New York City, night. It is July 2004, and Beth and I are at a club in the East Village. I’m still not used to the muggy air of a Manhattan summer, the reek of garbage bags on the sidewalks. This little Dorothy is not in Nevada anymore, and I’m more conscious of it than ever amongst the skinny, sleek kids in the club. We are 20 years-old, but New York has proved easy on IDs. I sit in a booth watching “True Romance” projected on a giant screen above the bar. Maybe it’s the wine I drink too fast to quell my nerves–I’m not cool enough to really be here, I’m not smart enough to really be interning at Rolling Stone–maybe it’s the Tarantino, maybe it’s the girl desperate for experience, but I’m one hour away from cheating on a boyfriend for the first time. It’s also three weeks after I almost won a chance to compete at Miss America, one day before my dad calls to say I have to cut my internship short and come home, and five hours after the last conversation I’ll ever have with my mom.