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“Comfort.” I finally click my seat belt. I stare out the windshield, trying to ignore that Cara is glaring at me like a lunatic. She’s not moving.

I give in and look at her. “Let’s go,” I say. Seeing her face makes me realize that she’s right—I’ve overdone it. Embarrassment isn’t the feeling I was hoping to experience. I feel so stupid. Cara’s dress is purple and pretty, and she has stockings on with heels. I look like I’m ready to mow the lawn.

“Are you drunk?” she asks.

“No.” I leave out the part about swallowing three Vicodin.

“You’re acting weird. Are you still mad at me or something?”

At the moment, my anger floats in a padded bubble, its spikes no longer poised to slice and stab. “Thanksforpickingmeup,” I mumble, ignoring her question. I’m doing my best to keep my breathing steady. I still don’t know how I made it into this car without passing out. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Cara.” I want my best friend to know how much I appreciate her driving me.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying, Dell.” Cara starts the car.

Since my mouth isn’t working, I stop talking. We drive to school in silence. I trace the pill-bottle bulge in my pocket with my fingers. Over and over again. Cara pulls up in front of the auditorium doors. I wipe my palms on my jeans and smack my thighs a few times to get me going. Somehow I’ve gotta get out of this car without falling over or puking on
the sidewalk. Cara is already out and at my door. “Let me help you.”

She certainly is Miss Helpy-Pants today. First telling Mr. Drueller to come talk to me, and now assisting me out of the car. If she really wanted to help me, she would produce a spare wheelchair or a pair of crutches. “I’m good.” I steady myself as I gingerly stand. I slam the car door.

Cara’s back behind the wheel in a flash. She leans down and says through the open passenger window, “I’ve gotta park. Meet you in there?”

I give her an a-okay. My trek to the auditorium is a slow go, but I make it. I’m sitting in the last row, wheezing like an old lady, when Cara, in her purple glory, shows up. I endure about ten thousand questions and comments from her as we walk down the aisle. Her last one is a whiny “Why didn’t we go shopping for youuuu?”

I shrug. No one cares how the fat girl looks. I. Am. Invisible. No one will see me. They’ll hear me—but no one will be able to remember what I’m wearing onstage. Period. End of story. Good night. The end. I pucker my lips to blow Cara a kiss. The stars are back, and I feel queasy. I never ate dinner. I shake my head in amazement. Me not eating is equal to the tides not coming in. Unheard of.

“You’re as white as a ghost, Dell,” Cara says.

“I’m hungry.”

“Maybe they’ll have snacks backstage. Come on, hold on to my arm.”

I do, and it’s 50 percent easier to heel-walk while holding on to her. Cara sits me in a chair backstage. It’s a small space where the performers usually stand and wait before going on. It’s got a door that opens to the hallway near the main office. There’s a similar space on the other side of the stage. From where I’m sitting I’ll be able to watch acts as they perform.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Salvatore you have to stay here because of your toe. Don’t go anywhere.”

I can only nod. The wall and curtain swirl together, a jumble of tan and red. So pretty. I grin.

I lean my head back and close my eyes for a while. I startle as two cheerleaders come through the door. One is Brandon’s beautiful sister, with her creamy skin, bright blue eyes, and black hair. They stand in front of me like frozen statues. I look them up and down. They’re decked out in full cheerleading gear.

They whisper back and forth, and I hear the other one say, “You ask her, Kim.” Then she nudges Brandon’s sister. They look at each other with bulging eyes.

“Boo!” I say. They jump. I pull my foot back for protection because it’s a tight space. “Ask me what?”

“Where do we go?” one whispers. I’m not even sure which one said it.

“Out there, I guess.” I raise my hand to point, and it feels like my bones have disintegrated. My arm flops onto my lap. I want them to leave. “Goaway,” I mumble softly.

Kim tilts her head a little and looks at my face. I can tell she’s admiring my stunning makeup application.

They both snicker as they back out into the hallway. The door hisses shut, and I overhear Kim say—obviously loud enough for my benefit—“Taryn was right; she is a fat bitch.”

