BooksBarbecue
Back Scars Like Wings
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. What’s next onyour reading list?

She half smiles and adjusts my blue bandana, which is tied in a knot at the base of my neck so it covers my whole scalp.

“We’ll pick you up right here, okay?”

“What’s left of me.”

Cora takes both my hands in hers with a firm squeeze. Does she wish I were Sara right now half as bad as I wish she were Mom?

“Think of everything you’ve been through, Ava. You’re stronger than you realize.”

I put my headphones on, making sure the left earpiece covers the spot where my left ear should be. With the music drowning out the world, I grip the shoulder strap tight and walk through the front doors, wishing I could believe as firmly as Cora does in the transformative power of the right accessory. The familiar smell of teen spirit (two parts dingy football pads and one part Axe body spray) wafts to me as I reenter the linoleum-floored, fluorescent-lit world of high school.

A huge cardboard cutout of a white guy with a Viking hat and a sword welcomes me to Viking Country: Be Bold. Be Brave. Be a Warrior. A handwritten banner hanging on the wall reads “Get your heads ready for piking! Here come the Vikings!”

Slaughterfest may have been an understatement.

It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with how people react to me. I’m used to the stares from randoms at stoplights or the store. I don’t blame them; I’m the human equivalent of a five-car pileup. You can’t not look.

I’m quite the expert on these reactions, which I’ve narrowed down to several completely reliable responses:

  1. Revulsion
  2. Shameless staring
  3. Fear
  4. Pity
  5. Frantic friendliness
  6. Aggressive avoidance (like I’m invisible)
  7. Condescension (like I’m brain damaged)

There’s really no telling who will have which reaction, although kids tend to start out around the 1 zone, yelling to their mothers about why my face looks like bacon.

Adults are usually socially adept enough to skip the panic-stricken staring. Strangers at the store do an avoidance/pity combo, like the mothers who usher their loudmouthed little ones away from me, the real-life boogeyman.

And teenagers? Well, they land somewhere in between, which means I have no idea what I’ll face today: pitchforks or pity party.

The unpredictability tightens my stomach as I venture through the lobby, making my way toward the office. I luck out—empty hallways.

Ava 1, reintegration 0.

In the safety of the quiet, carpeted front office, I pause the playlist and slide my headphones down around my neck while also tugging my bandana over my ear hole. I don’t know where to go, so I kind of stand in the middle of the room, feeling as out of place as I’m sure I look. When the secretary behind the front desk looks up, her colossal grin falters for a split second.

“Oh.” She exhales the word with more air than sound.