Then she and Mom talked for a long time about all these different creams and light treatments where I would go into this stand-up booth and have a specific type of light shined on me. Something about that kind of light can sometimes help bring color back to people’s skin.

I knew I should be paying attention—it’s my skin, after all—but it was kind of hard to because they started speaking Science instead of English, and Mom kept interrupting with questions every time Dr. Howard was starting to get somewhere.

She and Dr. Howard finally decided that twice a day, I will put this cream on my white spots to help the color come back and try to keep the spots from spreading too fast. And I’ll come back to the office twice a week to stand in the light-box thingy.

Then Dr. Howard stood to go. “Do you really think this stuff will work?” I asked suddenly. “I mean, make my skin normal again?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Emma,” she said. “For some people, treatments work really well. For others, vitiligo is tougher to treat. Sometimes it takes a while to find what works. But maybe . . .” She hesitated, thinking. “Maybe you can start by rethinking what you mean by ‘normal.’ Between you and me, I think normal is pretty overrated anyway.”

I mustered a small smile because she sounded a lot like Gram.

Still, I think I’d rather have my old skin back.

But that’s the thing . . . I don’t really get to choose.

15

Dad clears his throat from the driver’s seat. “Are you okay, Butterfly?” he says, voice raised over the rain.

“I could be better,” I reply honestly.

“Well, I know it’s not what we were hoping for,” he says, “but I have to admit I feel kind of relieved.”

“Relieved?” I ask, turning to stare at him.

“Relieved,” he says again. “Like Dr. Howard said, you are perfectly healthy. Your vitiligo isn’t going to make you sick. You’re going to be just fine.”

“I guess that’s a bright spot,” I say. “Actually, there are a lot of bright spots.”

I point to white speckles on my elbow. “Get it?”

Dad hesitates, then chuckles. “That’s my girl,” he says. “With that attitude, you’ll be feeling great again in no time.”

Except I mostly just made the joke for Dad. And despite what he says, I do feel sick. My insides are all trembly, like I’m coming down with the flu.

When we get home, I go straight upstairs to change my clothes. Mom, who beat us there, watches me track mud up the stairs and doesn’t say a thing.