In case you're unfamiliar with the rules in kickball, it's just like baseball but without the metal bats or the hard rubber ball that could get someone injured. No, this game involved only the giant red bouncy ball our generous school budged allowed and the batter's foot. Once the pitcher rolled the ball, the batter (or, rather, the kicker) would get ready and then kick as hard as they could before running the bases marked in putrid yellow paint on the blacktop (because our school was apparently also too good for a field).

Jenny was cool, but we sucked at kickball. About as much as I seem to suck at puberty.

Just before I turned twelve, the class was asked to each take a letter home to their parents requesting they attend a maturation lesson after hours with their student. They taught us all about puberty and periods and how cramps couldn't stop us from playing sports (I don't know what the guy's maturation video talked about). What they didn't tell you was about bitchy pubescent girls.

Which brings us to why I'm ranting on about kickball and puberty and maturation videos: and her name is Sally Stanton.

I don't know what it was in Sally's eyes (not that I looked into them very often), but when I did, I could just tell that we would never be close. She was part of "the Group." That was how we all referred to it.

I'm not sure how exactly it started, how all of us came to be friends. We hadn't hung out in fifth grade (we hadn't even all been on the same track) but in sixth grade, we did-which brings me to why I'm currently sitting in a circle playing Truth-or-Dare with six bitchy pubescent girls and two very nervous boys.

It was Sally's turn to ask, and her brown eyes immediately sought mine. Her eyes were that unmistakable brown that wanted to melt you in their chocolate-y depths as soon as they had you pinned in their gaze. Sally was very seductive in that brown skin, small build, big dark eyes kind of way, and she knew it.

I sighed when she asked, and picked truth. It was always truth with me. I was NOT going to swallow an entire liter of soda without a breath or lick Ashton's dog's poop from out in the yard like those poor souls before me who had picked dares from her.

Sally was a tomboy through and through. She had grown up with only Ashton and Kennith as playmates and when "the Group" first took a trip to the mall together, she had eyed the frilly Hollister shirts we had looked at with doubt and then found they fit her small figure surprisingly well. She was no stranger to how boys thought, and could pick a dare like the rest of them, which made her sudden switch to the world of fashionable pubescent girl so alluring to those of the opposite sex. Lucky for the rest of us, Ashton and Kennith couldn't see her as anything more than a little sister since they had all played in the same neighborhood since the age of five-which was why Sal gasped when I was asked my question.

Just to clarify, I'm talking about Sal, not Sally. Sally Stanton and Sal Stenworth had shared similar names on recall all throughout elementary school without ever giving each other a second thought until this school year, when "the Group" was mysteriously formed. But they couldn't be more opposite physically.

Where Sally was small, brown eyed and brown skinned, Sal was already nearing six foot at the age of twelve and had blue eyes, blond hair, and skin so pale it was almost like porcelain. It made her choice of boys lean more toward the older, taller side-which was why she gasped.

"Who do you like better: Ashton or Kennith?" Sally asked me. Ashton and Kennith were both a grade older than us, which made them interesting, unattainable, and also a little dangerous. Sally may have grown up with them as boyhood friends, but to us they were middle schoolers when we were just elementary schoolers.

Her chocolate eyes bore into mine. I look away quickly because there's an intensity there that I can't quite name. It feels like a challenge and an insult at the same time, and a hint of anger. I wonder if she's angry with me. Sal certainly is.

Sal and I had both quite casually announced to "the Group" that morning that we each intended to go after Kennith romantically. Of course, none of us had had a boyfriend before, but twelve seemed like a good age to start trying.

Melanie had shrugged her shoulders and said she preferred bashful Ashton more anyway. Alex hadn't seemed to find either of the boys very consequential at all as she was so outgoing she could probably have her pick of any of the boys at school if she wanted. And Eva and Mary hadn't said much of anything as they had only come to the sleepover at my request anyway and neither were much for drama-something that would come to bite them in the ass later, anyhow.

But now Sally's laser eyes bore into me and I wonder what she thinks of the whole competition between pick of her two childhood boy-mates.

