The first time anyone screamed “monster” at her in America, Mera wasn’t even inside the building yet.

She was still standing on the sidewalk outside Lincoln High, watching the yellow school buses unload under the bright blue Southern California sky. Sun flashed off the stars and stripes on the flagpole, off car doors, off the giant glass trophy case in the lobby. Her palms were already damp inside the sleeves of her hoodie, her cloth mask hot against her skin.

She hadn’t done anything. Just taken one step toward the front doors when a little kid broke away from his mom, pointed at her face covering, and shrieked, “Oh my gosh, a monster!”

The word hit her like a slap.

His mother grabbed his arm. “Don’t say that,” she hissed, dragging him toward the elementary side of the campus. But the damage was done. A couple of teenagers at the bike rack laughed. Someone lifted a phone to record, just in case anything “went viral.”

For a split second Mera saw it all: herself on TikTok under some cruel caption, another school, another round of whispers and pointing fingers until her parents gave up and packed the U-Haul again.

“Mera,” her dad said quietly behind her. “We need this school to work. No more problems, okay?”

No more problems. As if she was a problem.

“I get it,” she said, even though her throat felt like it was closing.

“Hey, what are you doing?” her mom snapped over the roof of their dented Toyota. “It was my turn to take her. You were in the shower.”

“I was running a few minutes behind,” her dad shot back. “Big deal.”

“Stop arguing,” Mera muttered through the mask. “You’re making a scene.”

“You know what, Jay?” her mom said, ignoring her. “Maybe if you were more responsible and actually got here on time, you would be the one walking your daughter in.”

“Are you serious?” her dad said. “Coming from a woman who doesn’t even have a job?”

“Every time you wake up late, it comes back to me,” she fired back.

The morning sun, the American flag, the smell of cafeteria pizza drifting from the open side door—this was supposed to be her fresh start. Instead, it felt like every other first day. Her parents fighting. Her heart pounding. Her mask the only thing holding her together.

Somewhere across the parking lot, a boy’s voice floated over the noise.

“Hi, Matthew,” a girl said, her tone syrupy sweet. “I love your hair. Did you do something new?”

The boy laughed. “Uh, no. Just rolled out of bed.”

Mera spotted him—tall, messy brown hair, faded Lakers hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder. He looked like every American high school movie rolled into one human.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to study together later,” the girl said, flipping her glossy hair. “For history?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m busy.”

The girl—tanned, perfect, wearing a tiny pageant sash charm on her necklace—noticed Mera staring for half a second and rolled her eyes, like she’d just seen something unpleasant on the sidewalk.

The bell rang. Students started pouring through the doors.

“Go on,” Jay said, resting a hand on Mera’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him. But she adjusted her mask, crossed the threshold, and stepped into Lincoln High.

Second period history was a sweatbox.

The air conditioning had given out sometime in August, and the entire third floor felt like the inside of a toaster. Desks were pushed close together. American flags and laminated maps hung on the beige walls. A poster of the Constitution curled at the edges.

Mera slid into the classroom late, guided by a hall monitor with a laminated badge and a bored expression.

“Sorry about the heat,” the teacher said. “They’re working on it. Class, this is our new student, Mera. She’s transferring from Eastview. Please make her feel welcome.”

“Yeah, sure,” someone muttered.

“Take a seat anywhere that’s open,” the teacher said.

Mera scanned the room. There was exactly one empty desk. Second row from the back. Next to the boy from the parking lot.

Matthew.

She moved toward it, pretending not to feel twenty pairs of eyes tracking every step. Her mask felt even hotter now, fabric sticking around the edge of her scars.

“Sorry,” she said as she slid into the chair.

A piece of folded paper smacked the back of her head and landed on her desk. Someone snorted.

“Sorry,” came the same syrupy voice from before. “This is history class. The freak show’s down the hall.”

The class laughed. The girl from the parking lot—Aubrey, according to the teacher’s attendance sheet—sat three desks away, eyeliner razor-sharp, high ponytail perfect despite the heat.

“Aubrey, that’s enough,” the teacher said sharply. “One more comment and it’s a referral.”

Aubrey smiled without a hint of apology. “Just being honest,” she said under her breath.

