The gateway drug is not the weed you smoke in a too-thin joint as a teenager. It’s not the beer you surreptitiously sip from your father’s fishing cooler while hunkered down in the garage. The gateway drug is escape . . .
This is me at fifteen, splayed out on Carly’s giant trampoline—stargazing, helpless, hopeful, smiling through a mouthful of stolen popcorn . . .