Is she asking me such a blunt question in front of the boys because she wants me to win or to lose (granted it's Kennith's life that's on the table and not a sport trophy). I can't tell. All I can feel is her challeng-y, anger-y eyes on my forehead as I look at my feet and think over my answer. Well, that, and the hatred emanating from Sal.

I don't know why Sal is so angry. I wouldn't think she would like being asked such a ruthless question in front of the boys much either.

Finally, I come up with a reasonable answer.

"Kennith, because I like his hoodie." Due to a lucky turn of events I'm wearing his hoodie at the moment because I'm the only girl in "the Group" who didn't pack a jacket for the sleepover.

In hindsight, it's probably more likely that Sal is angry at me for scoring so big on my forgetfulness than that she's mad I got asked a ruthless Truth. Because on Sally's next turn, she asks Sal the same question. "Who do you like better: Ashton or Kennith?"

"Kennith," Sal answers confidently. Sal has a confidence that I could never amount to: the kind of confidence that allows her to utter Kennith's name without a superlative following it.

I look to Kennith for the first time for a reaction and find that he looks rather off-put by the whole situation. Then I look at Ashton. I feet sad when I look into his eyes.

Then I feel suddenly very tired. I hope Truth-or-Dare will be over soon so I can ask Sally if I can borrow her phone. I can feel a migraine coming on.

Migraines are one of those things that happen as a result of my superpower. It seems to have something to do with my retinas: too much eye-contact, too much sunlight. I don't like cold air to blow in my eyes. That's why I hate A/C in cars. This is also why I hate summertime and meeting new people.

The problem is, Sally isn't a new person, but the discomfort is still the same.

When we're finally done with Truth-or-Dare and heading back to Sally's house, Sally slows her pace to match mine (I always like bringing up the rear-it's comforting in some way to see everyone I'm trailing). 

"Your problem is that you don't talk enough, Michigan. If you don't talk to Kennith, Sal will win."

Sal's walking alongside Kennith near the front of our procession. I can't tell how their conversation's going because I can't see their faces, but I can hear Sal's voice babbling animatedly and I don't hear much of Kennith's. Like I said, Sal has a confidence that can fill any silence.

It's true. I really don't say much to anyone, except maybe Eva. I guess I just assume they share the same tacit understanding with me that I share with them when we make eye contact. But I guess to Kennith, it's just eye contact.

"What do you think, that you can win him over just by looking at him?" Sally jokes, ironically finishing my thought process. I don't think it's very funny.

By the time Ashton and Kennith part ways with us at Sally's front door, I'm sporting a major migraine. Like, a "no fucking joke" migraine.

I wait for my mom to pick up on the other line, listening through the ear-piece of Sally's phone a few minutes later. It's cool to my ear. I'm standing near the front door so the others can't hear me from in the living room.

"Mom, this isn't my scene," I say when she finally picks up.

I hear her let out a breath on the other end. "You have a migraine?" she guesses.

I nod before remembering she can't see me. "Yeah."

Even with the migraine, I have to admit, I'm doing better than six months ago. When I say this isn't my scene, I really mean this isn't my scene. Six months ago I couldn't make it through an hour at Sally's place without feeling sick to my stomach with anxiety (did I mention: anxiety is a thing for me)? Sally's house has a lack of structure that I'm unaccustomed to. Sleepovers are always allowed. Her mom's almost always at work, so wandering the neighborhood without having to check in with an adult is a given. Ashton and Kennith hang out with us often, and mealtimes are whatever Sally feels like feeding us from the pantry (mostly pop tarts and candy). It's a lot of unpredictability. 

At least when I came over this time, I actually intended to sleep over. I kind of miss when it was just me, Eva and Mary and feel bad for just ditching them to "the Group" in the middle of a sleepover. But it can't be helped. I'm now in so much pain I have to consciously think to avoid wanting to squint through one eye and close the other and my stomach feels empty and vile.

Eva gives me a meaningful look when I announce to everyone in the living room that I'm leaving. She's the only one who knows about my migraines. The thing about real pain is that it's hard to share with others, because sometimes sympathy, or the lack of, can just make things ten times worse. Or at least, that's how it is for me.

Sally gives me a glare as I leave.