Super.

“DELL, THIS IS ALL I COULD FIND.” CARA’S IN FRONT
of me now, holding out a candy bar and a can of soda. “There’s nothing back here to eat. I got Mrs. Salvatore to open the teacher’s lounge so I could get these from their vending machines.”

“Thanks.” Perfect for my “diet.” I grab both and crack open the soda.

“Here’s ibuprofen for your toe. I got them from Melissa.” She places them in my open palm.

I don’t tell her I’ve already taken the Vicodin. Or that she kind of has two heads right now. I snort and giggle and wash down the pills with a sweet, fizzy gulp of soda.

Cara pulls the curtain aside and peeks out. “A lot of people are out there already. Do you want my mom to save your parents seats?”

I turn my head and pretend to be extremely interested in the stage crew kids working on the microphones. “Not coming,” I say nonchalantly.

Cara drops the curtain and whips around. “Didn’t you tell them you were singing? What do you mean they’re not coming? I swear to God you seem wasted right now.”

I lick my lips and taste some leftover soda. I love soda. Why is Cara flipping out? Doesn’t she know that my parents are both fucked-up, so lost in their own worlds of misery that they wouldn’t care if I blew myself to bits onstage. “Not sure what
you
mean.”

“Are we doing this right now? Are we?”

“You have four eyes.”

Cara leans down so we’re practically nose-to-nose. “You
are
drunk!”

Mrs. Salvatore walks in on our little “moment.” I catch a quick flinch when she looks me in the eye. I think my makeup startled her. “Dell, I have no problem with you sitting here during the show.” She riffles through papers on her clipboard, then she smiles at me. “I just ask for no movement and no sound.”

I nod.

She writes something. “Will you be all right waiting until the end to sing? Do you need me to shuffle things around?”

“I’m last?”
Since when am I last?
I was never last in rehearsals. They always have the best performer close the talent show. “What about Semih?” His violin performance was insanely good.

“Broke his arm skateboarding about two hours ago. His mother called from the ER.”

The irony of this is not lost on me, despite the fact that I can’t focus my eyes. One broken bone is being replaced by another. I burst out laughing. Both Cara and Mrs. Salvatore are clearly confused by my inappropriate response to Semih’s broken-arm story. I breathe through my nose to silence the other giggle trying to escape. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Not funny. It’s not funny. But ’nother gimp is taking his place. S’kinda funny.”

Cara gives me the evil eye. “Dell’s had a long week. She’s tired, Mrs. Salvatore.”

Mrs. Salvatore says, “Right. Well, you’re closing the show now. Blow them away, Dell. Just like in rehearsals.”

“Exactly,” Cara says. She crosses her arms and uses her eyes to plead with me. When Mrs. Salvatore is out of earshot, she leans down and whispers, “Holy shit, Dell. How are you going to sing? What did you drink?”

I grunt and then laugh. “No drinkie. Some of Mommy’s pills, Car-car.” I like the sound of that. Maybe I’ll start calling her Car-car. Maybe it will lasso her back to me and it can go back to being just the two of us. Cara likes nicknames. She called Emma “Em.”

“Pills?” she hisses. “What pills?”

“Oh, Car-car. I only took three.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got to get yourself together, Dell. Everyone’s out there. You can’t—”

My laugh cuts her off, and soda shoots from my mouth. I couldn’t be any more un-together. I am like scattered rabbit turds. Tiny little me-pellets everywhere.

“What is the matter with you? You got that on my dress! I am done. Done!” Cara stomps away.

I’m alone.

I never got to thank her for trying to be a hero and talking with Mr. Drueller. “Shit.” I close my eyes and listen. The auditorium sounds like it’s full now. Lots of people talking, a little kid squealing, someone hacking up a lung. All of a sudden, the lights dim and brighten a few times to signal that the show is about to start. I gaze down at my throbbing toe and wish I had something to rest it on. There’s a box of ropes and an orange traffic cone in this dark nook. The traffic cone might work. I nod, agreeing with myself, and go to stand up.

