It did feel magical when we drove to their friends’ houses in Laurel Canyon. Out of the strip-mall lanes of the city, beyond the concrete and beige of the freeway, the drive turned dense green with lots of different leaves, occasional bald spots of desert with tufts of bushes threatening to become tumbleweeds. I could lose myself in the landscape going by, so the scars on my legs didn’t matter so much. Once I was bored at one of their parties. There were two kids I could have played with, but they were lying on their stomachs at the edge of the pool, picking up fallen leaves from the patio and placing them on the surface of the water while they told each other secrets that seemed very important. I didn’t like that game. I kept my distance and watched for a while, then walked into the house and found my parents in the kitchen with a handful of grown-ups, all talking at once, their jewelry rattling with their laughter. There was a pile of white rainbow glitter on the counter. I went to stick my finger in it, but as soon as I touched it the tall blonde who lived there pulled me away and slapped the dust off my fingers. She hauled me over to the sink, knocking my ribs against the edge, and rubbed her hands against mine under icy-cold water. “No! That is not for you!” Drying my hands on a limp little towel, she was only wearing a bikini and didn’t seem to notice that one of her breasts had come out. I couldn’t keep from staring at it. She knelt down to look me in the face. “There now—I wonder what the other kids are up to. Why don’t you all get into your suits and play Marco Polo in the pool? How’s that sound?” I nodded and went back outside, but instead I found a corner at the side of the pool house where I could be alone to cry.