by Gerri Leen

The moon blew lilies onto the beach, starfish belted out show tunes as they crawled up the walls of the bulkhead, and the campfire lectured on safe sex. Maurell turned her head and tried to make the world stop spinning.

"Good stuff, huh?" someone asked. It sounded like Rickie, her ex-boyfriend and the purveyor of tonight's Technicolor hallucination.

"Bad, bad stuff." She crawled through the sand toward her house, fingers she could barely feel scrabbling through the damp, cool depths. Could she dig her way to China if she just put her back into it?

"Where are you going?" Callused hands pulled at her, dragging her back roughly.

She thought about fighting, but then the fire changed its tune and started giving out financial advice. "It's the drugs," she murmured.

"What is?" Lips--lips all over her.

She tried to fight them off. "Rickie, no."

"Sweetie, it's me."

Oh. Dancer. Her current boyfriend. The guy she loved.

The fire shut up for a minute, and Dancer whispered, "Why did you think I was Rickie?"

"I didn't." She squeezed his hands, riding out what felt like something from an old surfer vid. Blue-green and white cascaded down on her and for a moment she thought she was drowning. Then there was an unnatural calm, like that time she'd bumped her head in Cabo and might have floated underwater forever if Rickie hadn't pulled her out.

"I thought you were over Rickie?" Dancer had the tone she hated. For a gorgeous guy, he was wickedly insecure.

"I am over him. Why are we talking about Rickie?" She nestled in close. "Shut up about him, okay?"

"Okay." He eased her away. "I'm cold. I'm going to get my sweatshirt."

She felt cold, too, with him gone. But then the fire started murmuring financial sweet nothings again, and she listened to it as she waited for Dancer to come back. The fire went on at some length, winding down as she heard footsteps swishing back to her through the sand.

Dancer sat down, pulling her close again. "Miss me?"

"Always. Do you think we should buy futures in Mars agro?"

"Huh?"

"The fire said to."

"The fire did?" Dancer laughed in a superior way. He never used drugs. Didn't want to pollute the temple that was his body. It's why he was such a good gymnast, and she was glad he felt that way. It let her do as many drugs as she wanted without worrying that something bad would happen to her.

"Sure, babe. Whatever the fire says to do, let's do it." His tone was definitely condescending.

She loved Dancer. But he was kind of an ass sometimes.

He could just find his own hot tip, then.

##

"Honey...?" Her mother sashayed through the eating pod, trailing Eau de Rich Ex-Wife at Rest after her.

Maurell nursed a coffee. "Mom."

Her mother hated it when she called her that.

"Sweetie"--her tone took a turn for the worse--"don't you think you should look into what you're going to do with the rest of your life?" In other words: When the Hell are you moving out?

"Sure, I'll get right on that." Actually, she was going to dedicate her life to getting rid of the hangover from the new drugs Rickie had brought to the cook-out.

"You can't party forever."

Couldn't she? She didn't think there was a physical law that said she couldn't. A universal constant of non-partying or some such thing.

"Maurell?"

"Yeah, I heard you." She flashed back to last night, held her aching head. Damn, she was not going to test-drive new drugs again. It wasn't like Rickie to bring stuff like that to a cook-out. Where had he gotten such primo substances?

"You were out all night again."

"I was out all night on the beach right in front of the house. Windows, Mom. Use them."

"Don't take that tone with me." Her mother sighed. "I saw you and that Dancer boy."

"Just because you liked Rickie better doesn't mean that I do."

"Don't blame me when Dancer hurts you. That boy only thinks of himself."

"You don't even know him."

"I've known plenty of men like him since your father and I divorced. Men can smell money, you know."

Good thing or her mother's perfume would have scared off any potential suitors immediately.

"Oh, fine, Maurell. I'm just thinking of your future. And your finances."

Maurell remembered bits and pieces from the night before, something about finances. "Mom, didn't you date a financial guy?"

"I've dated several."

"What do you know about Mars agro?"

Her mother stopped and stared at her. "It's worse than I thought. Did they teach you nothing at school?"

Of course they had. She'd worked hard for her less-than-stellar grades. "Why?"

"No agro on Mars, darling. It's where your father gets all his money: shipping food there."

"I know, but they've terraformed."

"There's terraforming so you can survive without an oxygen helmet, and then there's viable land for farming. The latter will take years--maybe decades." Her mother sat down across from her. "Maurell, I'm serious. You can't just sit around the house spending my money..."