed into my heart,"

She stared at the sad memories flashing over her eyes.

We were all sitting on the floor, each of us wrapped in the blanket we had brought along. We were situated so that we were just below the window. Rose, at Cinnamon's suggestion, left the bathroom lights on, making it look as if she was still in there, perhaps taking a shower or a bath.

"It doesn't seem like all that much of a big deal now when I think back," she continued. "but I do remember how much fun it was sharing secrets with your girlfriends. Everyone just seemed to be more honest, frank, and unafraid of revealing what a girlfriend of mine called heart thoughts."

"Heart thoughts?" I asked, I looked at Cinnamon and Ice, who both shook their heads.

"She had this theory that some thoughts don't come from our brains. They come directly from our hearts, traveling up to our brains, and finally, when we're being honest or care to be revealing, out through our lips."'

"That's silly," Cinnamon said, "Your heart doesn't have the neurological cells to form thoughts." Rose shrugged.

"She just meant that some feelings originated there and got translated into thoughts. I guess. Of course, she was mainly referring to our crushes on boys and our..."

"What?" Ice asked.

"Our sexual fantasies. I guess."

"Like what?" Cinnamon asked, Just asking brought a crimson glow into Rose's cheeks.

"One girl described closing her eyes while she was taking a bath and imagining a boy she liked a lot kneeling beside the tub and washing her body with a soft sponge."

We were all suddenly very quiet. Rose traced her finger along the carpet.

"When I was twelve," she continued, "I was at a friend's house. She had a swimming pool and some boys were there. We were all flirting and splashing each other. One boy, Neil Rosen, kept going under water and grabbing at our legs. He popped up in front of me and I fell backwards, As I fell, he reached out and grabbed the top of my bathing suit, allegedly to stop me from falling. It came off. and I screamed. I was so embarrassed I wished my head would sink into my neck. I felt like drowning myself afterward.

"Anyway. I told the girls the story, but I made it seem like a fantasy and not a true story. I felt guilty about it because I was letting them tell their true life secrets and I was hiding mine."

She looked ashamed.

"You shouldn't have worried about it. Half the things people write as fiction come from real events in their lives," Cinnamon said. "I was an expert liar, creative liar. I called it. but I based my tall tales on some thread of truth. We all do it."

I was going to disagree, but didn't. Maybe she was right. Maybe there were things I had said and done that I didn't want to expose.

"Whatever," Rose said. She took a deep breath and smiled. "We had a good time nevertheless, and with everyone around everyone else giving support, we called boys we dared not call on our own. I remember I was sorry the night came to an end. We all fought sleep until we were too exhausted to keep our eyelids open. Everyone was dragging around so dreadfully the next day, our parents thought we had participated in one wild party. I remember my mother saving, "Darlin'. you look like you chased Mr. Sandman out of your bedroom forever."

All three of us were smiling at her, actually feeling quite envious, as if keeping yourself up all night talking and flirting with boys over a telephone v.ras a rich, wonderful experience. Maybe it was. Maybe we had somehow missed out on so much.

I lowered myself to the floor and laid my head on a pillow.

Cinnamon was talking, describing what it had been like for her when her mother had been committed to a mental clinic after she had miscarried. It was a sad story, and interesting, too. but I was having trouble keeping myself awake. The food, the wine, the emotional tension made me very sleepy.

And then, suddenly, the feel of Ice's hand squeezing my ankle popped my eyes open.

"What?"

"Shh," Cinnamon warned. Everyone was quiet. A dark shadow moved over the window,