Boomer is on Gram’s bed, and I think he has finally given up on her coming back again, because he doesn’t cry when he sees that it’s me and not her. He just lifts his head and wags his tail. I close the door behind me and change into my pajamas, even though it’s still just afternoon. I nuzzle my face into Boomer’s fur and shut my eyes.

But that’s no good, either, because when I close them, all I see is the sad shape of Mom’s face, standing out in the hall with Dr. Howard. I don’t want to make Mom sad. And I don’t want people feeling sorry for me, or staring at me.

I want to be Emma, the girl who reads a lot. Who lives in Lanternwood. Emma who hangs out with Fina and Ruby.

I don’t want to be Emma, the girl with vitiligo.

I take a huffy breath, try to tell myself that I’m being stupid. It might not get any worse. It might have already stopped spreading, even. And if it does keep spreading, well, it’s like Dad said. It’s just skin, isn’t it? I should feel lucky it’s not something really bad, like cancer or some rare flesh-eating bacteria.

Except I don’t.

I open one eye, pull my feet to my chest, and examine the white spots on my toes. They aren’t exactly spots anymore—more like patches. And the patches aren’t exactly white. Not white like a fresh piece of paper. They’re creamier than that. Mom would probably call it eggshell or pearl. But the color is still miles away from the rest of my skin. Like a puddle of milk spilled on Gram’s kitchen table.

I’ve always liked my skin just the way it is.

You, Emma, are the color of afternoon light settling on the trees in the Spinney, Gram had told me, and I had been proud. But now, for the first time, I almost wish I hadn’t inherited Mom’s complexion. That I’d inherited Gram’s skin color instead. Then you would barely be able to see a difference between my spots and the rest of me.

I squeeze my eyes shut again and try really hard not to think for a long time. So long I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know it’s getting dark outside, and there’s a knock at my door.

“Emma?”

It’s Lily.

“What?” I call.

“Can I come in?”

The last thing I want is for perfect Lily to walk in here and rub her perfect skin in my face. (Seriously, she’s never even had a pimple.)

“No,” I say. “I’m getting dressed.”

“Oh,” she replies. “Okay. Well, um, dinner’s ready.”