I was burned.

They were not.

A river of guilt between us.

I flick a jagged rock in the street with the big toe on my left hand.

“Trust me. I get it.”

“I should have known she’d take it out on you,” Piper says. “It probably kills her that I’m not alone anymore.” She holds out the golden bird charm dangling from a black rope around her neck, outlining the bird’s wings with her thumb.

“It’s cheesy, I know, but I wear this phoenix to remind myself that I can rise above all this. Just like in that song I played you, I can soar above everything—this chair, these burns, my friends cutting me out.” Piper rubs the phoenix between her fingers, her eyes still locked on the mountains. “I want to move on and never look back.”

I follow her gaze. Is it possible to move on so easily, forging ahead unhindered by yesterday’s scars? I stretch out my fingers in front of me, the tight tissue resisting.

What if you can’t escape the scars?

“You know what I think?” she says, suddenly sitting up straighter in her wheelchair. “I think we need to focus on the new part of Laynie’s new normal.”

I pick at the cuff of my compression garments where my fingers stick out, nervously waiting to hear the rest of her idea. The last time Piper got that “I’ve got a great plan” look in her eyes, I ended up on a stage, playing the starring role of leper in a circle of trust.

“Like what?”

Piper tilts her head back, thinking, her tongue clicking on the roof of her mouth. She turns to me decisively.

“Yearbook photos are next week. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Umm…if you’re thinking that there is absolutely a zero percent chance I’m getting in front of a camera, then yes.”

Piper rocks back and forth on the wheels of her chair, dismissing my protest.

“You have to have a yearbook picture. And I’m going to help you.” She claps excitedly. “That’s right—a makeover!”

Everything in me wants to tell Piper no. Why in the world would I want to commemorate this year with a yearbook photo just begging to be defaced with zombie blood dripping from my mouth or a Freddy Krueger fedora? God took a permanent marker and already went to town.

But the prospect of a picture-day makeover has eclipsed Piper’s anger, and I can’t bring myself to say no when she motions for me to kneel by her chair. She turns my head left, then right, studying my face.

“Lost cause, right?” I say.

“Not at all, dahling,” she says in a mock Southern drawl. “I don’t believe in lost causes, but I do believe in makeup.”

I shake my head. “No way. No makeup. Unless you’re going for an escaped-killer-clown vibe.”