I hate cell phones. They skeeve me out. Priscilla, this circus aerialist who basically lives on the boardwalk and used to sell weed or pills to me sometimes—okay, more than sometimes—she told me that the government can track where you are—and listen in on you—through your cell phone. I’m not a conspiracy theorist or anything, but that’s messed up. Mom’s yoga friends say that cell phones fuck with your vibes and so they’re always setting amethysts on top of their phones to clear the negative energy or whatever. I don’t need any more bad energy than I have, so I figure keeping a safe distance from my cell is the smart play.

And then after March, after what happened, it got annoying, my friends texting me Are you okay? They finally got the hint and now they don’t text me anything anymore and I’m okay with that. I became the Hermit card in Mom’s tarot. I got off social media, too—and, you know, it’s kind of true that if you’re not online you don’t really exist to the rest of the world. Besides, what would I post pictures of? Here’s an empty Suboxone package—physician-approved nicotine for opiate users! Here’s my flat stomach. Here’s my stupid/pointless/lame group therapy Circle of Sad. Here’s the vegan chocolate cake Mom made on day sixty that says Clean Machine in pink frosting, even though I’m not vegan. It was good, though. Here’s the Death card I keep getting.

So when Micah picks me up in his ancient Jeep, I leave my phone at home. Mom and Dad are halfway across the world—there’d be no check-in calls, no curfew. Mom said we’re almost eighteen now, so she’s going to trust us. Or at least trust Mae to make sure I don’t fuck up too much. Cynthia has already come by twice, and taken me to the Circle of Sad herself—I’m sure she’s sending Mom reports.

“You hungry?” Micah asks.

He has to shout because the top is down and we’re on the 405 and there’s magic happening somewhere close because there isn’t much traffic. Blond hair flying around his face—perfect California boy. I shake my head.

“Mind if I get a burrito?”

“Whatever you want.” I smile; he smiles.

When we get to UCLA, we squeeze onto his twin bed with the striped comforter I helped him pick out at Target. The roommate took a three-day weekend to roll in the desert, so we have the place to ourselves.

A poster of Bob Marley hangs on the wall beside us, and Bob looks down, giving us his blessing, one hand holding a joint, raised in benediction.