Now that I have spots where people can see them (another one showed up a few days after the last one, this one on the right side of my mouth), I’ve started being really careful about keeping my head down in the hall and making sure that in class my hair is always hanging loose around my face so you can’t see the spots from the sides. If I have to talk to someone up close, I rest my chin in my hands, so my fingers cover them up.

Fridays are the best because I get to go home for the weekend, where I don’t have to worry about hiding all the time. Even better, Mom’s been so preoccupied with reviewing Lily’s college applications that I think she’s forgotten to be so worried about me.

One Friday night, I’m in bed reading The World at the End of the Tunnel. Sarah and Jack and the clover elves are just about to celebrate their victory over the troll army when an ogre kidnaps Jack and sweeps him off to the hobgoblin king’s castle. Before Sarah can follow them, there’s a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I say.

I have to hide my surprise when the door opens to reveal Lily standing there, holding her huge makeup bag. This is a surprise because (a) I have no idea what Lily wants from me and (b) Lily never stays home on Friday nights. Though now that I think about it, she hasn’t been going out nearly as much as she used to. I guess because Mom’s been keeping her so busy with applications.

“Hey, Emma,” she says, smiling.

“What’s up?” I ask.

She comes in and sits down on the bed next to me, making the springs creak. She glances at the book lying open on the bed, and I wait for her to say something about it.

Last year, Lily told me that since I was in middle school, I should be reading “real” books. Classics. She thinks books like The World at the End of the Tunnel are for little kids.

But she doesn’t understand how the pages in my books leave space for you to crawl into them and dream up your own stories, instead of trying to cram your head so full of big words there’s no room for you at all.

I don’t think you could ever be too old for a book like that. Gram never was. Grandpa must have known it, or else why would he have given her The World at the End of the Tunnel?

But Lily doesn’t say anything about the book at all. Instead, her eyes drift back to me. “I haven’t really asked,” she says, “um, how you’ve been doing with, you know, everything?”