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Back Scars Like Wings Save as PDF
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?

“Don’t want to be a burden.”

I stand there like a useless moron as Piper struggles to flop herself into her chair, which she finally does with a lot of contorting. She pushes herself through my house with me walking behind her, bounces down the front step without my help and almost spills herself onto the concrete.

“It’s just one night,” I say as she wheels toward her mom’s car, her inky wings flapping wildly.

She doesn’t look back, so I shut the door.

34

Piper wheels beside me in the hall the next day as usual, but we travel in near silence. The only thing I say to her all day is that I like her haircut, which I do just to be nice, because, in truth, it looks like she took a weed whacker to her head.

The ragged bob makes her tattoo and scars even more visible, not that her barely there tank tops weren’t already handling that task.

She says she needed a change.

I don’t invite her over Friday night to help me get ready for Wicked. Cora does her darnedest as girlfriend stand-in while I try on my fifth outfit. She tells me I look “charming” in a pencil skirt and pumps. I take it off and start over.

I settle on a pair of black pants and a silvery blouse, mostly because it covers a good chunk of me. Piper would probably say I look like a sixteen-year-old cougar who belongs in the friend zone for life.

Asad probably isn’t giving two seconds to his attire.

I tighten a green bandana around my head that completely clashes with my outfit, but it’s the same daffodil-shoot green as the Wicked Witch of the West, and if I know Asad at all, a subtle Broadway reference is right up his alley.

I pull up the corner of my eyes in the mirror.

“Three more days.”

Cora answers the door and interrogates Asad about how long he’s had his license and what his cell number is and when he’ll have me home.

When I walk into the room, there’s an awkward silence when a boy would normally say, “You look beautiful.” But since this isn’t actually a date, and since I am me and Asad isn’t the shoveling-BS type, he just says, “Wicked bandana.”

After Asad signs in blood to have me home no later than 11:00 p.m., Cora allows us to leave. Asad talks about Wicked the whole way to the theater. How he was twelve when he first saw it. How it was the reason he got into drama.

“It was one of those pivotal moments, you know?”

I nod along, letting him talk, relishing that we’re talking about anything other than my scars or Kenzie or Piper. Tonight is about us—two normal high school kids on a date, or an outing, or whatever this is.