We stopped after an hour in a grassy clearing flanked by two oblong boulders. Most of the other girls immediately sat down, taking off their shoes or splaying themselves theatrically on the ground. I was desperate to splay along with them, to explore what I was sure was an epic series of new blisters, but Janet showed no signs of fatigue; she just stood there, at the edge of the clearing, as if waiting for instructions, so I stood too. Samantha began poking her finger through a hole in the bottom of her sneaker, steadily widening it but apparently unable to stop. Paola spat repeatedly into a bush, while Evie patted her shoulder absently, looking up into the branches, their squabble at least temporarily forgotten. Harriet had been carrying Nisha on her back, their connective tissue unrelated to the physical rope; now they leaned against each other to stretch. Margaret and Laurel were sitting under two separate trees, their own physical rope a trip wire between them.

This was as high as we would go—any higher and the paths became murky, the ground less stable, Colin explained. As we unclipped, he began taking peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from his button-covered backpack and passing them around.

“Oh,” said Laurel. “Luke’s jam is like magic.” Breathlessness suited her, I thought.

“Or like chemistry, even,” Janet said.

“Why is everyone so obsessed with him?” I said, too loudly. I was sure I knew the answer, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to hear them say it.

Laurel curled her lip. “You know, Janet, I think this one’s dumb,” she said. She licked some jam off the side of her wrist. “Why is she so dumb?” Cruelty suited her too. But before either Janet or I could say anything, Laurel shifted her attention over Janet’s shoulder. “Harriet!” she called, smiling widely. “Hi. Did you want something?”

I turned to look. Harriet had her mouth set. She shook her head.

“We haven’t even talked yet,” Laurel said. “How was your year?”

All of the other girls suddenly seemed to be watching us. “Pretty good,” she said.

“Good,” Laurel said, slinging one arm around Janet’s shoulders and coiling the other tight around my waist. “Now mind your own fucking business.”

Laurel was from Virginia. Her house, Janet informed me, had wings. Her father was some kind of financier, and her mother was an ex-socialite heiress who spent most of her time at various teas. They first sent Laurel to the Center while her mother was on an Eastern medicine kick, and even after she’d kicked her kick—the guru had turned out to be a fraud, the turmeric hadn’t agreed with her stomach—they kept sending her.