Clarisse takes the joint and sucks smoke into her lungs. She holds it there as long as she can, finally exhales in a rush. Her thoughts are slow and rolling in her head, and she doesn't feel in control of what's about to come out of her mouth.

"My dad, mostly," she admits. She doesn't offer an explanation. It's bad enough she's even said as much as she has.

"What's your friend like?" she asks. If Abby can start talking about something and change the subject five seconds later, so can Clarisse.