She shook her head and pulled the camera back. “A true artist is behind the camera, not in front of it,” she said. I didn’t think she was giving herself enough credit. She was a much prettier subject than anything she took pictures of.

By the end of the month, I’d lost a disappointing one pound, but I was more like Ruthie by the day and had memorized all of her stories the same way I did with the magazines. Stories of sneaking out of her second-floor window in high school to go to parties in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven; of sipping six-dollar vodka mixed with pomegranate-flavored Crystal Light hidden in Poland Spring water bottles; of kissing her older brother’s friends and almost getting fingered in the back seat of a light gray Toyota. She was worldly and beautiful—the epitome of the person I wanted to become. As long as Ruthie was friends with me, I would know everything.

Once we realized the purpose of the white boards next to everyone’s door, Ruthie and I made a habit of going on what we called Violation Rotations. After dinner but before curfew, we’d walk up and down the halls of Willits, and Ruthie would count all the newest violations.

“Fresh meat,” Ruthie said as she beelined toward the postcard taped to 609’s door, the Dean’s Office coat of arms branded to the top. In the body of the note, meant to be kept “for your records” was a handwritten violation, detailing what you did, the date you were caught, and how many points you have received. Brigid’s bubbly cursive made the whole thing worse, like she was mocking you while punishing you. In the bottom right-hand corner was a small box where your violation total was scribbled in red. It never refreshed. It carried over until graduation. If you made it that far.

“Her second time late for curfew this week,” Ruthie said, her eyes flickering with suspicion as she put the postcard back. “What are you doing out so late, missy?” she asked more to herself than to me.

While Ruthie peeked at the points—counted what Margaret in 515 got for watching Mean Girls in her room, and what Rachel in 102 received for being tardy for convocation—I stared at the other numbers. The log of our weigh-ins. Most girls were closer to me than to Ruthie, and Ruthie seemed to be the only one receiving affirmations instead of goalposts each week.

I can do better, I thought. I can be like Ruthie.

“I still can’t believe all of this is just on the wall for everyone to see,” Ruthie said outside 805, Christina and Jane, who got caught wearing inappropriately tight and short outfits last night. “Where were you guys headed?” she asked under her breath again.