She was barely five feet two with a vicious sneer. I liked her right away. The four other girls at White Oaks wore sweatshirts and jeans. Coke, Adidas, Mickey Mouse. But Cassie wore a suede jacket and ripped fishnets. Her hair was shaved short, except for a fringe of shiny black bangs above her dark eyes.

I’m a skinhead, she said, kicking me with her Doc Martens. Do you know what that is?

You’re Pocahontas, some girl said. She slapped her palm against her lips. Owa-owa-owa. You’ve got fetal alcohol syndrome. You’re a squaw.

Oh, you’re really original, Cassie said, stomping across the rec room floor. Like I’ve never heard that before.

I wondered why Seventeen never wrote about skinheads. Why didn’t they ever give advice on how to break and enter? I wondered why every girl in Victoria kept reading those magazines when they didn’t offer one practical thing.

Cassie kicked the Angels. The TV toppled, fell off the stand. Cassie climbed on the TV. Die, she screamed. Die, Farrah, die!

The woman who ran White Oaks drove around in a silver Mercedes-Benz. She got money from Social Services to keep us off the streets. It’s a kind of charity, I guess. Her office was full of awards.

I was brought there to discuss my fate.

They’re a nice family, the Mickelsons. Sara, we think you’d make more progress if you were out of White Oaks. You’d blossom with a nice family.

I like it here.

Well, the Mercedes-Benz lady said, playing with a gold pen, I’m glad to hear that. But we’re a temporary shelter. And we only have space for girls who are suffering from severe trauma.

No offense, but I don’t think a foster home is a good idea, I said.

Why not?

I’ve got violent tendencies. Violent urges. Violent dreams.

In case she didn’t hear me, I said it again louder, like a chant. Violent tendencies. Violent urges. Violent dreams.

Amber used a nail the art teacher had given her. She showed me how to wedge the point to the left. We broke into Cassie’s room. Three in the morning, we were going to the Red Room. The Red Room, I could hardly wait.

We ran up the stairs. Cassie did her best not to stomp.

Amber picked the lock with a barrette. The security in this place really sucks, she said. That was just way too easy.

The Red Room is where you go to calm down. The walls are padded; infrared lights sweep over you. These red lights were supposed to be a cure for anger. They were supposed to make us less uncontrollable, whatever that meant.

Cassie reclined on the floor. Red light swept over her furious face.

Amber danced around, flinging her body into the padded walls.

Sara looks like a narc, Cassie said.

She knows Justine, Amber said.