On Sunday, Rosalinda texts me before noon—an hour I wasn’t sure existed on the weekend—and asks if I want to go to the mall. We haven’t been shopping in forever, and I have some leftover birthday money to spend. After one tiny lie about finishing my schoolwork, Mom agrees to my shopping plan, because how much trouble could I get in at the mall? She wouldn’t like the answer to that question. I sit outside with my hands shoved in my jacket pockets while I wait for Misty’s van to pull up. Misty Smith is a junior at the private school a few miles down the road from my house. We met at a party a few months ago, where Rosalinda immediately befriended her because she has: 1, a car, 2, an older sister who purchases alcohol for us, and 3, a working fake ID. Rosalinda was using Misty at first, but it didn’t take long for her to become more than a source of alcohol. She became someone who laughs at our dumb inside jokes.
