I employ my best covert-ops tactics to make it through the rest of the day. I skulk along locker walls, looking down at my phone, pretending to be super interested in the texts Cora sends every thirty minutes to make sure I’m okay. In each class, I retreat to the back row and basically try to dissolve into Crossroads High.
When I walk past the gym and see the girls in shorts, I’m extra grateful Cora negotiated my way out of phys ed so a coach with a whistle and the power to make my life miserable can’t make me “suit up.” My compression garments don’t really make me a candidate for running/jumping/throwing, plus there’s the whole my-sweat-glands-burned-off thing. But mostly, there is absolutely no way I’m going to disrobe in a locker room full of high school girls whose big body-image issues include whether their boobs and thigh dimples are the right size.
Luckily, even though it’s the middle of the semester, I’m not too lost in my classes since I’ve been working at least a year ahead online.
But after each class, I face the hallway again. A group of girls walk by, all talking at the same time, reminding me of the friends I left behind. Like a flock, the five of us would fall into formation—Emma walking backward, gesturing wildly, regaling us with a story about the latest senior boy in her chem class who she was 100 percent positive brushed her hand on purpose. Stacy always text-walked next to her, head bent over her phone, thumbs flying, while Blake came a few steps behind with her nose buried in flash cards, stressing about a test or a Spanish oral. Chloe and I walked in the middle, Chloe’s huge hair and even bigger laugh filling the space around us.
We belonged to each other.
We had a pattern.
I had a place.
At lunchtime, I take one look at the hordes of hungry students barreling into the cafeteria and head the other way. Even with a normal face, walking into a high school cafeteria is like infiltrating a lion’s den.
No place for an already-wounded straggler.
I consider going full-throttle pathetic and eating in a bathroom stall, but a sign with an arrow to the auditorium changes my mind. At the end of a long hallway, I poke my head through a pair of double doors into a silent, darkened theater with rows and rows of cushioned seats and a stage curtain drawn tight.
Down the next hall, I find a smaller, second door leading backstage. A maze of thick curtains leads me past a costume closet and a single mirrored vanity until I find a dark corner concealed by black fabric.
I tuck myself against the wall. I peek under the gap below the curtains and see three pairs of combat boots huddled together on the far side of the stage. Judging by the draft and the odor, they belong to some students taking a lunchtime vape break by an open backstage door. But thanks to the thick curtains, they have no idea I’m here.
Invisible at last.
I balance my paper bag on my legs, inhaling my turkey sandwich along with the burned popcorn vapor from my backstage-hideout compadres.
Cradled in the corner of the stage, I feel safer than I have all day. In a former life, Chloe and the rest of my flock would be here, too, laughing about Emma’s latest crush and taking turns running lines for our next musical.
No matter what, we had the stage—and each other.
I take out my phone to read the latest text from Cora.
All OK?
I send her a GIF of a Viking giving a thumbs-up.
Then I put on my headphones, dial my own number, and listen to the message I’ve heard a thousand times. Mom’s voice cuts through the loneliness—just slightly, but enough.
“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.
Smooth hair: check. Quick glance at their butts: check. Lean in for spinach-in-the-teeth investigation: check. Girls like that never have dental meal remnants. Karma is too kind.
They’re on their way offstage when my phone vibrates loudly with another Cora text. The girl who called me Freddy Krueger stops and turns, and for a split second, her eyes catch mine through the slit. I tug my legs closer as she whips her long black hair around, with her finger pressed to her lips.
“Guys.” She points in my direction as she whispers. “We’re not alone.”
My knees protest as I pull them all the way to my chest, praying she leaves. This can’t be how they find me, the weirdo going all Phantom of the Opera on my first “normal” day.
The “it” hiding backstage.
The girl’s black hair fills my line of vision through the gap as she walks toward me.
“Hey, who’s back there? It’s not nice to eavesdrop.”
I bite my lip as my knee splits open. Blood soaks through my pants.
Please. Not like this.
“Let it go, Kenz. It’s probably some terrified freshman.”
Yes. Let it go. Let me go.
Her footsteps stop right in front of me, her shoes nearly touching mine beneath the black divide. She grips the curtain, sending ripples across my fabric shield, and I watch helplessly as she yanks it away.