The Juvenile Psych Ward, where we are right now, is not a “Psych Ward.” It’s a “Child Development Unit.”
Calling it a Psych Ward is like admitting the thing on your foot really is a toe fungus. It’s gross; you’d rather not look at it; and in certain situations it’s downright embarrassing

I just want today to last forever. The thought is pinwheeling in my head during my morning walk, when my phone buzzes in my pocket and breaks the loop. I stop under an oak tree to make sure it’s not an emergency, because my obsessive brain is always ready for bad news.As I tap the screen, a gravelly voice yells out behind me. “Watch out!”

The beach is cold. Sierra’s never been on a beach that’s cold before. Back in Malibu, the only type of weather was beach weather: balmy skies, just enough salt on the breeze, and sunshine that kept her naturally pale skin tan year-round. This beach is most definitely not Malibu. Scruffy pines line the crumbling cliff faces, and everywhere she looks is gray: gray sand, gray sky, gray sea.

There’s a girl on the rooftop. I’ve never been up here with someone else before. To be honest, I didn’t think anyone else knew how to clamber to the top of James Madison Memorial High School other than the jocks who drunkenly dare each other to do it at post-game parties. But this girl isn’t a jock. . .

My dad began to add a second story and a garage onto our house, but never finished the project. Now, coffee tins full of nails line the driveway. Chunks of lumber are strewn across the lawn. A permanent construction zone, this chaotic house is the perfect metaphor for my chaotic life.[…]

When Michael arrived, there were no flames licking up the building, but he could still feel the heat waves emanating from below. The fire had started low and restricted itself to one floor, the bottom floor where Michael and his mother lived. He took a breath and tried to sniff out the burnt scent of his room and all its used furniture.[…]

She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Fine art, I think, worthy of the masters; no, better than the masters. Da Vinci couldn’t have painted her better than this traffic light. Donatello would’ve messed up her nose. Botticelli doesn’t even bear mentioning.[…]