The two girls were six years old. The age of pigtails and butterfly-shaped barrettes, of playing with Barbie dolls and miniature monster trucks, of believing in Santa Clause and shooting stars.
Selena was the only child to her single mother. At six years old, the young girl told her mother everything. Like how she missed sleeping in her own bed at night because her bed didn't smell gross and have holes in the sheets. Like how she didn't understand why they couldn't just go back home or at least back to the hotel with the nice lady at the front desk and a popcorn machine in the lobby. Like how it's really dark and scary on the nights where they sleep in their car -- and what if a monster kidnaps her while she's asleep?
Demi was the youngest of three daughters, to a couple who had more money than they did patience and sense. At least, that's what the young girl had overheard her eldest sister tell her cool, teenage friends over the phone one evening after dinner. But at six years old, Demi could not have cared less about what her mean and grouchy older sister thought; she still told her parents everything.
Like that one day over summer vacation when she realized that her parents screamed at each other more times than she was taught how to count. Like that night she asked her mother why she was crying instead of reading her a bedtime story. Like that afternoon when she hid in the game closet after her father had punched a hole through the kitchen pantry door.
The two girls told their parents everything. Especially about their friendship. They were each other's best friend after all. They told their parents when they wanted to make matching friendship bracelets and ride their scooters to the park on a triple dog dare that one could swing higher than the other on the playground. They even told their parents when the substitute teacher had to separate them because they wouldn't stop talking to each other -- an anecdote that was much more amusing to them than to their parents.
