I fix Boomer’s breakfast—nothing distracts him like food—and am sitting down to pour myself a bowl of cereal when I realize Lily is staring at me.

She thinks she’s really good about doing it only when I can’t see, but I can feel her gaze. She might as well be tapping my shoulder.

I look up, ready to tell her to mind her own business, but there’s something funny about the way she’s staring at me. Like she might be about to cry.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Oh, no . . . did you . . . ? Is it Yale?”

“No, that’s not it,” she says, and I swear her eyes are welling with tears. First Mom, then Edie, now Lily. It’s like an epidemic.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She sighs. “It probably sounds stupid, but I’m just, well, really proud of you.”

My mouth drops open a little.

“And maybe a little bit jealous, too.”

It drops more. Lily? Jealous of me? “Why?” I ask.

“You’re my little sister, Emma,” she says, swiping a tear. “But you’re like a hundred times braver than I’ve ever been. If it was me who had vitiligo, I would probably think it was the end of the world.”

“Um, is this supposed to be making me feel good?” I ask. “Because if it is—”

Lily rolls her eyes, more at herself than me, I think. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that I love how you aren’t afraid to be who you are.”

I blink a few times. Since when is this how Lily sees me?

“I thought you were ashamed of me.”

She shakes her head, silky hair shining under the kitchen lights. There’s another rumble of thunder outside. “Of course not, Emma! Why would I be ashamed?”

“Because you and Mom always want everything to be perfect, like you are. I thought that’s why you taught me to do my makeup. Because you both wanted me to hide my patches.”

A crease shoots down between Lily’s eyebrows like a lightning bolt. Her chin trembles. Suddenly she doesn’t look so perfect. She just looks like my sister.

“Have you ever thought that maybe we just act perfect because we’re afraid?” she asks, her voice thick. “Afraid that if we don’t get into perfect schools or have perfect Instagram posts, people will see the truth? That we have flaws, too? And then—and then—”

In case you’re wondering, the answer is no. I have never, ever until this moment thought of Lily or Mom as being afraid. Of anything, besides maybe grass stains. “Nobody’s perfect, Lily,” I say quietly.