“Thank god,” Fina replies. “I was really worried for a second there. Besides, there are tons of people in the world like you, remember? Didn’t you say it was like one in a hundred?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

She grins, and for some reason, I suddenly think again about Gram and me, standing in front of the village hall lights last Thanksgiving. How she said she loved this time of year because it was when the world finds out how resilient it is.

I didn’t actually know what resilient means. I had to ask Gram.

It means not giving up, even when things are really tough. Like how plants can live through winter in the frozen ground and still bloom again in spring.

And I guess maybe looking different from most people means I’m just going to have to be resilient now, too. To hold on tight to the Emma that I almost let slip away before. Because Fina’s right. I’m not always going to be able to control whether people call me names or write mean notes.

But I also can’t let those things control me.

“Emma?” Fina says. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I reply. “No, I was just thinking. Everything you said was right. Totally, one hundred percent right.”

Then we spend the rest of the lunch period talking about what Dad told me about Gram’s childhood and what I found in her closet.

“Madeline Mitchell is the only one who can answer my questions about Gram,” I say after I’m done. “We have to go talk to her. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Fina says with a nod. “After school.”

41

The rest of the day is surprisingly okay. I feel like I just got back a test that I thought I had flunked, but I actually did really well.

I got a new spot and got called a freak. And I survived.

I’m okay. And the fact that I’m okay somehow makes me feel much better than okay.

There really is something to this whole resiliency thing.

When the last bell rings, I find myself hovering outside Ms. Singh’s doorway. I wait until the last few kids trickle out, then I step in.

“Hi, Ms. Singh.”

She looks up from the papers she’s shuffling on her desk and smiles. “Hi, Emma,” she says. “How’s your day been?”

“Pretty good. What about yours?”

“Long but good,” she replies.

“Ms. Singh? I, um, heard someone say that you know someone else with vitiligo.”

Technically, I heard it myself, but I still don’t want Ms. Singh to know I was standing outside her door when she lectured everyone about being nice to me.

All afternoon, I’ve been thinking about what Fina said. There are other people like me. Lots of them.