Kate leans against the brick wall the way she can't lean on anyone, fully and trustingly. Kate tells me how she can only trust God and me now, and I appreciate it though I know she does not fully trust me. Or God.

She pulls out a cigarette and lights it and looks at me expectantly. I just look away, because Kate's stare over a lighted cigarette is like looking into the sun. Friend turned enemy.

"I don't know what to do," She says. "There's nothing playing. That's all that happens around here. A whole lot of fucking nothing." She takes out her cigarette and replaces it with her silver cross, fiddling with it in between her lips. Her soft pink tongue pushes it out and it falls back to its rightful place, leading eyes to where they do not need to be lead. She seems impatient, jittery. She motions too quickly. She doesn't want to be friends anymore. I was a mistake.

"Maybe we should just... go home," I suggest, desperate to leave the public eye. Men's gazes paw, strip. Two little Christian blondes. It's an adult film waiting to happen.

"But what would we do there?" She says reasonably. "A whole lot of fucking nothing."

"But..." But I don't want to be here. But I want to just sit alone with you. You and God. But the shoes you told me I HAVE to have are killing my feet.

But I don't say any of that because I'm afraid to.

Kate stomps out her cigarette. "Maybe you're right." Suddenly, I am brilliant. She moves to leave, but the inevitable happens and Miranda walks by. Hill ridge gets smaller and smaller, it seems, just when you want it to stretch across the ocean. Just when you want to avoid someone.

"Oh, look," Kate says in the tone that kills, forgetting all about leaving. "It's Sanchez. Where's your little girlfriend, Miranda? Or is it a boy? I can never tell, really, with your friends."

"Do the words 'back' and 'off' mean anything to you?" She doesn't look at me. I am invisible. I am pond scum. I am a rock. An incredibly small one.

"Well, excuse me," Kate smirks. "It's too bad Satan got your soul. We pray for your redemption every day... NOT."

"Oh, I am so insulted," Miranda rolls her eyes. I notice her boots as I look to the ground. They must be two sizes too big. They must be biker's boots. They must be able to kick ass. I shudder at the flames she has obviously painted on herself. Maybe Miranda really has been caught by the Devil. I picture her on her knees, head to toe in black lace, praying for a new pair of boots or a date to homecoming or the death of me.

"Why don't you just... scurry along home then?" Kate fell gracefully. "No one wants to look at THAT for too long." Before she leaves, Miranda looks at me like I'm a wall. A crumbling, weak wall.

"Honestly," Kate says innocently. "I don't understand how they let people like that walk the streets. She's just begging for an exorcism." But I'm not listening anymore and she knows it. I'm thinking of someone else.

But you're the place

Where all my thoughts

Go hiding

Right under your clothes

Is where I'll find them

"Let's go, Lizzie," Kate commands/suggests/asks. "We'll find SOMETHING to do. Jesus sparks creativity, after all." This causes a fifteen minute speech on using the power of Jesus in our daily lives. I take it in slowly, letting it trickle down my forehead like Holy Water. Kate shows a wisdom that can only be bought for $59.95 on the home shopping network.

"I'm supporting good Christians by buying this," She told me, holding The Holy Bible with Footnotes Explaining Every Last Freaking Detail.

She silences after a few moments, letting me take in sweet droplets of quiet. It's so precious, silence lately. People speak and it's useless. I don't need their problems. Just their presence.

We arrive at her house, vases silhouetted like graves. Her parents are not home; if they were, we would hear the sounds of sin. Kate has told me how much effort she puts into converting them. But then I come back and hear it. Lost souls.

Kate's room is a shell of her former self, posters of teenybopper Gods and obscenely pink paint. The only change is the large cross on the wall, to fill in a blank.

She throws her purse on her bed and collapses on the floor, a mere servant to Louis Vuitton. She looks in the mirror as I sit down next to her, pouting her lips and brushing hair out of her face. She smiles at me in the mirror strangely, like she has just noticed me. Her head falls on my shoulder.

"Oh, Lizzie," She squeezes my arm. "I love you."

"Um," I say confusedly, "I love you too, Kate." She touches my hair gently, like it's her pet.

"Let's shave your head," She giggles, "I mean, what do you need all this hair for if you're going to wear it up like that?"

"I wear it down sometimes," I say, suddenly uncomfortable.

"You'd look really good," Kate whispers in my ear. She laughs. "Reallllllllllly good. Like a cake."

"Kate," I stare at her, scooting away. "Did you take... DRUGS?"

"What? No. What?" She's confused, pushing hair out of her face, sitting up straight. She's hurt. "Jesus doesn't like drugs." She laughs and falls backwards. "And we're ALL about Jesus." She sighs. "Don't you ever just get SICK of it, Liz?" When am I not sick of it?

"Yeah, I-I guess," I stutter. She smiles, turns over on her stomach, her eyes lit. I've never seen her this way. It's frightening and intriguing. I didn't realize until now how often those two go together.

"Then let me shave your head," She says giddily, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear, nuzzling my elbow. She becomes fascinated by it, observing its structure carefully, like a work of art in a museum.

"A-Are you SURE you didn't take anything?" I imagine the men again, how close they seemed to get. Maybe they slipped something in her Diet Coke for a good joke. Maybe it is a sign. Maybe God is telling us something.

"For GOD'S sake, Lizzie McGuire," She chuckles. "Your name is so funny. Anyway, you've been with me like... ALL DAY. Did you SEE me take anything?"

"No, but...," I struggle. "I've only been with you an hour now." She looks at me with wide eyes that look like they are going to suck in the world.

