Lily is done with the foundation now, and has moved on to brushing a powder over my face. I close my eyes. The brush tickles in a relaxing way. “That’s good advice, Emma,” she says. “You’re really smart, you know? About some things.”

“Some things?”

She laughs as she sprays my face with this cold stuff that she says is to keep the makeup from coming off.

Then, “Voilà!” she says, sitting back and nodding with satisfaction. “What do you think?”

I open my eyes and hold the mirror up so I can see my whole face. No patches. No spots. My skin is one color again. “Whoa!” I breathe. “They’re gone! I look almost like I did before. Except . . . I look so—”

“Grown-up?” Lily finishes.

“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly. Thanks a lot, Lily.”

“No problem,” she says, gathering up all her stuff. “I’ll make a list of what we used, and we can go buy some this week. Remember, no telling Mom what we talked about.”

“I won’t,” I say. “Or that we stole her makeup.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. This was her idea.”

I feel my smile fall flat. “What was her idea?”

“Me teaching you to do your makeup. She told me to offer to do it. She said you would probably like it better if I helped you.”

Translation: this whole thing has been a setup. Lily is only helping me because Mom told her she had to.

She’s probably going to march right down the hall to Mom and give her a full report. And Mom will be relieved. Relieved not to have a daughter who’s covered in spots anymore. I feel suddenly queasy.

“Hey, you okay?” Lily says.

“I am so sick of people asking me that,” I grumble.

She frowns. “Emma, I—”

“Close the door,” I snap. “On your way out. Please.”

Lily starts to say something else, but I’ve already picked up The World at the End of the Tunnel. I hear the floorboards creak beneath her feet, then the door shutting softly behind her.

I would be okay if I could just have my old life back. A life without vitiligo. Or one where Gram was still here. I know she would have found a way to make it better.

But I can’t wish myself back to my old life—the one with Gram and without spots.

Maybe that’s what my pen pal was trying to tell me in the last chapter of our story. Gram can no more help me now than I could have saved her from her cancer.

And this thought makes my heart ache with loneliness.

22

The next morning, I head straight for the Spinney after breakfast, stopping to say hello to Gloria—on her way to meet a friend at the orchard café.