It’s a tiny little spot. It shouldn’t be such a shock, especially because, in lots of the pictures I’ve seen of people with vitiligo, it forms a pale mask around their eyes, mouth, and nose. I already have it around my eyes and my mouth, so what should it matter if I have it around my nose, too?

On the bus, I try to convince myself that I’m fine. I remind myself that things are already going back to normal at school.

But then in math class, when I finish rummaging in my backpack for my homework, I look down at my desk to see a folded piece of paper.

On it are two words.

Hey FREAK!

I look around, but everyone is staring at their notebooks or up at what Mr. Owens is writing on the board. One of the Graces sits behind me, right beside Sean. Was it one of them? Or was it Skyler, the girl who I caught staring at me last week?

I crumple up the note, my eyes burning with tears.

How could I have actually thought that just because I had one okay week that things were going to be normal again?

In the library at lunchtime, when Fina asks me what’s wrong, I show her the note. She looks at it and scowls. “Who wrote this?”

“I don’t know. The Grace with braces, maybe. Or Sean, or someone else. Someone left it on my desk. And there’s more. I have a new spot.”

I point to my nose.

“I can barely see it,” Fina says, squinting hard behind her glasses.

“It’ll probably get bigger,” I say. “I thought—I thought I was kind of okay about it now. But maybe I was just okay because last week I didn’t see any more spots. And nobody called me a freak.”

Fina squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry someone wrote this note,” she says. “And maybe there will always be a few stupid people who are mean about your vitiligo. I can’t pretend that that doesn’t suck. But there’s also me. And I don’t think you’re a freak, no matter how many spots you have. Do you think you’re a freak?”

I actually think about this for a while.

A few weeks ago, I might have said yes. It’s true that I have pale patches on my face and neck and elbows and toes. That is still weird, even to me. But when I look in the mirror now, I don’t see a disappearing girl anymore. I see more than just my patches. I’m starting to see Emma again. Plain old normal Emma.

“No,” I say finally. “I think I look different from most people. But I’m not a freak.”

“So, whose opinion do you trust more? Yours and mine? Or Grace and Sean’s?”

“Yours and mine, I guess.”