My classmates made fun of my birthmark for years, and by senior year, I had already accepted that no boy would ever ask me to prom. Then the most popular boy in school reached for my hand and changed everything. But when police officers walked into the gym looking for him, my whole world broke apart.
The hallways at my high school always seemed to stretch farther whenever I had to walk through them.
I kept my gaze lowered to the floor, my dark hair brushed across the left side of my face to hide the birthmark that spread over my cheek like a map of a place nobody wanted to see.
At 17, I had become very good at disappearing.
I headed home to the small apartment Mom and I shared. Mom worked two jobs, and most nights, I heard the front door click open long after midnight.
That Tuesday, she was actually home for dinner, which almost never happened. She placed a plate of spaghetti in front of me and lowered herself into the chair with a tired sigh.
“Hannah, sweetheart, you’ve barely touched your food.”
“I’m not hungry, Mom.”