Mera stared down at the graffiti carved into her desk and tried to breathe through the mask.

“Hey,” a soft voice said. “This seat’s open.”

She looked up. Matthew was looking at her, nodding toward the empty space. He shifted his backpack off the hook so she’d have room.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“No problem,” he said. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stare. He just went back to taking notes as if sitting next to a girl in a mask was the most normal thing in the world.

At lunch, she found out not everyone felt the same.

She had just stepped into the courtyard—sun beating down, kids clustered at picnic tables, the smell of fries and pizza heavy in the air—when a sharp voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, freak.”

Mera turned.

Aubrey stood there, tray balanced on one hand like she’d been born in a pageant runway pose. Her mascara hadn’t melted at all in the heat.

“You’d better stay away from Matthew,” Aubrey said.

“I… I wasn’t—”

“Matthew has a tendency to feel bad for wounded birds,” Aubrey said. “You aren’t the first. He’s only being nice to you because you look like that.” Her gaze swept over the mask. “So stay away from him. Or I’ll snatch that thing right off your face and show everyone what you’ve been hiding.”

She smiled and sashayed away, ponytail bouncing.

Mera swallowed hard. The mask suddenly felt less like protection and more like a target painted on her face.

That night, their apartment felt smaller than usual.

The kitchen table was buried under bills and takeout containers. The news hummed from the TV in the living room—some story about gas prices, another about a wildfire in Northern California. The world was burning in a hundred different ways, and somehow they were still arguing about the same thing.

“If we didn’t have to move so much, we wouldn’t have these issues,” her mom said, shoving a stack of envelopes aside.

“This is my third job in two years, Lana,” her dad shot back. “You think that’s easy? You think I like starting over every six months?”

“And you think this is good for me? For Mera?” Lana said. “We can’t afford another move. This school has to work out.”

“We would never have had to move if you’d been watching her in the first place,” her dad snapped.

Here we go, Mera thought.

“Again with that,” Lana said, voice rising. “Every argument, you drag it out. You knew the water was boiling. Where were you?”

“If you’re about to blame this on me—”

“I can’t do this,” Mera said abruptly. She pushed back from the table. “I still have homework.”

They didn’t even hear her.

Across town, in a well-air-conditioned two-story house with a neatly trimmed lawn and a brand-new SUV in the driveway, another fight was brewing.

“Aubrey,” her mom called up the stairs. “Come down here. We need to go over your schedule.”

Aubrey dragged her feet into the kitchen, still in her cheer shirt and denim skirt. The fridge was covered in glossy pageant photos—Aubrey with perfect curls and white teeth, trophy after trophy lined up like proof that she mattered.

“Sit,” her mom said.

Her dad looked up from his laptop, mug of coffee beside him. “This next pageant is critical,” he said. “Once you win this crown, you can move on to Miss Teen USA. That will look amazing on your college applications.”

“And then we can finally shut those other parents up,” her mom added. “The ones who said you peaked at twelve.”

Aubrey looked down at her hands. She picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her skirt. “What if I skip this one?” she asked.

The room went silent.

“Skip what?” her mom said slowly.

“The pageant,” Aubrey said, the word tasting dangerous in her mouth. “I’m just… tired. The diet, the makeup, the hair, the nails. It doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

“What?” her mom said. “Why would you stop now? We are so close. We’ve put too much into this for you to get moody and quit. This isn’t up for debate. You need to win the next competition. For all of us.”

“Think about the time, the money,” her dad said. “The entry fees, the travel. This isn’t just about what you want. What would people say if you dropped out? What would the other pageant families think?”

Aubrey’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” she said weakly. “I don’t know why I said that. I’ll do the pageant.”

“Good girl,” her mom said, already tapping notes into her phone. “I booked you a spray tan and a nail appointment for Tuesday. Gown fitting on Sunday. No carbs this week. And if the air conditioning at the school is really broken, we’ll just touch you up before rehearsal.”

Aubrey nodded, and tried not to think about the way her foundation felt like a mask every time she left the house.

The next morning, two different homes had the same argument for different reasons.

“Mom, Dad, I’m ready,” Mera said, stepping into the hallway. Jeans, long-sleeved shirt, backpack, hair braided down her back. For the first time in years, her face was uncovered.