"No, you HAVEN'T," She says angrily. "You've been with me ALL DAY." She slams her fist down on the floor. "Are you going to let me shave your head or NOT?"

"Kate, you're sweating like crazy," I'm worried. I touch her hair, pushing it away from her face. She grabs my arm and squeezes it, tears rushing to her eyes.

"No, I'm NOT," She insists, voice full of tears, but her big cow eyes squeeze together as she collapses into my chest and I know she knows she is. She looks up at me, tears glistening around her eyes like diamonds. She is so beautiful, it seems, when she is her saddest.

"Lizzie," She says fearfully. "Am I going insane?"

"Stay here," I tell her, and rush to the bathroom. I grab a towel and rinse it, but I really don't know what to do. I come back and she's staring at her arm.

"Look at my arm, Lizzie," She says softly, like we are on safari, hunting her arm. "It's so big. And... lumpy." I look at her tiny, smooth limb. Tiny bumps have formed. Gently, I run the towel over her face. She giggles softly. "I feel like a baby animal. Like a... beaver or something." This is too hilarious for her. She thrashes her arms about, pulling herself up.

"Why don't we go downstairs," I suggest slowly, rising. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"No, no," She waves her hand. "I just -" She froze. "D-Did... you just see that?" She points at a picture on the wall of us. "It... MOVED. And – look, it did it again! STOP IT! Tell it to stop, Lizzie!" She was like a child, sitting on the floor, whining.

"I-I'm calling my mom," I tell her finally. I panic, reach for the phone. I know now that I haven't changed at all. Here, when I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. Me, Lizzie McGuire.

"No!" She dives for me, but she stumbles, knocks into the bed. "Since when is that there? Just..." She grabs the receiver, hangs up. "Just STOP. I'll be fine. GOD!" She pauses, putting her fingers to my lips. I stop my objections and listen, but there is nothing. "Do you HEAR that?" She walks to the wall, stares at it. I forget calling my mother momentarily. All I want is to hear the sound, know Kate isn't crazy. She leans into it, never closing her eyes. "Do you hear the... colors?"

"Kate," I say as calmly as possible. "Wh-What... are you talking about?"

"What's going... on?" She backs away from the wall. "Lizzie, I'm scared. I'm SCARED, Lizzie!"

"K-Kate, I can't..." There is something dancing inside me. I don't hear the colors. I don't hear anything. I try to think what my mother would do. "W-What did you take?"

"Nothing! I'm scared!" She falls into my arms and covers her ears. "Make them STOP, Lizzie!"

"Kate, I can't... What did you take?" I stay firm to my mission. She doesn't answer, just covers her ears again. "I'm calling my mom."

"NO, LIZZIE," She momentarily forgets her problems. "Just... leave me alone. But don't." I reach for the phone. "No! Leave me alone then. Just leave."

"I'm not leaving..."

"Just..." She stops and tries to sit on her bed, but falls. She tries again, but misses completely. She stares at it, like a bull she is trying to ride. Eventually, she sits. She wipes her brow in silence.

"What did you take?" I say it forcefully, trying to take control. I cross my arms.

"I..." She mumbles into her hair, but says nothing. She creates a language under her breath, staring at spilt ends. "My hairs are dancing. Watch them dance." She looks up at me. "My skin feels..." She blinks and looks away. "Like... funny. I think I need to wash. Wash, wash, wash. Funny word." But she doesn't laugh like she did before.

"Maybe you should take a shower," I suggest, relieved for the chance to be away from this Kate. I help her up, but she resists me, rushing into the bathroom like she can handle it herself. Her hip hits for doorway, and she almost falls, and she doesn't know how large the doorway is, but she can handle it. The door closes and I hear the water. The investigation proceeds.

It's funny that when I was eight years old, playing in this room, searching for a stray Barbie or maybe my right shoe, I never expected that nine years later, I'd be searching for drugs.

I start in her drawers, where she used to keep her candy stash. The sickening feeling that crawls in my stomach doesn't settle. It doesn't hit that I've just witnessed the most disturbing image of my life. I picture needles, little tablets. I try to recall Health class, but they never did anything too graphic. I picture ecstasy where the candy necklaces used to be, heroin needles instead of Push Pops. I want to vomit, but the bathroom is occupied by my drugged up best friend. When did I ever think things would be easier, being friends with Kate?

I give up on the drawers and start under the bed. Later in life, she kept her tampons under here, the kind her mother disapproved of. Kate was never very original with her hiding places. I find a box. I debate whether or not to open it, but give in. I need to help Kate. I need to cleanse her from her sins.

As I open the box, I realize that is the first time I've thought about God in the last twenty minutes.

First I see a picture of me and Miranda when we were twelve, bent slightly but carefully smoothed again. It's filled with pictures – me and Kate, Kate and Miranda, Kate's mom. I lift one up and my heart jolts. I find a sheet of what look like stickers or tear off stamps. Odd cartoon pictures, almost cryptic. Camels, monsters, mermaids. I don't touch them. One has been ripped off.

I dump out the rest of the box. The rest is pictures, except for a small baggie with a single pill in it. I look closer. It has a butterfly on it.

I cradle the pill slightly, marveling at it. I hate it at once, the way it taints Kate. My Kate. But it is oddly beautiful as well. I see Death in it; I see Jesus. I hear stumbling in the bathroom. The water stops. I throw it out the window and shove the box back under the bed. I touched drugs. Is that a sin?

I know I must help heal Kate. I know I just put God back into her, forgive her. But I'm only one person. I put my head in my hands. Is this really what God wants me to be?

I don't want to see Kate again. I don't want to leave her. But I am option less.

I bolt out the door before she can say a word.