Seventeen-year-old Devora is a light-haired girl with an American accent and Israeli citizenship. She seems hesitant at first, but grows animated as she simultaneously recounts and reclaims her life story.

By age 15, Devora had moved from New York to Michigan to Maryland to Florida to Maryland again. Her mother had had two sons with her first husband, gotten a divorce, married Devora’s father, and given birth to her older brother and to Devora. After her parents divorced when Devora was four, her father remarried and had two more children. Her mother retained primary custody of Devora and her full brother.

In Maryland, Devora’s mother—a now ultra-Orthodox convert to Judaism—sent her daughter to the Baltimore Bais Yaakov, a religious day school. But when Devora was 15, her mother decided that the city and school were not right for her daughter. For that reason, in September 2004, “My mom dragged me to Israel,” Devora recounts. Her brother, a high school graduate, came to Israel at the same time to learn at a Yeshiva. (He is now back in the United States, debating the merits of army service and Aliya.)

When they first arrived, Devora and her mother lived in an absorption center in the Jerusalem neighborhood of East Talpiot. Because it seemed like the thing to do, Devora’s mother sent her off to Ulpan in the mornings. But Devora’s nervousness about getting lost, her fear of bus bombings, and her difficulty in learning new languages all contributed to her tendency to skip class. By their third month as Israeli citizens, Devora’s working knowledge of Hebrew had stayed about the same, her self-confidence had decreased, and her sense of isolation had grown. It was then that her mother decided to take her out of Ulpan and send her to an Israeli high school, primarily because she knew of other new immigrants who had done the same.

The ultra-Orthodox, girls-only institution was located in Ramot. It’s an apt name, Devora remarks; it’s “definitely remote—there’s nothing out there.” She hated the school, and with the exceptions of English and math, skipped class regularly. She did make one friend, Naomi, who joined her in the park and at the mall during school hours. She also began drinking alcohol, first ordering pricy drinks at the bars in Jerusalem’s city center, and later buying cheap liquor at supermarkets and drinking it in Crack Square. She drank with her friends: some were more religious, some were less, but all were English-speakers.

Meanwhile, her brother had begun coming to the Crossroads Center. Devora supposes a friend from school told him about it; she makes clear that her brother had a good Yeshiva experience, and came to Crossroads only for the entertainment it provided. He dragged Devora to Crossroads on a movie night last year, where she learned that the Center was open every afternoon, too. From then on, she and Naomi came to the Center pretty much every day. They would use the internet and watch television. “I hate being at home,” Devora explains, and would come to Crossroads even when she was sick, just to veg out on the couch.

When Devora was six, her parents sent her to a psychiatrist hoping she would work out issues related to their divorce. At the time, Devora hated it. She recalls thinking, “Get me out of here” and reflecting that doing homework would be a better use of her time. But one month after she began coming to Crossroads, at age 16, Devora decided she wanted to talk about her feelings. “Figure that out.” With the social worker, she discusses her parents’ marriage, her mother’s decision to make Aliya, her own experiences in Israel, her plans for the future. “I talk about what I need to; then, [my social worker] tells me her ideas or what she thinks would be best, and I’ll listen, and tell her what I think, and in the end, it’s my decision whether or not to listen to her advice.”

Crossroads provided Devora with a GED instructor and textbook; when she felt ready to take the test, the Center arranged for her to do so and gave her directions to the testing center. With their help, she also began learning at a seminary. When she first started at Crossroads, she came on a daily basis because she had nothing else to do. She took art and cooking classes, and made friends and acquaintances. Now, she is so busy that she never comes—”Except,” she corrects herself, “on Sundays. To meet with my caseworker.”

When asked where she would be today if Crossroads didn’t exist, Devora answers, “It’s hard to say. I met a lot of people who are good friends now here; they helped me through things…I was really depressed last year, and talking to the social worker helped me out of the depression. I hate to say it, but if I hadn’t come here—I was suicidal, and, I mean….” She stops.

Today, she has big decisions to make, which can be intimidating: what to study, where to live, how to find a job. On the other hand, for the first time in several years, she is planning on making decisions for herself.

She jumps when her cell phone rings, and smiles when she checks the caller ID. “A friend in the army,” she explains, before announcing to him, “I’m at the Center.”