Her parents turned.

Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. Her father dropped his keys.

“Honey,” Lana said automatically, “you forgot your mask. I’ll get it.”

“It’s okay,” Mera said quickly. “I was thinking… maybe I’d go without it today.”

Her father exchanged a look with her mother. “I think you should wear it,” he said. “You know how kids are. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s just one day,” Mera said. Her cheeks burned under their gaze. “I just want to try.”

“What if they bully you and we have to change schools again?” her mom said. “We can’t afford to move.”

“I’ll handle it,” Mera said. “I’m tired of hiding.”

Her mother pulled a fresh mask from the hook by the door and held it out like a bandage. “Please,” she said. “For us. Just for today.”

Mera looked at the mask. At their worried faces. At the packed boxes that had never been fully unpacked from the last move.

She took the mask and tied it on.

Across town, Aubrey was halfway out the door when her mom gasped.

“Aubrey,” she said. “Where’s your makeup?”

Aubrey hesitated. “The AC at school is broken,” she said. “It’s just… uncomfortable to wear so much. I thought—”

“You don’t need to be comfortable,” her mom said briskly. “You need to be polished. You are representing this family as the next Miss Teen USA. You never know who’s watching.”

She grabbed her daughter’s wrist and pulled her back to the vanity. “Sit. Let’s add a little more blush. Maybe some eyeliner. Make your eyes pop.”

Aubrey sat, staring at her reflection as layer after layer went on. Contour. Highlighter. Lip liner.

She didn’t recognize herself anymore. She wasn’t sure if she ever had.

At school, the heat was worse.

“Hey, Matt,” Aubrey said, gliding up to his locker. “How do I look today?”

He glanced up from his books, distracted. “Uh… fine. I guess.”

“Fine?” she repeated, stung. “I spent an hour on—”

“Hey, Mera,” he said suddenly, looking over Aubrey’s shoulder. “You can sit with us again at lunch, if you want.”

Aubrey’s smile froze. He was talking around her like she was part of the wall.

She followed his gaze. Mera stood at the end of the hall, mask in place, hugging her textbooks like a shield.

“Oh, I warned you,” Aubrey muttered under her breath as Mera walked away. “Mask comes off at lunch. Promise is a promise.”

By third period, her face felt like it was melting.

By lunchtime, it was worse.

The courtyard was an oven. Kids fanned themselves with notebooks and cafeteria trays. Sweat trickled down Aubrey’s spine inside her fitted dress.

She checked her reflection in her phone camera and felt panic spike. The foundation that hid every freckle, every tiny blemish, was sliding off in streaks. Her false lashes felt like they weighed a ton.

“Aubrey, you’ve got a little…” one of her friends said, gesturing vaguely at her cheek.

“My face is melting,” Aubrey whispered. “My face—my stupid makeup—”

She dropped her tray and bolted for the nearest restroom, nearly colliding with Mera in the hallway.

Of course, she thought wildly. Of course it’s you.

“Great,” she snapped. “Out of everyone, you see me like this.”

“Aubrey, what’s wrong?” Mera asked, startled.

The bathroom was cooler, but not by much. Aubrey grabbed paper towels and dabbed at her cheeks, leaving uneven patches of tan and pink on the thin skin.

“I’m sweating like crazy,” she said, voice shaking despite herself. “My makeup won’t stay on. It’s too hot, and I hate what I’m wearing, and my mom would freak if she saw me like this, and I just—”

Her voice broke. She turned her face away. “Why am I even talking to you?”

“Because I’m here,” Mera said quietly. “And you don’t have anyone else in this bathroom.”

Aubrey laughed, one sharp, ugly sound. “What would you know about it?” she demanded. “You’re hiding behind a mask. You probably love it. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“I hate it,” Mera said. “I hate this mask more than anything.”

Aubrey stopped wiping for a second. “Then why wear it?”

“My parents,” Mera said. “They’re afraid. Every time kids made fun of me at school, we moved. They think if I cover up, people won’t hurt me. But it doesn’t help. It just… makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me all the time.”

