As Disappearing Act One, I ask Cora to drop me off thirty minutes early to avoid the crowded halls of my new school—Crossroads High, home of the Vikings.

I picked it because it’s across town, where no one knew Sara. I’ve already stepped into the void formally known as my cousin at home; I don’t need to slide into her shadow at school, too.

Cora’s been a one-woman whirlwind since the Dr. Sharp visit, getting my school records and talking the Crossroads principal into a boundary exception so I can attend. She’s been on the phone with all sorts of school personnel making a plan to best handle my “condition” this year, clearly having selective amnesia about the whole “only two weeks” deal.

When we pull into the parking lot, she tells me the principal’s expecting me for a quick preclass meet and greet to “get to know me personally.” She insists on parking and gets out with me in front of the school, bracing against the frigid February wind to hand me the messenger bag she’s decided is my all-access pass to the social hierarchy of high school. I sling it over my shoulder and plug my headphones into my phone while Cora gives me a final rundown of How to Be a High Schooler, complete with instructions on “putting myself out there” and something about my medications.

I don’t really hear this last part because (1) I know how to take my meds and (2) another girl gets dropped at the curb behind us.

She stops midstride when she sees me, eyes wide, like she’s paralyzed. I look down at the phone in my hand, releasing her, and the girl power walks into the building, her quick footsteps disappearing into Crossroads High.

For a second, I almost run, too—back to the car, back to my room, back to my out-of-sight existence. Cora puts her hand on my arm. I can barely feel her touch through my compression garments.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

I shake my head. That is a big fat no. The last thing I need is a chaperone walking me through the halls of high school. As if my face doesn’t draw enough attention to the fact that I. Do. Not. Belong.

That’s a pretty big problem when the first commandment of high school is Belong.

I swallow my fears—a skill I’ve nearly perfected in the past year—and fake a smile. If you don’t laugh, you cry, right? I hold out my arms wide, turning side to side.

“So…how do I look?”

I mean it as a joke, but Cora’s eyes rove over me seriously.

“You look great.”

“You know you’re sending me into a full-on slaughterfest, right?”