I pick up the pencil. I touch the black point. I take off my sweatshirt and trace their secret, shared tattoo. But I can’t stab it till I bleed.

Instead, the pencil moves like my dirty fingers in the garden. The pencil rises; it digs; I push it hard. And though I don’t hear it, I feel like I’m singing the same soft sigh.

I write about the bushes and the burnout boys. I get lost in memory.

I’m no author, no poet’s daughter, no Sylvia Plath. I just wanna distract myself from the fact that, sooner or later, I’m gonna have to narc.

If I don’t blame it on Justine, they’ll keep me here forever. Here. A boy screams down the hall. Shithands, they call him, he throws feces against the wall.

When I saw a girl slouching near the showers, I thought my malady must have returned, making me see a mirage.

But she was real, standing there, all sneaky and shy. She got caught for failure to comply.

I ran over to her, hugging her and spinning her around, and we were screaming so loud the guards almost pulled the alarm. No physical contact, ladies! Five points demerits. That’s what they should have done, but I think they were so surprised by seeing me wake from my comatose state and hearing me laugh that they just let us hug. The guards aren’t bad guys. Half of them say they’d be in here themselves if it weren’t for a twist of fate.

Amber’s dyed her hair gold; she’s wrapped her braids into coils, Princess Leia style. But she still has the same plucked eyebrows and dark purple lips. The bland blue uniform only makes her face seem brighter. When she says she’s smuggled in a gift for me, I think, Oh fuck no, please not the razor blades. But it’s not. She’s got a tiny tube of cherry lip gloss and two cigarettes. Don’t ask me to tell you how she got those here. Figure it out.