Aubrey leaned against the sink, mascara prickling at the corners of her eyes. “My parents won’t let me leave the house without makeup,” she admitted. “Not even to go to the grocery store. They say I have to look like a beauty queen. All the time. For the ‘brand.’”

Mera blinked. “I thought you liked it,” she said. “The makeup. The dresses. The crowns.”

“I liked winning,” Aubrey said. “I liked seeing my mom smile. But I hate spending Saturdays in salon chairs, starving myself for a number on a scale, pretending I love it when strangers judge me for how I look in a dress.”

She took a breath. “I’m their perfect poster girl and I feel like a costume they made instead of a person.”

She looked at Mera’s mask. “Not that you’d understand,” she muttered.

“I understand more than you think,” Mera said. “Do you… want to see why I wear this?”

Aubrey stared at her. “You’d take it off?”

Mera’s hands shook as she reached for the knots at the back of her head. She could hear her parents’ voices in her memory, layered over the sound of boiling water and raised shouting.

“Why are you always at work? Did you forget you have a family?”

“Why don’t you try getting a job? I’m so tired of your complaints.”

“I can’t believe the way you talk to me!”

Mera had been five the day everything changed. She’d been standing on a chair in their tiny rental kitchen back in Ohio, reaching for a coloring book, when she knocked into the handle of a pot on the stove. Her parents had been too busy arguing to notice until it was too late.

The memory of the water hitting her skin wasn’t clear. Just heat, and a sound she later realized was her own screaming, and then black.

She woke up in a hospital bed wrapped in bandages. Her parents were on opposite sides of the room, both blaming themselves and each other.

“This is all your fault.”

“My fault? You left a little girl next to boiling water.”

“Where were you?”

“She’s going to be scarred for the rest of her life!”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Every school since then had been the same. The kids stared. Then they whispered. Then they laughed. Sometimes they did worse.

So they moved. And moved. And moved again—Ohio to Arizona to Texas to California—chasing a place where things might be different.

They never were.

“Everywhere I go,” Mera said softly, fingers untangling the last knot, “people think I’m some kind of horror movie. Or that I did something to deserve this. Or they just… pretend I’m not there. My parents think hiding my face will protect me. But it mostly just makes me feel like I don’t get to exist unless I’m covered up.”

The mask slid free.

Aubrey held her breath.

The scars traced one side of Mera’s face in uneven, pale patterns. They pulled slightly at her eye and cheek. They were not pretty by magazine standards, but they were not what Aubrey expected, either. They were… human. Proof of pain survived, not something to be ashamed of.

“You’re not a freak,” Aubrey said quietly. “I should never have called you that. I’m sorry.”

Mera’s shoulders dropped an inch. “Thanks,” she said. “That means a lot.”

“And you’re not ugly,” Aubrey added. “You’re… different. But in a cool way. Like a comic-book hero that’s been through something and is still standing.”

Mera actually laughed. “No one’s ever called my scars cool before.”

“Well, they’re wrong and I’m right,” Aubrey said, sniffing. She wiped away the last of the melted mascara and studied her own bare face in the mirror. Without the contour and false lashes, she looked younger. Softer. More like a person and less like a poster.

“You look better without it,” Mera said.

“No, I don’t,” Aubrey said automatically. “Without it, I’m just… me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Mera asked.

Aubrey didn’t have an answer.

“Let’s make a deal,” Mera said. “You talk to your parents. Tell them you don’t want to do pageants anymore. That you don’t want to wear makeup every time you breathe. And I’ll talk to mine. Tell them I’m done hiding behind a mask.”

Aubrey stared at her bare reflection, then at Mera’s uncovered face.

“That’s terrifying,” she said.

“Yeah,” Mera agreed. “But so is living like this forever.”

They shook on it.

The living room had never been so quiet.

Mera stood in front of the TV, mask in one hand, heart pounding. Her parents sat on the couch, a half-finished budget spreadsheet open on the coffee table.

“Honey,” her mom said. “Where’s your mask? We’re leaving in five minutes.”

Mera took a breath. “I’m not wearing it anymore,” she said.

Her mother blinked. “I’ll get another one,” she said. “Maybe a softer one. With a pattern—”

“Don’t,” Mera said. Her voice came out stronger than she felt. “I’m done. I’m not going to keep covering my face just to make other people comfortable.”

