But she doesn’t. She keeps her distance, and by the end of the day, I figure this petition is the worst Kenzie has in store.

Asad meets me at my locker so I don’t have to face drama alone today, and Piper joins us because she doesn’t feel like going to volleyball. Between Asad and Piper in the hall, I feel stronger. Like everything’s going to be okay because no matter who is on my “side,” I can count on these two people by my side.

I’ve just about convinced myself that I should walk right up to Kenzie and tell her to take her little petition and shove it, when Asad stops in front of the auditorium doors, staring down at the phone in his hands. His face drains.

“What?” I say, grabbing for his phone. He tries to snatch it back, but I flip it around before he can.

My face fills his screen.

31

Piper gasps.

The photo shows me dripping with red punch, one hand holding my mask, the other wiping my eye, pulling it down in a way that disfigures me even more than normal.

I zoom in on the picture, fighting back tears. Someone’s drawn a black, pointy hat on my head along with a word bubble by my face that says, “I’m melting. I’m melting!” Below, bold red letters: “Do you want this wicked witch on our stage?”

Asad yanks back the phone and shuts off the screen, mumbling under his breath. Paralyzed, I hold on to Piper’s wheelchair as people file past us into the auditorium. A boy looking at his phone sniggers loudly before he notices me and turns his laugh into a cough, hurrying through the doors.

Time moves in slow-mo just like it did in this hideous moment someone captured on film. All around me, people look at the melting face on their phones, at me, then away. It’s like the first day of school again, everyone seeing the Burned Girl for the first time.

“Kenzie’s right,” I say. “I’m a joke.”

Asad waves his phone at me.

“This says nothing about who you are, but it screams volumes about who she is.”

“But it’s my face everyone is looking at,” I say. “Did she send it to everyone?”

Asad confirms that the text came from an unknown number to everyone in drama. Except me.

VP Lynch walks out the auditorium doors with his usual somebody’s-doing-something-bad hunting scowl. Piper wheels up to him, shoving Asad’s phone in his face. He looks from the image to me three times before saying anything.

“Who did this?”

“Kenzie King,” Piper says. “I mean, she clearly used a new number because she’s evil, not stupid, but it was definitely her. Are you going to suspend her? You should totally suspend her. Don’t we have a zero-tolerance policy?”