Her eyes dart to her desk as she tries to recover. When she looks up again, she wears a perma-smile, her voice loud and singsongy.

“What can I do for you, dear?”

“I’m Ava Lee. I think I’m supposed to meet with the principal?”

“Oh, Ava, of course!” she half sings ten decibels too loud.

Classic frantic friendliness. What scars? I’m too excited to even notice your deformed face! La la la!

“Right this way!” she shouts, as if she’s introducing me on a game show rather than ushering me into a tiny office with two men. One sits behind the desk in a polo shirt, the other across from him in a stiff, too-small dress shirt and tie that make his head red and bulgy, like a zit about to explode.

“This is Ava Lee! The new student!” the secretary half yells. Her message delivered, she shuts the door behind her and I can almost hear her sigh of relief. The polo-clad man gestures toward a chair.

“Have a seat, Ava. I’m Principal Danner, but most kids call me Mr. D or Big D. And this is Mr. Lynch.”

“You can call me Vice Principal Lynch,” the red-faced man says.

Principal Danner reaches out his hand, but pulls back slightly when I stick out mine. The fingers on my right hand peek out from my beige compression garments like wizened purple sausages.

“Is it okay?” he asks.

“It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean,” I say.

He smiles weakly and shakes my hand like it’s a dead fish. I pretend not to see him wipe his palm on his pants as he sits down. His hair dips perfectly above his brow, and his expensive smile reveals a row of perfectly straight teeth. Behind him, a bookshelf shows off dozens of awards. He follows my gaze to a trophy topped with a gold football player.

“Used to be the quarterback here back in my day. Now I’m the boss. Life is funny, isn’t it?”

I nod. Yeah, life’s a real kick in the pants.

“Well, Ava, we are so pleased you are joining our school community,” he says.

His eyes search my face for a resting spot. Good luck, buddy. He settles on staring just to the left of my head, so he’s not really looking at me but kind of, sort of seems like he is. He might get away with it, too, if it weren’t a tactic used by basically everyone who has to talk to me. Not like I blame them: I can’t even look at me.

“Now, we understand that you are not the typical student. We want you to know that anytime you need extra help or someone to talk to, we are here. We also have a full-time nurse available. She will handle your medications throughout the day.”

My skin buzzes up my arms.