The boy nods.

“Do you know how I got them?”

He shakes his fiery hair.

“I have a rare condition called vegetitis,” I say, trying not to glance up at his mother because I know I’ll stop if I do. “My mom made me eat all the veggies on my plate, and I told her they made me sick, but she made me eat them and my skin just changed.”

I turn the side of my face so he can see my scars better. The boy’s eyes widen as he turns to his mother.

“Veggies make me sick, too!” he yells.

His mother snaps him from me, her face crinkled in a scowl. “You should know better.”

I stand as I cut off her rant. “So should you.”

The lady huffs away with her child straggling behind her. Asad laughs behind his yogurt bowl, and Piper gapes at me.

“Seriously. Who are you? Is this the old Ava we’ve all heard so little about?”

I swirl Oreo frozen yogurt into my cup.

“I’m not sure who this is exactly,” I say. All I know is somewhere between the punch and busybody ladies using me for life lessons for their bratty kids, I cracked.

I’m tired of being the Burned Girl.

30

Piper texts me Sunday night to remind me about Color Day, a Crossroads High tradition to promote school spirit and good old-fashioned Viking solidarity.

Don’t forget your class T-shirt tomorrow. The last thing you want to be right now is tribeless

Why? You think Kenzie will still be mad?

You bested the queen of the theater in front of everyone. This is NOT over

Riiiight…and she’s the drama queen here?

Trust me. Yellow shirt. Balls-out attitude from last night. Bring both

Monday morning, I walk to my locker in my chick-yellow shirt and matching bandana to declare my undying allegiance to the junior class. As far as I can tell, Color Day is much like any other costume-centered high school event—an excuse for girls to wear less and boys to act like toddlers. My suspicions on this matter are immediately confirmed as Piper and I venture down Senior Hall, passing a variety of girls dressed in red cheerleader booty shorts, some with red tights, others with red-and-white thigh-high socks. Many of them have devil’s horns and red-hued hair, while several boys with completely red faces spray Silly String everywhere.

I’m beginning to think half of teenagerdom at Crossroads High involves pretending to be someone else.

“Seniors only,” a bedeviled girl says, blocking our path. She shrinks when she sees beyond our yellow shirts to my face and Piper’s wheelchair.

“Oh, sorry. You’re fine.” She bites her upper lip and turns back to her huddle of sexy devils.

Piper pumps her fist into the air. “Disability bonus!” she shouts above the noise in the hallway. “Score!”