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When I was younger, my closest friends were women. We had a lot of fun for the better part of a year (which, when you're seventeen, feels far more like a decade), and even when sex inevitably intervened, it was healthy and comfortable. Just not for very long. Awkwardness and hurt feelings ultimately destroyed what we shared. I did very well at forgetting the troubles of home until I started reading Chynna Clugston's Blue Monday. The trials and travails of Bleu Finnegan, the book's teenage heroine, and her friends Clover, Victor, and Alan read like stories you traded with friends on Monday morning your sophomore year of high school. I've kept reading over the past six years, finding myself repeatedly charmed and pained by Clugston's forgiving romances, and every time the series stops again, I find myself wanting to pick up the phone and call one of my old friends. I don't, though. I've never figured out what to say
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