I’d had friends before Sibby, of course—kids I’d been in school with for years, kids who knew me to be polite, upbeat, always drawing or coloring something. But as soon as I was old enough to recognize them, I’d been cautious about cliques, about the rivalries and conflicts that always seemed to brew beneath the surface of them, and I suppose I’d kept my distance. But there was nothing cautious about Sibby, no one—including me—she kept her distance from. She was easygoing and fun-loving and curious, and she had a way of bringing me into the fold without making me feel overexposed.

And on the New York trip, she became my best friend.

But even having Sibby by my side didn’t change my mind about the city, not really. I was still overwhelmed; I still wore that flat fanny pack as if it was a medical device keeping me alive; I still drank two tablespoons of Pepto every morning before we left the hotel for the heavily scheduled and chaperoned days of sightseeing we had; I still thought I was in imminent danger of being mugged every time I was in the open air. I managed to enjoy parts of it (the park did, after all, have a lot of nice grass), but I didn’t own it.

I went along.

When Sibby decided to move here right after graduation, we’d hugged and cried and made promises never ever to lose touch, but there was really no question I’d ever go with her. I had a partial scholarship to the Columbus College of Art and Design, and planned to grin and bear it at home with my parents until I could save up enough for a small apartment. I was going to graduate and get a job doing graphic design, first for my dad’s business and then, I hoped, for others. New York would be a place I visited, for Sibby, but not—not ever—a place I lived.

But when everything fell apart, it was Sibby who I needed, Sibby who gave me a fresh start. That I hated the city was irrelevant. I didn’t hate it as much as what had happened at home—that final, terrible fight between me and my parents. The one where for once, they’d been on the same side. The one where I’d finally, finally pushed them into telling me the truth—about them, about me, about all of the things they’d kept from me for years.

Talk about an avalanche. Some days I think I’m still shaking off the snow and rocks.