“What?” I let my arms fall on the table.

Coralee looks over to where Sierra and her friends are trading bags of chips. “I said—don’t get used to it.” And then she looks at me. “A townie’s a townie for life.”

My stomach swirls and gurgles and I press into it with my fist.

“And what about us?” I say, punching at my lunch bag like bread dough. “Are we trailer kids for life?”

“Honestly?” She looks from me to Bert. “Yes. We are.”

I wait for her to say she’s kidding, but she doesn’t.

Bert stares at his hands.

“Why are you being like this?” I hate it that my voice has gone all high, but I can’t help it.

“Like what?”

“Mean. And like you can’t even let me be happy for one second.” I feel the beginning of tears but blink hard. I am not going to cry at the lunch table. “Why can’t you let me just be normal?”

There’s a pause that feels like a million years, and then Coralee taps my chair.

“Ellie, honey. You’ll never be normal.”

And then I do start to cry.

So I back away.

Roll fast down the hall.

Turn the corner into the gym.

And throw up all over the court.

It’s too bright in this room. I can feel it before I even open my eyes. And something’s over my face, trying to smother me. It’s too tight. I can’t breathe. I tug at it, but my hands are heavy and I can’t get it off.

“Honey, honey. Relax, baby girl!”

I open my eyes. Mom’s over me. She’s taking my hands and pulling them away, but she’s not getting the thing off my face. I pull at her and push, but she won’t let go.

Her head moves in front of the light, and now everything’s in shadow.

“Where?” But I can’t talk because the thing is covering my mouth, too, and my fingers aren’t working right. My chest hurts.

“Rest, honey. Just rest. We need you to—” but I’m already falling asleep.

It’s night now and there’s something cold in my nose. It shoots air like icicles down my throat, and I yank it away. Something beeps over my head, and then alarms go off, like ten alarms all louder than the loudest setting on my phone.

A nurse runs in with Mom behind her and puts the little tubes back into my nose and then gently hooks them behind my ears. She’s wearing Doc McStuffins scrubs.

“Honey, you’ve got to leave this in. I know it’s itchy and cold, but it’ll help you breathe,” she says.

I start to cry. Everything hurts. My legs are tight, and it feels like something’s sitting on my chest.