We had first met freshman year of high school, at the movie theater where we both worked. She stole money from the box office, which we used to buy weed from the projectionist. We smoked on the roof, crouched behind the big R of the theater sign. We could see the Galleria and Memorial Park, could turn in a circle and follow the Loop from the mall to the Astrodome, north to the Heights, the whole green tree-lined city, almost scenic. The roof, not the cash or the pot, kept us at that dismal job for nearly a year.

We hung out at Danielle’s house, which we often had to ourselves. Sally worked long hours, and Danielle and I pilfered her liquor and swam in the pool. I felt so lucky to be Danielle’s friend. She was funny and beautiful. We talked about everything.

I hated it when Sally came home. She and Danielle always fought, and I hid in Danielle’s room or read magazines in the pool house, played music loud to drown out the yelling. Even worse, Sally went out of her way to be nice to me, which hurt Danielle’s feelings. It was weird all the way around. Still, I liked it better than my place. We had only three rooms, and my mom was always home.

Danielle was easily the coolest girl at our school. She wore outfits no one else could pull off—scarves and hats and glamorous upswept hair. She dressed for class like a movie star at some gala, and it seemed elegant, never pretentious. Sometimes being around her made me feel sparkly, too. But other times I felt like nothing next to her. Whatever I did, she would do it louder, sexier. If a boy liked me, Danielle would come around, bright and silly, and he couldn’t help but be into her instead. It wasn’t her fault. She was like candy, irresistible. A glow came off her.

She was good to me in ways that mattered. Back in middle school and high school everyone assumed my mom was a junkie. Not just kids, the teachers, too. I could see the judgment in their faces. But they didn’t understand that my mom was sick. She took medicine to help with the pain and keep her calm. The doctors were always running tests and giving her new prescriptions. They never figured out what was wrong, but that didn’t make it any less real. She couldn’t work, couldn’t get through a day without an attack of pain so acute it left her unable to stand.

Danielle didn’t care what the other kids said. She and my mom got along, too, the few times Danielle came over. Danielle treated her like a person, never acted scared or weirded out, even when my mom was so sick or zonked on meds that she couldn’t speak. After my mom died, Danielle helped me clean the apartment. She threw out a bunch of junk and repainted the walls while I was in a daze of grief. She brought me presents: throw pillows for the couch, posters, a set of matching dishes. Eventually she moved in.