“I’m at the store, honey, and I can’t remember if you like the deodorant with the pink flowers or the cucumbers. Call me back. Love you.”

Okay, so it’s not some deep, existential message from beyond the grave or anything, but I’ll take it. The only other remnant I have of my parents is a half-burned chunk of metal that used to be one of my mom’s handbells.

I listen to the message again, relishing this moment alone. Only nine and a half more days.

I rest my head back on the wall and stretch my tired legs out straight under the black curtain in front of me.

But my solitude is short-lived, as a gaggle of girls files in. Instinctively, I scrunch my feet back so they won’t know I’m here.

Through the slit between the curtains, I spy three girls huddling around the backstage vanity, all trying to see themselves at once. Another girl opens the costume closet, digging through a pile of brightly colored fabrics.

Afraid they’ll spot me, I pull my knees into my chest, wincing as the skin stretches tight. A month ago, Dr. Sharp cut Zorro-style slices in my knees to help them move better, but the skin still feels like someone shrank it two sizes in the dryer. I ignore the pain and hug my legs tighter.

The mirror trio lay out the contents of a pink makeup bag on the small table below the glass. An arsenal of eyeliner and concealer stands ready to jump into action, as if the girls are about to perform open-heart surgery with blush and lipstick.

The girl in the middle brushes her long, black hair. Her voice echoes around the stage.

“Did you see it?”

“Be nice, Kenzie,” a girl calls out from the costume closet. “It’s a she, by the way, not an it.”

“I know it’s a girl, dummy. I meant have you seen it—her face? I caught a glimpse, just for a second, but believe me, it was more than enough.”

“Is it really that bad?” She slams the closet shut, so I can’t hear the answer, only the last two words.

“…Freddy Krueger.”

The girl who said it pauses to blot her hot-pink lips.

“I’m not being mean, you guys. It was shocking. Not like I’d say it to her face or anything, but can you imagine going to high school looking like that?”

Another girl swirls a brush of powder around her forehead.

“I skipped school two days last week for a zit. If I looked like that, I’d crawl into a hole and never come out.”

The girls nod as they pack their tools back into their bag. Through the curtain gap, I watch them give themselves a final, affirming glance in the glass.