Danielle Bregoli was born in 2003 in Boynton Beach, Florida. Her father, a sheriff’s deputy for the Palm Beach Police Department with whom Danielle is currently estranged, separated from her mother not long afterwards. Her mother, Barbara Bregoli, was diagnosed with breast cancer when Danielle was four. In a 2009 article in the Palm Beach Post, Barbara recalls her daughter rubbing aloe on her chest to soothe her radiation pains and making friends with the hospital staff; in photos, an angelic-looking Danielle tenderly rubs noses with her mom; her ponytail almost as long as it is today. In our conversation, Bregoli describes her part of Boynton as the quieter side, but her school—“for troubled girls,” she says—introduced her to the other side of town.

“I wasn’t stealing cars at like, six,” she assures me, as though that was a possibility I was entertaining. “But I’ve always been bad. I used to drive this little Barbie car and tell random people, ‘Fuck you!’ and flip them off.” She giggles. Although she never considered being a musician, or tried to write a song, she describes herself as creative all the same. “I used to be a good story writer,” she recalls, amused. “I could make up a story with like, eight people in it and tell you where they all lived, what color their houses are.”

But her truest talent, Bregoli freely admits, eyes gleaming, was deception. “Yeah, I was bad, but I was one of the kids that never got caught,” she says. “If anyone ever knew I did something, it was because I told them. ‘Cause I’m a really good liar, so I end up snitching on myself.” She points to my phone. “I could really get you to believe this is a fake iPhone.” Why would she want to snitch on herself, I ask—did she like the feeling of being in trouble? “I don’t know if I like the feeling of being in trouble, or if I just like the feeling of you knowing that I just tricked you,” she answers with a smile.

In school, Bregoli fit in with everyone, even if she never got too close. “The school was tiny, and you’d sit with a bunch of different girls at a bunch of different tables,” she recalls, as though it were ages ago. “They all had their own personalities, the tables: the emo girls, or the regular girls, or the mean girls. And I was able to sit at every table. They all loved me. Even the tables that didn’t like each other, I could sit at both of them and blend right in.” Was it because you were nice to them, I ask? “It was because I can relate to so many different situations,” Bregoli replies. “Or at least I think I can.” Or maybe, I offer, she was such a good liar that she could mold herself into whoever they wanted her to be. “Exactly,” she nods.

As far as close friends, Bregoli has only ever had one, but they don’t talk anymore. Among her small handful of tattoos, the name “Zandalee” is scrawled across her left ring finger. “She was a prostitute; I met her at the school,” she tells me. “That girl would do anything for money. When I became famous, she partnered with my dad, because my dad said that if they ruin my fame, he’ll give her money. You know how they say shit goes sour after you tattoo someone’s name? This happened within like 24 hours of the tattoo.”