“Right here! The antisocial club. We eat lunch behind curtains and collaborate on ways to evaporate. We hope to one day merge permanently with the walls.”

“Sign me up!”

“Oh, wait”—she deflates—“it looks like you’re already the president of that one.”

I chuck a handful of popcorn at her. Piper catches some kernels midair and stuffs them into her mouth.

“What about you?” I ask.

“What about me?”

“Why aren’t you in drama anymore? I heard that Asad kid asking you about it.”

Piper shrugs.

“Eh…I used to be friends with some of those drama girls, but they turned into total divas. I can’t stand them.”

“But I can?”

“You’re new. They have no reason to hate you.”

Lying back on the trampoline, I stare up into the night sky. My breath evaporates in smoky wisps.

I think of Dad telling eight-year-old me that my life was as limitless as the galaxies. “Shoot for the highest stars, Ava, and you’re bound to hit something. But first, you have to shoot.”

What would Dad think of me now, hiding in my bedroom, staring at posters rather than shooting for something—anything—of my own? Even if my two-week trial is technically up, he’d tell me to get back on the stage.

He’d tell me to shoot.

The trampoline bounces wildly as I sit up and snatch the sheet of activities from Piper.

“If I stay at school—” Before I can finish, Piper throws her hands up in celebration. I hold up the sheet. “If I stay, then it’s on one condition: you are doing this with me.”

Piper lowers her hands and scrunches up her face. “Drama? No way.”

“Then something else. What’s something you used to do before the accident?”

“Volleyball.” Piper jerks her head toward her wheelchair on the grass. “But that’s obviously out.”

“No way. If I’m going to sign up for the drama club with this face, you can find some way to get on the court with those legs.”

Piper looks from me to her chair, her eyes narrowed.

“And then you’ll stay?” she asks.

“I’ll stay.”

A smile spreads across her face so bright that it cuts through the darkness. She shakes my hand hard.

“Deal.”

March 9

I don't remember much.

Just heat.

And smoke.

Everywhere.

Eating me up.

And then, it vanishes.

Not gone.

Just moved.

Inside me.

Each breath

burns white-hot.

I try to scream.

No voice,

only pain.

I swallowed the fire.

I land on my back.

I remember a smell.

Me.

Burning.

My brain screams.

Move!

My body won't listen.

Only my arm obeys,

moving slowly,

like the air is wet concrete.

Where is my hand?

Only

flaps of skin

and

bone

where fingers should be.

What's wrong with me?

Then,

pain.

Waves

crushing me.

Until

there is nothing left

but hurt.

"Stay with me."

A voice.

A face.

My neighbor

rocks my body

back