When my mother left and my dad brought in Bewitching Interiors he let me make all the choices. He trusted me. You have an eye for detail. You are all about the detail. It’s true. I am all about the detail, the trim, the edge, the look. The first thing I’d do in this stupid jail — sorry, youth centre — is put some colour on the walls. How can they expect these young people to make any changes in their lives with such dingy colours?

The interior designer brought all these paint swatches and took me to a special flooring store to pick out carpet. She wore silk skirts that swished and I’m pretty sure her feet didn’t touch the ground when she walked. There was a way she had when she looked at me, with this little smile, as though she knew I understood how beyond the drab dull world I was stuck in, behind it, was a realm of raging colour and enchantment where people like she and I belonged.

We picked out spectacular fabric to have the furniture reupholstered in. It was really gorgeous, just perfect. Every day when I’d come home from school one more part of the house would be finished. It looked like a new house. My father loved it. It was like we were papering right over my mother, painting her out of the picture.

My father has finally lifted his head and he wants to talk about Sergei. But I don’t want to talk about him, to have his putrid name on my lips.

I remember when I finally let Sergei drive me home from school. I was always the only one who got off the bus at my stop and no one was ever waiting for me. This would make some girls nervous but not me. But the day before Sergei drove me home, there was a noise in the woods when I got off the bus and it did creep me out a bit. Maybe it was reporters or something, trying to get dirt on my father. I went inside and peeked out the window but nothing came out of the woods.

The next day I got Sergei to drive me home from school, just in case. My father was never home after school so I wasn’t worried about him walking in. And sure enough, just when we got in the door my phone rang and it was my father: he had a meeting so he’d be home late, I should microwave something for my dinner.

Sleep tight, goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.

We went out on the deck looking out over the Valley. He took out a joint. “You smoke?” I just shrugged and giggled. He lit up and then showed me how. He didn’t even laugh when I coughed, just patted me on the back and helped me take another toke. “You don’t always get high the first time,” he said. But next thing I knew my head was as light as sparkles and I was twirling around. I was wearing red shoes and he kept calling me Dorothy.