My house is a church and we all pray to some God, Luce said, and then he stuck a needle into his arm. I watched, waiting for him to smile or let out a sigh, but there was nothing on his face. His eyes just closed and his head rolled to the side. The girl beside him, she should be in a museum painting, with her aquiline nose and sleek bobbed black hair. She looked so elegant and composed; she was probably twenty-five. I couldn’t imagine any man ever saying anything lewd to her. I moved a little closer. Here’s what I wanted to do: work up the nerve. To ask her to adopt me. What could she say? If I begged. You look so elegant and refined. I know I look like a hosebag, but I can change. I drafted a letter to her in my mind. Could you help me out? Could you give me some advice? I know I look serene, but it’s the product of bleach, and hard work, just teaching myself not to feel which is good because why care about people when they’re just going to turn out to be cruel? Well, I’m sure you have lots of advice, just a few phrases that don’t include the words: recreational activities. Maybe you could recommend a good book—you look well read. I’ve read Flowers in the Attic and The Other Side of Midnight and Go Ask Alice and I don’t want to read any more books where the girl dies in the end. Perhaps you could recommend one, but not the ones we read in school, not Lord Jim or Lord of the Flies or Lord of the Rings, because I can’t get into any of those Lord guys. Maybe you could take me to a movie I might enjoy. The last movie I saw was Porky’s and everyone laughed their faces off and I just got so depressed. My boyfriend at the time, Dean Black, later gave me a lecture in his best friend’s red pickup truck. Sara, that movie rules. Why are you so uptight? Sorry, I just hated that movie and I don’t ever want to see a movie again. What else? Maybe you could tell me what kind of career you have because you look so glamorous and in control. Maybe you’re a fashion designer visiting from New York. I could be your assistant—I’d work hard, I swear. Just get me out of here. No offense, but everyone on this island is a hick except for you and me. If you don’t want to hire me, perhaps you could suggest a career because I really want to accomplish something that’s not ordinary. I’m told I have an aptitude for the helping professions. I love certain words, like licorice and lacerate. That’s not enough, I know. I know as well that if I was truly good my mother would love me and I would not carry around a knife in my notebook. I lie a lot lately. It used to be impossible, but now it comes so easily. I’m fucking smashed out of my mind. I’m trying to be a good person but everyone I meet has an iron heart. I’ve done some dastardly deeds. The worst thing my ex-boyfriend did was gang-rape a girl, who then tried to erase herself, and he and his friends laughed like they were watching a video game. They don’t care, and though I’ve tried to make new friends, they’re the only ones I have now. Tomorrow, they’ll be waiting for me at my house and I could say no, I don’t want to go to the forests with you, but truly, I’m scared ’cause when I stay in Victoria, I keep getting in trouble—like now I’m here and this Luce guy is sticking a needle in his arm and I promised him I’d go upstairs, where there’s probably a white slavery auction or some sacrificial virgin rite. S & M, D & D. Don’t think I don’t know because I know what goes on here. I’ve been warned about Luce and his lascivious ways. I have a skimpy knowledge of tourniquets. Just give me some advice. The worst thing I ever did in the eyes of the world was steal money from a man who looked like Mr. Klein, my science teacher. No, the worst thing I did was not help Heather Hale. I took acid when I was six and I tripped while playing pin the tail on the donkey. I only read the dirty parts of Forever. I gave Bobby Schick blue balls. I walked in on an orgy when I was living in this commune, and I covered my eyes and stared. I stabbed a guy at my high school pep rally. I ditched the Mickelsons, a wonderful family who have done so much for wayward girls. I touched myself in my father’s garden by the rosebushes he was cutting for me. And to be short and sweet, I didn’t care and I don’t care, not very much, and the only time I feel anything it’s a sift of heat, which comes and goes and threatens to suffocate me. Just help me, please.