But after each class, I face the hallway again. A group of girls walk by, all talking at the same time, reminding me of the friends I left behind. Like a flock, the five of us would fall into formation—Emma walking backward, gesturing wildly, regaling us with a story about the latest senior boy in her chem class who she was 100 percent positive brushed her hand on purpose. Stacy always text-walked next to her, head bent over her phone, thumbs flying, while Blake came a few steps behind with her nose buried in flash cards, stressing about a test or a Spanish oral. Chloe and I walked in the middle, Chloe’s huge hair and even bigger laugh filling the space around us.

We belonged to each other.

We had a pattern.

I had a place.

At lunchtime, I take one look at the hordes of hungry students barreling into the cafeteria and head the other way. Even with a normal face, walking into a high school cafeteria is like infiltrating a lion’s den.

No place for an already-wounded straggler.

I consider going full-throttle pathetic and eating in a bathroom stall, but a sign with an arrow to the auditorium changes my mind. At the end of a long hallway, I poke my head through a pair of double doors into a silent, darkened theater with rows and rows of cushioned seats and a stage curtain drawn tight.

Down the next hall, I find a smaller, second door leading backstage. A maze of thick curtains leads me past a costume closet and a single mirrored vanity until I find a dark corner concealed by black fabric.

I tuck myself against the wall. I peek under the gap below the curtains and see three pairs of combat boots huddled together on the far side of the stage. Judging by the draft and the odor, they belong to some students taking a lunchtime vape break by an open backstage door. But thanks to the thick curtains, they have no idea I’m here.

Invisible at last.

I balance my paper bag on my legs, inhaling my turkey sandwich along with the burned popcorn vapor from my backstage-hideout compadres.

Cradled in the corner of the stage, I feel safer than I have all day. In a former life, Chloe and the rest of my flock would be here, too, laughing about Emma’s latest crush and taking turns running lines for our next musical.

No matter what, we had the stage—and each other.

I take out my phone to read the latest text from Cora.

All OK?

I send her a GIF of a Viking giving a thumbs-up.

Then I put on my headphones, dial my own number, and listen to the message I’ve heard a thousand times. Mom’s voice cuts through the loneliness—just slightly, but enough.