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Back Scars Like Wings Save as PDF
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. What’s next onyour reading list?

Besides, Sara was my cousin—my closest lifelong friend—and she’s gone.

I lived. She died.

End of story.

“I don’t need friends. How many times do I have to say it? I don’t need anyone.”

Glenn pats me on the knee again and reassures me that this group may be exactly what I need. He smiles that crooked smile, hopeful this support group will heal me—body and soul.

I just hope they have refreshments.

7

The instant I walk into the community center rec room, Dr. Layne wraps me in a hug.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says.

“Cora and Glenn made me,” I say, trying to keep her expectations low.

Guilt needles me for wasting her time—again. Of all the headshrinkers who tried to fix me with their clickity-clack pens and legal pads, Dr. Layne actually seemed to care about me beyond our thirty-minute sessions. Maybe because she’s lived it. She’s a makeup wizard, though, so the burned side of her face looks like nothing more than a rough swath of skin. Her scars pull her mouth a little tight in one corner and crisscross down her arms, but other than that, she looks and acts normal. Two kids. Husband. Career.

I’m sure Cora hopes Dr. Layne will sprinkle some of her magical recovery dust on me.

I pick a spot in a circle of chairs in the middle of the room, which is an overwhelmingly vast space with a noncommittal vibe that works as well for a group of burn victims as it does for senior bingo night. Only two other kids populate the therapy ring of awkwardness. A boy who looks like he might be a senior sits with his arms folded across his chest—one arm appears normal, and one with wrinkled burn scars culminates in a club for a hand. A girl on the opposite end picks at her dress. If she has any scars, I can’t see them.

After four months in a burn unit, I’ve become quite the skin reader. I can’t tell anything about the scarless girl, but I’m guessing the boy was holding some sort of explosive device, since his face and right arm have the worst scars, and because his hand no longer exists.

The girl and boy try to read the story of my scars, their eyes widening. Winner! I’m the freakiest freak of them all.

My scar story goes like this: The ceiling collapsed before my dad pushed me out the window, so my face, scalp, arms, and upper back got the brunt of it. My legs are a mixed bag: knees and calves are burned, thighs are not, thanks to the shorts I was wearing, and my Ugg slippers saved my feet. My pajama top also kept the middle of me—stomach, boobs, lower back—relatively unscathed.