Zahara
“Use the other sink.” A girl’s whispered voice comes from behind me. “You don’t wanna catch that thing she has.”
I roll my eyes. Same old story, every time. I stopped explaining about my vitiligo long ago, so I just leave the bathroom without bothering to respond to these bitches. God, I’m so sick of them. It’s easier to handle everyone’s cattiness when Hannah is around. Although we aren’t particularly close, she never treats me like an outcast. But she broke her ankle last week and won’t be back at school for a while. Her family moved her into some fancy treatment facility specializing in sports and dance injuries where she could recover.
As I walk along the corridor to the main door, I keep my head down, my gaze trained no more than a handful of steps in front of me. I avoid me
