“I don’t mind this scar,” I say. “It reminds me that you’re a part of me, now. That we’re stronger together.”

I pull toilet paper out of the dispenser and hand a wad to Piper so she can blot the tears on her face.

“Dr. Layne has me doing one-on-ones twice a week now,” she says. “I’ve graduated to big-girl therapy.”

“Good.”

She reaches out to wipe a tear dangling from my chin.

“Are you sure you want to be part of this?” she says. “It’s not going to be pretty.”

I point to my face.

“Hello? That happens to be my expertise.”

Piper laughs weakly. She blows her nose in the paper and then puts both hands in the air, shooting the wad into the small trash can on the wall. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, for starters, we get out of the bathroom before people start to wonder about our digestive health.”

Piper shakes her head.

“Too late. I’m already the butt of every joke out there.”

I stand and offer her my hand.

“I’m kind of over what they think. Besides, we’ll go together. My best friend told me no one can face high school alone.”

“She sounds smart.” Piper lets me help her to her feet, leaning on the wall and me for balance. “And hot.”

“And outrageously humble.” I hook my arm through hers. “We can handle it. High school is no match for two bona fide phoenixes. Phoenexii?”

“Phoenixens.”

I push her walker contraption to her, and she struggles to make her legs line up beneath her. When she finally straightens out, she pumps one fist in the air.

“I’m an inspiration!”

“And unbelievably brave!” I say.

“A living, breathing miracle,” Piper says, half laughing now.

“The luckiest survivor that ever chuckled in the face of death.”

Piper steadies herself on the walker, wincing as she pulls her feet up to it like she’s moving through wet concrete. She breathes heavily, and reaches out for my hand again.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

I steady her with my arm around her waist. “Me too.”

I open the door, and we walk out.

Together.

50

That night, I stuff myself into my monstrosity of a Glinda dress while Cora reaches DEFCON 1 panic status.

Glenn and I stay clear while she whirls around the house, making sure she has not only her phone but also her big-lens-for-momentous-occasions camera, her power cord, and a backup battery just in case there’s a citywide power outage during which she—and she alone—can memorialize the splendor of my high school musical.

She used to do the same thing for Sara’s ballets, her purse bulging like she just robbed an audiovisual store. Glenn stands by the door per Cora’s strict instructions that we absolutely cannot be late. He holds the camera bag, trapped on the welcome mat with his boots while Cora zips my dress.