I’m not hungry, but I know Mom will just barge in and make a fuss over me if I don’t eat any dinner, so I drag myself out of bed.

Downstairs, Mom has already piled my plate high with chicken parmesan and garlic bread. My favorite dinner.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” she asks as I slump into my usual seat.

“I’m okay,” I say. “My stomach doesn’t feel very good.”

I force down a mouthful of pasta.

“Well, I don’t want you to worry, all right?” Mom says. “I read that treatments work best on younger people. And there are other options, too—”

Dad clears his throat and shoots Mom a warning look.

Have you ever heard the expression “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”?

Yeah, well, not my mom. I don’t think she ever saw something she didn’t think needed fixing.

And now that something is me.

I can already feel her getting all obsessive like she does sometimes. Like she is about Lily’s college applications, which she asks about every night.

Part of me is really thankful for Mom, because I do want my old skin back, and I know not all kids have parents who would pay for those treatments. Not all moms make chicken parmesan when their kids have a bad day. I know that.

But part of me just wants her to say that no matter what happens with my vitiligo, I’m going to be perfect, at least to her.

“All I’m trying to say is that we’re not going to let this thing get the better of us, all right?”

“Sure, Mom,” I say. Across the table, Lily is staring at me hard. I glare back at her, and she drops her gaze.

Mom smiles at me. “That’s my girl. Now, Lily, how’s the personal statement for Yale coming? Is your new draft done?”

I eat in silence until I’ve shoved down as much as I can stomach. Boomer sits beside my chair, looking hopefully at me. I sneak him a piece of chicken. A giggle escapes my lips.

“What?” Dad asks, raising an eyebrow.

I lean down and stroke Boomer’s head, black dappled with spots of ivory.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just, I guess I’m going to look a lot more like Boomer from now on, huh?”

It’s not funny, really. I just needed to laugh about something or else I’m going to start crying. I thought making a joke might help lighten the mood, like it did in the car with Dad.

Instead, Mom puts her fork down on her plate. “Oh, Emma,” she says quietly. “That’s not very funny. And don’t feed the dog from the table, please.”

Then she gets up and sweeps our plates away.

I guess dinner is officially over.

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