Even though the new school year had already started, my parents gave me a couple of days to settle in before sending me off to be tortured.

Desert Ridge Middle School was only a few miles from Stagecoach Pass, and Mom drove me my first day. I sat in my seat, staring straight ahead, my heart pounding. When we turned into the parking lot of my new giant school, I thought my heart might just pound right out of my chest. My school back in Kansas only had about three hundred students. Desert Ridge was more than three times that size—a thousand kids who had never seen me before.

Mom drove our old clunker up to the drop-off curb behind a bunch of other cars—mostly fancy cars like BMWs, Volvos, and Jeeps, all shiny and freshly waxed in a variety of bright colors. Our can’t-tell-what-the-color-is car didn’t even have a logo because it had fallen off a long time ago. Actually, I’m not sure my parents remembered what kind of car it was. It definitely didn’t fit in with the other cars, and I took that as a bad sign. We waited as the line inched forward.

Mom turned to me. Her lips twitched a bit as she smiled. “You want me to walk you in?”

I shook my head. “No.”

She nodded and pushed a long strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I suppose that would be embarrassing—having your mommy walk you in on your first day.”

“Just a little.”

She ran her hand down my hair and tugged lightly on the tips. “You remember where your first class is?”

“Yep. No problem.”

“You remember where your locker is?”

“All systems go . . . in my brain,” I said as we pulled up right in front of the curb.

“Oh, good,” she said, “because I was a little bit worried this morning when you came out with your shirt on backward and then stuck your cereal in the microwave.”

“Just being an airhead.” I slid my head under the strap of my bag. That wasn’t exactly the truth. I was nervous. Extremely nervous.

“I know how hard things have been for you, sweetheart,” she said.

“I’m fine, Mom. Really . . . I’ll be okay today.”

She leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Call if you need anything. I’ll pick you up right out here after school.”

Normally my parents never baby me. They’re more the kind of parents who, instead of kissing your boo-boos, tell you to walk it off and be a man. And they never have seemed to care that I’m not actually a man. But I guess today was a special occasion. Honestly, I wished she would stop—it was stressing me out even more.

I nodded and opened the car door with my foot, then slid it back into my new purple ballet flat. I got out of the car, swung my bag around to my side, gave Mom a reassuring smile, and slammed the door shut with my hip.

Before I’d walked five steps, I got my first look. I tried to ignore it. My parents had always taught me to tackle one small goal at a time—holding a brush between my toes, lifting that brush all the way to my head, running the brush through my hair. One small goal at a time. And so I zeroed in on my first goal of the day—getting to my first class without barfing up all my soggy, microwaved cereal.

We had visited the school yesterday so I could find my classes, meet some of my teachers, and talk with the people in the office. Everyone was super nice and caring, of course, but they all said the same thing so much, it started to get annoying: “If there’s anything you need, Aven, don’t be afraid to ask.” Like they just knew I was going to need a lot of extra help.

I speed-walked to the science room, not just to avoid the other kids’ stares, but also because it was so stinking hot. By the time I got to my class, sweat was already trickling down my forehead. I went straight to my seat, swung my school bag onto my desk, and slid the strap off over my head. I eased my foot out of my flat, opened the top of my bag with it, and pulled out my science book.

One benefit of living in Arizona was that I could wear ballet flats (my favorite kind of shoe) year-round—not at all like in Kansas, where I had to wear warm boots in the winter. Everything took longer when I wore warm boots. It was so much easier to slip my foot in and out of flats. I had pairs in brown, black, rainbow stripes, flowers, and now purple. Flip-flops probably would have been even easier, but there’s the whole dust factor. And it’s especially dusty in the desert.

I glanced up and found Ms. Hart, the science teacher, watching me. I smiled a little and she smiled back. I had met her last night, and she had told me to let her know if I needed any help, of course. I hoped she could see now that I didn’t need extra help as I proceeded to pull a notebook and pencil out of my bag with my foot.

I took my seat and turned to the girl sitting next to me. The girl’s eyes widened in obvious surprise. “Are . . . are you new?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s my first day.” It stunk to be starting eighth grade over a month into the school year.

I could tell the girl was desperately trying not to look at my nonexistent arms. People were always doing that—like if they looked down at my torso for longer than a split second, they would turn to stone. Like my torso was actually Medusa’s head.

The girl was pretty, with her long dark hair and strappy red dress and all her body parts. I always wanted to wear a dress with skinny straps like that, but I guess I felt too self-conscious about it; the strappy dress wouldn’t look the same without some nice long arms to show off in it.

“Well, welcome.” She quickly pulled out her books and started reading, surely to avoid having to talk to me anymore.

I turned my attention to my own book and then looked back at the girl. “What page are we on?” I asked her.

“Twenty-three.” She reached for my book. “Here, I’ll help—”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” I said. She stopped and pulled her hand away. I lifted my foot and opened the book with it, using my dexterous toes to turn the pages until I got to page twenty-three. “See? I can do it.”

She gave me a twitchy smile. “How’d you learn to do that?”

I shrugged. “You’d be surprised what you can do with your feet when that’s all you have.”

She gave me another uncomfortable smile and went back to reading her book. She hadn’t introduced herself, so I didn’t either. I sometimes wondered if people had a tendency not to give me their names or ask me for mine because of their fear of getting too close . . . too close to something so different.

At lunchtime I decided to sit outside on a bench to eat. I didn’t want to go to the cafeteria and sit at a table by myself while everyone watched me eat with my feet; I might as well have been up on a stage with a spotlight shining on me. I pulled my lunch out of my bag, but then I noticed a few kids standing around glancing at me. I knew what they were doing—waiting to watch me eat. Everyone was always curious.

At home in Kansas, I’d have been sitting at a table with Emily, Kayla, and Brittney, all of us laughing about the booger hanging out of Mr. Thompson’s hairy nose during history class. Kayla would be tossing pretzels at me while I tried to catch them in my mouth, and Emily would be complaining that her parents still wouldn’t let her wear makeup. No one would have cared that I was eating with my feet.

My stomach cramped. I stuck my lunch back in my school bag and headed for the bathroom, where I was grateful to find automatic water and soap dispensers. In my nervousness I had forgotten to wash my feet, which I always do before I eat ( just because I don’t have arms doesn’t mean I’m all gross and want toe jam in my Cheetos). By the time I finished drying them, my stomach cramping had eased, but I didn’t feel hungry anymore. I went outside, found a secluded spot under a tree, sat in the grass, and read my science book.