Not good.

My one leg buckles—I forgot all my bones are gone—and I smash back onto the chair. Hard. It makes a loud noise, and I can feel the laughter barreling up my throat like a charging bull. Apparently my arms are still working, because they react and cover my mouth. I howl into my hands. Melissa’s voice cuts through my laughter as she introduces the show and asks everyone to turn off their cell phones. No one comes to scold me about being so noisy, and I am pretty calm by the end of the first act.

When the curtain closes, my stomach suddenly grumbles. I feel faint, so I close my eyes again. Why did I take those ibuprofen? Now I’m nauseous. I put my energy into not vomiting. Even though I can’t see them, I know the dance troupe is jiggling and thrusting on the stage.

Maybe a sip of soda will stop my stomach from churning. I reach down and grab the can. Across the way I can see a freshman pacing. He’s next. I take a long swig. The bubbly sweetness slides down my throat. I have high hopes for this soda because in addition to stopping the nausea, I need a boost of energy to hop over to the corner and grab that traffic cone. I’ve gotta get my toe up. It couldn’t possibly hurt any freaking more.

The audience erupts into applause. I go. I figure the clapping
will drown out the sound if I crash to the floor in a dead faint. I hop the two steps to the cone, grab it, hop the two steps back, and plop into the chair.

Everything goes black. “Uh-oh,” I whisper. I should’ve done that slower. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to work again.

The piano kid’s classical piece fills the auditorium. With my head resting on the wall behind me, I listen. He’s playing way better than at rehearsals. Good for him.

“Look at her, Sydney.” Cara and Sydney stand in the doorway. “She took her mother’s pills or something.”

I chuckle and lift my foot. “For that. It’s broken.” I give them a big smile.

Sydney squats down next to me. “Could I have one?”

Cara playfully swats at her shoulder. “Syd! We have to help her.”

“What? If it’s that good, then I want one. I don’t have to perform.” She twists up her hair and then lets it fall back onto her shoulders.

I reach into my front pocket and am about to pull out the bottle of Vicodin when Cara says, “She’s going to get up there and do something stupid.”

Stupid?
I’m not sharing anything with these two. I close my eyes and will them to leave. I don’t want to hear either of their voices anymore.

Cara says, “I’ve gotta go. Mrs. Salvatore’s going to kill me if I’m not ready to go on. Dell’s, like, passed out anyway.” Cara’s heels
click-clack
as she walks down the hall.

I don’t open my eyes because if I do, I’ll cry. Sydney whispers in my ear, “Sorry about the cow drawing. Taryn made me do it. She was pretty mad about what you did to Brandon that night at the party.” She stops talking and pulls away. I pretend that my eyelids are superglued shut.

“Please don’t tell Taryn I told you. I felt really shitty about it. I-I tried to tell you that day in class. I went to Mr. Drueller and told him I was worried about you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

“I didn’t tell Mr. Drueller anything about Brandon, Dell. I swear.”

I swallow hard. Everyone believes Brandon’s story. No one has bothered to ask for the truth. Is it
that
hard for people to consider the opposite happening—Brandon raping
me
?

And Cara never went to Mr. Drueller.

She’s not worried about
me
, about how I feel, about our friendship.

Cara is worried I’ll do something stupid onstage.

No one is worried about me.

SYDNEY AND HER REVELATIONS ARE LONG GONE.

I hate people right now. I’d like to barricade myself in this corner backstage. I could build another wall and install a lock and it would be my own little dark cave. I wouldn’t mind putting a cot and TV in here. Well, as long as I could have some food delivered.

I lift my foot to rest it on the pointy part of the cone, but my tree trunk of a leg won’t cooperate. My leg and foot slam to the ground, and I shriek in agony. A hand covers my mouth again, and I quickly realize it’s my own. Lava-hot pain rips through my foot. The audience is still cheering for the last performance. I don’t think anyone heard me.