A girl at her locker pretends to look past me as she takes hurried glances at where my ear should be. I tug my bandana tighter so she can’t see there’s no left ear left, just a canal hole and a lobe remnant whose survival defies explanation.

I tilt my head back to restrain the building tears. Thanks to the contracting of my cheek scars, my bottom eyelids are more like busted levies, barely able to hold back the slightest moisture.

But I will not cry. Not here.

I try to calm my racing heart as I continue down the hallway, reminding myself that I don’t need these people any more than they need me. I force my head higher, but what I really want is to crawl into one of these lockers to escape all the eyes. Their stares tell me I’m different, sure, but they reveal an even deeper truth: I’m less.

Something to be looked at, not talked to.

This is why I don’t need mirrors; I can see my reflection in the eyes of everyone around me.

My face always finds me.

I pretend not to notice the group of boys elbowing each other or the fact that everyone else squishes together on the other side of the hallway. Without my headphones to soundproof me, I act like I don’t hear the whispers behind cupped hands.

Through the din of lockers and feet and chatter, my good ear picks up the words I’m not meant to hear:

Burned.

Fire.

New.

Gross.

Zombie.

A white-hot pain shoots to the tips of my fingers, and I realize I’ve been death-gripping the strap of my bag with my good hand. I stretch my palm, flexing my stiff skin.

I make it to my first class, exhaling the air I’ve been storing since I left the office. One hallway down!

Only ten days to go.

I slink to a seat in the back row. This is my plan: Stay in the shadows. Get through today.

The earth science teacher is a large man with an even larger bushy black beard. He strides into the room and drops a pile of books on the front table. When he scans the room, he does a double take at me. So much for Big D’s warnings.

He starts talking, but the damage is done. His brief pause in my direction gives my classmates permission to turn and look. I sink lower in my seat.

When I was a little kid, I could summon an invisibility cloak by closing my eyes. My parents would play along as I yelled, “You can’t see me!” Mom would walk right next to me, saying, “Where’s Ava?” and Dad would bump into me, crying, “Oh no! We’ve lost her forever.”

I could use those toddler superpowers today.