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around all over the place, rubbing the hand that had accidentally bumped into the birthmark—reminds me.
    Dylan Michaels pushes me aside, just a few inches. He leans forward, squinting. But his squint turns into a full-on grimace when he finds his name. His hand flies to his forehead. Musical Director.
    â€œW-w-w-whatt-t?” he stutters. As he always stutters. Even though speech therapists have been knocking on classroom doors, telling him it’s time for his daily lessons, ever since elementary school. Whatever those therapists have tried to do for Dylan has never worked; the stutter has gotten harder, more permanent over time. Like a petrified tree turning to stone.
    That’s actually how everyone at Verona High treats him. Like a tree. People recognize his presence and walk aroundhim, never expecting to have any real human interaction with him.
    And now he’s supposed to give musical direction? How?
    I watch as Dylan’s and Cass’s eyes meet. The horrified looks on their faces show that they’re picturing what their assignments actually mean. Cass is going to have to stand in the middle of a stage with a spotlight on her face. And Dylan is going to have to coach the cast through the songs, sending his voice across the auditorium every time we practice. And for the first time in their lives, they’ll be forced to fully expose the one thing they feel the most insecure about.
    Judging by the way everyone else is moaning, Cass and Dylan aren’t alone. It’s as though, after watching us for only a couple of weeks, Mom has zeroed in on the exact thing none of us would ever want to do and she’s given it to us. Our new titles are all snakes jumping out of cans of peanut brittle. A gag gift that’s not a gift—or funny—at all.
    â€œGreat,” Cass says, looking straight at Dylan. “We’re stuck with each other.”
    I know Cass means it as a way to commiserate with Dylan. The same way I know that she’ll give a smile and wave to Liz the next time they bump into each other in the hallway.
    Dylan hears it as disgust. She’s hurt him. And like it’s human nature to do, Dylan lashes out. He attacks back. A hurt for a hurt. He spits, “U-u-u-uuugly. Y-y-you’re uuu-ggly!”
    The word hits the air like a gunshot. It sounds mean. It ismean. That was the intention. Only now, instantly, he’s sorry. He shakes his head.
    The rest of the students are making the same face that Liz wore a minute ago: round eyes, mouths curling into Os. No one knows how to smooth any of it over—least of all Dylan, who has already tucked his chin down toward his chest.
    So we scatter.

four
    C ass stays tight-lipped through the entire drive to the town square. I want to fix the way she feels. But I have no idea how. And maybe you can’t, really, ever fix the damage done by a word. Especially that word. Especially when you’re Cass. And “ugly” is exactly how you feel about yourself.
    Shock and hurt swirl through her car (we take turns driving to school each day—kind of like the car version of the teeter-totters of our elementary school years), and my brain keeps searching for some kind of word Band-Aid for what’s just happened. I can’t think of a single thing, so I reach for the knob on the radio.
    Cass parks outside of Duds Used Clothing, staring ahead blankly for a minute before finally killing the engine of her VW Bug. The old one, with the engine in the back.
    We pull ourselves out, the only two people around on the town square.
    As the name suggests, the Verona square is literally a square, which now, for the most part, feels like skeletal remains. The only open businesses left are Duds (where Cass works after school) on the west side, which stands next to a restaurant so ever-changing, the current business hasn’t even invested in a real sign. It’s only a piece of cardboard with a handwritten “Mexican