In my room, I pull out the folder of plastic surgery ideas I keep in my desk. Close-ups and clippings of reconstructed eyes and ears and lips, cutout fantasies from the people in Cora’s Burn Survivor Quarterly who are lucky enough to get real plastic surgery. I arrange all the “after” pictures on my bed into a bizarro face collage. On top of a dainty, perfectly constructed nose, I place a pair of eyes the same blue as mine.

In the glass of the curio cabinet, I examine myself. Beneath the hair, the edges of each skin graft chop my face into harsh sections, the bright white of my forehead contrasting with the pinkish hue of my chin and neck.

My nose is new, too. It’s more bulbous than my real one, but that one went the way of my ear. My lips puff out below my new nose, seeping beyond their bounds like I applied permanent bright pink lipstick while driving on a gravelly road.

And while my eyes are mine—the only thing that looks exactly like before the fire—my eye sockets sag into my cheeks.

I tug up the corners of my drooping eyes. Under the wig, my face isn’t as horrific. It’s like when I used to put on my costume before a play, like the clothes and makeup and hair gave me permission to be someone else.

Someone better.

I let my eyes fall again and smooth out the hot-pink strands of the wig. I’m not delusional. I know this wig won’t fix my face. But at least it’s real, not pipe dreams hidden in a drawer.

In the glass, my eyes are extra blue against the pink.

It’s dumb. It’s loud. It’s completely not me.

Piper’s right: it’s exactly what I need.

18

I wait until picture day the next week to debut the new me.

My hot-pink hair causes a definite uptick in the stare factor. A girl in my Spanish class tells me she “loves the look.” A group of boys whistle and whisper-laugh as I walk by in the hallway. Piper “accidentally” rams her wheelchair into one of them.

“I should just take it off,” I say. I pull a bandana from my backpack, which Piper promptly grabs and throws into a trash can.

“No way. You look amazing.”

I fidget with my new hair in the back of science class and try not to smile too big when Asad tells me he “digs the wig.” What world have I allowed Piper to pull me into, where I get worked up over a boy and wear punk-rock wigs from stores with mannequins sporting fishnet stockings?

When Mr. Bernard tells us to partner up, Asad grabs my sleeve.

“Dibs,” he says.

“Did you just dibs me?” I say.

“Totes.”