“Actually, I took ecstasy before I ate a pot brownie. I was eleven, maybe? Snuck out with Danny and we rode our bikes to one of her boyfriend’s basements. A bunch of high-school boys eating acid under black lights while listening to rap. It was the best I’d ever felt in my life. The first time I felt like I fit in somewhere and wasn’t afraid of the world. The first time I ever felt like I deserved to live. Like I wasn’t some dirty bug or something. I just danced the whole time while Danny made out with her boyfriend on the couch, and I was so happy for her. My wide, floaty smile glowing in the dark like all the others. Dancing until I was drenched with sweat to songs about pain and retribution that I could feel with all my being. All of us lost and confused in this little dank room sensing we belonged to something bigger, connected in ways I couldn’t understand. But then it wore off, and I couldn’t handle the come-down.”

Been there, I thought. Better to stay high or not fly at all.

“Coming back to reality was like dying. I was a raw nerve. I’ve never felt more abandoned and unwanted. Not even worthy of my own love. But the ecstasy brought it all back. And the acid changed my reality. And the pot made me happy. The boys made me feel wanted. And the booze numbed the pain. Until the house mom found me wasted one night, puking in my sleep – passed out, actually. And it was the last straw, despite being the first time I’d been busted for something I’d actually done. They shipped me off to Spring River the following week.”

The air-conditioning cut off and the room fell so silent it must have been soundproofed. Malia’s voice was wet with emotion. I could hear the saliva trickle down her throat when she swallowed and splash in her gut.

“It was such a joke how they scheduled our offsite counseling at the same time as that Love Week retreat.” She wasn’t smiling, though.

And neither was I. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Every single girl at Spring River had a fucked-up childhood. Abusive parents. Girls who were bullied at school for being gay or strange. Some were just straight-up psychos. And we’re put in a camp with these goody-two-shoe Sunday Schoolers from the suburbs who can’t even appreciate how privileged they are.”

I wanted to tell her that my childhood was far from ideal, but my absent dad and petty rebellions paled in comparison to what she had been through, assuming she was telling the truth. And I assumed she wasn’t.