The thunder in the distance startled me out of my slumber, bellowing its loud rumble through my room. I wiped the sleep off my face and dragged myself out of bed. Padding my feet across the worn carpet, I made my way toward the window my mother had left cracked open. The afternoon had been muggy but the night skies held a crisp breeze.

I glanced up at the cloudless, star-scattered sky. It was beautiful, but it left the noise that woke me a mystery. It never thundered in Prescott. Well, not this time of year, at least.

My small hands pressed against the glass pane, pushing the window completely open. I stared up at the sky, mesmerized by the full moon and blinking stars. We didn’t get many nights like these, so I soaked it in for a moment only to be startled by the sound of a door slamming. The offending racket pulled my gaze away from the night’s beauty and to the back of the house next door.

I poked my head out the window to get a better look. Our neighbors had moved in three days ago but I had yet to meet anyone. My eyes followed a shadow from the back door to the edge of the deck. The moonlight illuminated a young man as he sat with his back against the railing, hugging his knees with his head rested on them. It looked as though his shoulders were shaking.

“That’s it!” a deep voice roared from inside the house. “How many times do I have to fucking remind you!”

I squeezed my eyes shut and startled when the echo of a slap followed the man’s bellow of rage. Inching over the windowsill, I spotted the man who was yelling in the hallway—a gentleman not much older than my father—berating a woman I assumed was his wife. My heart ached for her as she sobbed.

When the air went silent, I leaned even further out the window. I should have gone back to bed. I should have closed my windows. But instead, I found myself calling out to the boy on the porch.

“Psst,” I whispered. The boy stopped shaking and looked back at his house. “Hey,” I said a little louder. “Up here!” He looked up toward my window. “Are you okay?”

He wiped his hands across his face, and I knew he had been crying. “It's almost over,” he said.

It took me a few seconds to understand what he meant. His sadness called to me, and I knew I needed to help him.

“Do you want to come up?” The words slipped out of my mouth. Never had I snuck a boy into my room. My mother would have punished me for the rest of my life. I didn’t have friends; not for lack of trying, but my mother's constant need for perfection drove any kind of social life to the ground.

He was a potential friend.

A friend in need at that.

He rose to his feet and ran over to my house. He jumped up on the deck railing, climbed on the extending roof of the first floor and crawled over to my window. Startled by his climbing skills, I stepped back as he made his way into my room.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Unable to form a sentence, I just stood there and stared at him. It was dark but I could make out his dark hair and lanky body. He was taller than me by a few inches but he looked to be around my age.

“I'm Ethan,” he continued.

“Leslie,” I whispered as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Ethan scanned my room and I immediately felt self-conscious over all the girly things I had. The pink walls, the long mirrors my mother hung so I could scrutinize my every move as I rehearsed my routine. There were pictures of ballerinas scattered around the room and I had hung butterflies on the wall. I loved my overly girly room, but as he walked around examining everything, it all felt too childish. Too pink.

“Are you okay?” I asked again, looking back toward his house.

He sighed and bowed his head. “It's usually not this bad.”

Crap. Was this something his father did most nights?

“I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. “Does he do it often?”

Ethan looked down to the floor and nodded. “Sometimes he drinks even more than usual and passes out before his anger kicks in.” He shrugged and looked up at me. His eyes locked with mine and a shiver ran up my spine. Never had I seen my father intoxicated let alone abuse my mother.

I didn't know if it was the sadness I saw in his eyes or the fact I was desperate for a real friend, but I felt a need to protect Ethan. I walked over to my bed, grabbed my extra pillow and my throw blanket, and dropped them on the rug. “You can always stay here if you want.”

“Thanks,” he said, and for a split second, I saw a glimpse of gratitude in his light eyes. Ethan curled up on the rug and pulled the blanket over him.

I climbed back to my bed and slid under the covers.

“Goodnight, Ethan.”

“Goodnight, Leslie.”

I didn't know it then, but Ethan would be the first boy I ever loved and the first one to break my heart.