I filled out the application. I worked with my homeschool curriculum office to submit my transcript. I applied for FASFA and scholarships. And when the oversized envelope from Covenant University appeared in my PO Box, like water in the desert, I convinced them I needed to go by showcasing the honest, decent, Christian education I could get. A curriculum formed by people who shared their beliefs and who, like my parents, strived to create the next generation of good Christians.

At least, that’s what I told them.

Because I knew Covenant could do that. I knew Covenant required weekly convocation. I knew Covenant had a code of conduct more complex than the bridges and tunnels in New York City. I knew Covenant would keep my parents’ cross snug around my neck. If I let it.

But I also knew people like the ones in these magazines existed there. In-betweeners.

People like Ruthie.

Ruthie and her family went to church—an unofficial requirement for admission at Covenant—but she didn’t pray. There’s a difference. She didn’t start each day on her knees thanking God for waking her up, and each night asking him to do the same tomorrow. She never spent one Saturday a month with her church’s teen group, standing outside the fancy grocery store in town, asking people, “What’s your relationship with Jesus Christ?” only to be hurriedly waved away or smiled at with pity.

Ruthie was everything these magazines told me I needed to be. And now Ruthie was my roommate and friend, my ticket to learning how to live in the real world. How to get out and never go back.

For the first month on campus, I followed Ruthie around like a shadow. She was tan from her summer working as a lifeguard and the boys seemed to like that based on how many of them stared at her while we walked from the dining hall’s entrance to our table, so I snuck to the CVS in town and started slathering myself in Jergens Natural Glow after every shower until my sheets were stained brown and our room perpetually smelled like sunscreen. Ruthie used the school’s “look good for God” mantra as an excuse to never leave the dorm without mascara and blush, so I never left the dorm without mascara and blush. Ruthie ate a ham-and-cheese sandwich and chocolate Froyo for dinner, I ate a ham-and-cheese sandwich and chocolate Froyo for dinner.

Ruthie carried a camera around with her everywhere, snapping photos of ivy spiraling up the side of our dorm, of students piling into the dining hall, of me laughing at something she’d said. Then she’d print them in the library and hang them one by one on the cement walls of our room.

“Let me take a picture of you,” I said once at dinner.