As Edie walks by us, Fina hisses like a teakettle just before it boils. “I don’t care what my guidance counselor used to say,” she mutters. “Some kids are just plain mean.”

34

Even with Fina beside me, I still feel anxious as I walk into school that morning. I try to focus on our conversation instead of whether people are looking at me or not. I laugh when she makes a joke about Mr. Owens. I feel okay until we have to go our separate ways for first period.

Then during social studies, I turn around to pass back a worksheet to see a quiet girl who transferred into my class last week—I think her name is Skyler—totally staring at me. Her eyes are all round. If she’s new to the school, she might not know about my vitiligo. I face forward and make sure not to look in her direction again.

When I tell Fina about Skyler at lunch, she thinks for a while, then says, “You know that part of The World at the End of the Tunnel when Jack and Sarah are surrounded by the clover elves? And the elves are just staring and pointing arrows at them?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“And Jack and Sarah are like, ‘Uh-oh. Did we do something wrong? Are they going to shoot us?’ But then the clover elves all start to talk in Chitterish, and the one who can speak English explains that they’re just amazed by Sarah’s freckles and Jack’s buttons?”

“And then they realize that the elves have never seen human children before,” I finish. “They’re just curious.”

“Exactly. So maybe when people stare at you, it’s not because they’re thinking there’s something wrong with you. Maybe they’re just curious. Or maybe they look at you like people stare at sunsets or interesting paintings. Because you’re unique, you know?”

I take a long sip of juice. “Unique,” I echo.

“You know what I’d stare at?” she asks.

I raise my eyebrows.

“Ninjas,” she says, and giggles, “doing the Electric Slide.”

Here is something I love about Fina. You never, ever know what she’s going to say next.

“Um . . . and panda bears doing forward-tuck rolls?” I ask.

Fina claps her hands. “Oh, oh, yes, and kittens chasing disco ball lights!”

I’m giggling now, too.

“Mr. Yardley doing karaoke,” I say.

“Edie trimming her nose hairs!” says Fina, gasping for air.

We both throw our arms down on the table and dissolve into hysterical laughter. When we can finally sit up straight again, I catch sight of someone else staring at me from across the cafeteria. Edie.

There’s no way she could have heard us talking about her. But she’s still looking at us like we’re the cause of a really bad smell. I don’t mind, though, because for once, I think, it has nothing to do with my vitiligo.