But when Mom comes upstairs again, she doesn’t mention the doctor. She brings me homemade pumpkin nut muffins and hot chocolate and nudges Boomer over so there’s room for her to sit next to me on the bed. She leans over and kisses me on my head, then wraps her arms around me. I let my head fall to her shoulder.

I find myself staring at our arms, which are side by side. They’re the exact same shade. The way we look is one thing we’ve always had in common. And I don’t want my vitiligo to steal it.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well, sweetheart,” Mom says quietly. “Is there anything I can do to make it better? Want to find something on Netflix to watch? I can take the afternoon off from work.”

Actually, it might be nice to have some company. And weirdly, this feels like the first time since I got diagnosed that Mom is actually worried about me instead of my vitiligo. So we go downstairs and sit on the sleek blue couch she got to replace Gram’s old lumpy one. We throw a blanket over ourselves and find an old cartoon movie I used to like when I was a kid. I don’t want to watch anything serious.

In a little while, Dad comes home early and flops down next to us. It’s really nice, sitting there with them, and I wonder why it can’t be like this all the time. Or even just a little bit more of the time.

For a few hours, I even manage to forget about everything that happened on Monday. But when I close my eyes that night, I’m back at school again, getting off the bus to see a crowd of scowling faces. I see them over and over. And it never hurts any less.

The next thing I know, it’s Thursday morning, and Mom is gently shaking me awake again.

“Emma, sweetheart? It’s time for school. Do you think you’re up to it?”

I hesitate. I have to go back sometime. And I’m worried that the longer I’m gone, the worse it will be when I do.

“You have a light treatment appointment in a couple of hours,” Mom says. “How about you stay home until then, but after your appointment, I take you back to school on my way to meet Arnold O’Shea.”

Hearing the name Arnold O’Shea makes me think of Edie O’Shea, which really does make me feel sick to my stomach.

But at least this way I won’t have to ride the bus to school with Edie and the Graces and Ruby the Traitor. “Fine,” I say. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and the appointment will take so long I’ll miss lunch, too.