A damp, mossy wall surrounded him. Jack put his hand to the stone. On one side of the wall was him, Jack, and on the other were birds and horses and trees and clouds and everything he had ever known and loved.

That’s exactly how I feel. Like I’m on one side of this wall and Fina’s on the other. Her side is bright and cheery, and my side of the wall is dark and lonely.

I know what you’re thinking. Letting myself feel so defeated is like letting Edie win. But it’s not just Edie’s text.

I could probably get over that—over all the whispers and the stares, too, if I knew they were going to go away eventually. Like the time I threw up during the third-grade spelling bee, and for a while, I was totally humiliated, but after a week or so, nobody even remembered.

The stares aren’t going to go away this time, though. Nobody can forget about my vitiligo when my face is a constant reminder.

Even if I wanted to keep wearing makeup, what about the patches on my toes, which are now threatening to cover my feet entirely? And the ones on my elbows and neck? Am I supposed to wear jeans and turtlenecks for the rest of my life?

I glance around the cafeteria at all the kids talking and laughing. Not wondering what they’re going to look like when they wake up tomorrow. It’s just a normal day for them.

I’m not sure if I even have a normal anymore.

That night at dinner, Mom asks me how my day was (I lie and tell her it was fine), but nobody says anything else about my vitiligo or my lack of makeup. We talk about Lily’s next round of college applications, and Mom tells everyone that Arnold O’Shea has officially hired her.

Which is my cue to push the rest of my stir-fry away and go upstairs. But I can’t sleep. So I lie in bed, listening to Boomer snore and imagining Mom hanging out at Edie’s house.

If they ever meet, I bet Edie will put on the sweet innocent face she does around teachers. She’ll be all polite, and Mom will come home wondering why I told her Edie wasn’t a nice girl when clearly she is. Mom will wonder why I can’t be more like her.

Finally, I throw my covers off and go downstairs.

The kitchen is dark and empty. No Gram waiting with warm pie. No Gram to comfort me or tell me what to do. Even the smell of her is gone, like she was never really here. I pour myself a glass of milk and sit down at the table.