Somehow, I get through the rest of the day. And Fina was wrong, by the way. Ms. Singh’s speech does not make things go back to normal. It’s true that fewer people seem to step out of my way as I walk down the hall, so maybe they did listen to the part about me not being contagious.

But wherever I go, whispers follow behind me like bits of toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

And even though everyone is talking about me, nobody but Fina says a word to me.

When I get home, I play it all over in my mind. Every sideways glance, every single whisper.

I wonder if this is what my life is going to be like from now on. Because if so, I think I would rather be homeschooled.

30

The next morning, I stare into the mirror for a long time. And the longer I look, the worse I feel. The patches above my eyebrows are spreading down past my temples. My bangs can’t cover them anymore. The ones at the corners of my mouth are lengthening into a pale ropy circle around my lips.

It’s funny. Before I got vitiligo, I never understood how Mom and Lily spent so long looking at themselves in the mirror. I guess it was easy not to care what I looked like until I looked . . . different.

I reach for my concealer, then hesitate. The counter is dotted with little plastic tubes and glass bottles of my makeup. But what’s the point of wearing any of it anymore? Everyone thinks I look like a zombie underneath it anyway.

What does it matter if I show them what’s really there?

So I drop the concealer into the drawer beside the sink. Then I sweep the rest of the makeup in, too.

When I come down for breakfast, Boomer is the only one who doesn’t stare at me.

They’re used to seeing my patches by now. But not in the morning before school.

Dad looks only for a second. Then he says, “Morning, Butterfly,” and slides over a plate of toast.

Lily stares up from her laptop, her mouth slightly open. I can’t quite read her expression. But when Mom looks up, I know instantly that the mom who rubbed my back and watched Netflix with me earlier in the week is gone.

“Honey?” Mom says softly. “Did you run out of makeup?”

“I didn’t run out.”

“Is that how you’re going to school?” she asks, taking a tiny sip of orange juice.

“Yes.”

There’s a tense silence.

Then, “Are you sure you—?” Mom starts.

Anger bubbles up inside me. I should have known Mom would react like this. I push back my chair so suddenly that Boomer startles and skulks away upstairs. “It’s my face, Mom,” I say. “Not yours. And I can do what I want with it.”

“Emma, I just—”

“Mom,” Lily mutters.