But I’m already pulling out a list from the briefcase.

Not a grocery list. Another list.

“Emma, put that back, please.”

But I’ve already started to read it. And the more I read, the more the warm feeling slips away.

Questions for Dr. Howard:

Any sign of repigmentation from the light box/creams?

Supplements/natural remedies to try?

Special diets—do these work?

Scientific trials—any promising?

What about acupuncture?

Depigmentation cream—more details?

I stare at the questions. My chest is cold and clammy now. Mom is saying something about wanting to be prepared for our next appointment, but I’m not really listening. All these questions are about treatments. Ways to get rid of my vitiligo.

I don’t say anything for a long time. The tears I was fighting this morning are back.

Because as long as I have a friend like Fina, I can be resilient at school. I can make myself not care what the Graces and the Seans of the world think of me.

But I can’t do that with Mom. I can’t not care what she thinks of me. She’s the person who’s supposed to love me no matter what.

“Depigmentation cream, Mom?” I ask. “Seriously?”

I remember reading about that. It’s for people with vitiligo covering a lot of their bodies who decide that getting rid of the rest of their pigment is better than being split into two colors or waiting for the rest of their color to fade away.

But my patches are still really small compared to those people’s. Can my own mother really want to strip all the color left in my skin? The color I’ve always been proud of—the one she gave me?

“Well, not for now, of course,” she says. “It’s just to get a sense of what our options are for the future. In case, you know, the treatments we’re trying now don’t work. I’ve seen pictures of people who have no pigment in their skin, and they look very normal. Just fair-skinned.”

“Would you just STOP thinking about how to make me normal, Mom?”

The words burst out of me like racehorses galloping from their gates.

“I know it must be really hard for you to have a polka-dotted daughter and everything, but maybe you could just try to get used to it.”

I hear Mom give a little gasp. She pulls over to the side of the road and puts the car in park. I stare straight ahead, not bothering to wipe the tears running down both cheeks.

“What do you mean, Emma?” she asks, her voice shaking slightly.