Jay rubbed his temples. “Mera, we’ve talked about this.”

“No,” she said. “You talked. I went along. You wanted to keep me safe, I know that. But it hasn’t worked. I still get bullied. We still move. And now I feel like I’m not allowed to be who I am in my own house. Why can’t I be myself? Why do my scars bother you more than they bother me?”

Her parents stared at her like they’d never heard her speak before.

“You don’t understand,” her mom said weakly. “We’re just trying to protect you. Kids can be cruel. We’ve uprooted our lives over and over to get you away from that.”

“And I’m grateful,” Mera said. “But all the moving, all the hiding—it makes me feel like the problem is me. Like I broke our family. Like if I hadn’t touched that pot, you would still be in one place with good jobs and no debt.”

“That’s not true,” her dad said instantly.

“I’ve heard you,” Mera said. “Fighting about whose fault it was. About money. About how this is my third school in two years. I spend a lot of nights thinking maybe you’d be happier if—”

Her voice caught.

“If what?” her dad asked, standing now. “If what?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “I just… I’m tired of feeling like a mistake instead of a person.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “You are not a mistake,” she said. “You are our daughter.”

“Then treat me like one,” Mera said. “Not like a problem you have to fix with another relocation or another layer of fabric.”

Across town, Aubrey was in the kitchen again, facing her parents with bare skin and trembling hands.

“Aubrey, what is going on?” her mom demanded. “We have a gown fitting in two hours. You can’t leave this house looking like that.”

“I’m not going,” Aubrey said. “And I’m not wearing makeup today.”

Silence.

“She says she’s refusing,” her mom told her dad, outraged. “Can you talk some sense into her?”

“Aubrey,” her dad said, putting his phone down. “We have a reputation. The other pageant families—”

“I don’t care what they think,” Aubrey cut in. “I care that I don’t recognize myself anymore. I care that I haven’t eaten a burger in three months because I’m scared of smiling in photos with round cheeks. I care that I can’t run into Target without you both freaking out that I didn’t contour my jawline.”

“This isn’t about Target,” her mom said. “This is about your future.”

“My future doesn’t have to include a tiara to matter,” Aubrey said. “All I want is to be myself. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

Her parents looked at her like she was speaking another language.

Back in the small apartment, Mera’s parents were finally listening.

“It isn’t your fault,” her dad said, voice rough. “We were the adults. You were a child. We should have been watching you. We should have been present.”

“But if I hadn’t—”

“You were five,” her mom said. Tears were spilling freely now. “You reached for a book. That’s what kids do. We were too busy arguing to notice the pot. That’s on us. Not you.”

“I ruined everything,” Mera whispered. “We move because of me. You fight because of me. We’re in debt because of my hospital bills.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” her dad said. He crossed the room and pulled her into a hug, careful of her shoulders. “Life happened. We made mistakes. But you being here? That’s the only thing we got right without question.”

“I’m sorry we made you feel like something to hide,” her mom said, joining the hug. “We thought we were protecting you. We never stopped to think how it felt from where you were standing.”

“I just want to stop feeling like I’m wrong,” Mera said into her dad’s shirt. “Like I have to disappear so you can be okay.”

“You don’t have to disappear,” her mom said. “From now on, you get to decide. Mask or no mask. We’ll stand behind you.”

Mera pulled back, eyes shining. “Really?”

“Really,” her dad said. “No more blaming. No more using you as an excuse for our own mistakes. We’ll work on our jobs. Our money. Our relationship. Your only job is to be yourself and pass history class.”

She laughed, a watery little sound. “I can probably do that.”

At the pageant house, the argument ended differently—but with the same truth.

“Aubrey,” her dad said finally, rubbing his forehead. “If you don’t want to do pageants anymore, we can stop.”

Her mom gaped at him. “What?”

“She’s our daughter,” he said. “Not our brand. I’ve been so wrapped up in the wins and the applause that I didn’t see what it was doing to her.”

“But the college applications, the networking, the—”

“The stress,” he said. “The nights she cried because a judge said her smile was ‘too forced.’ The way she hasn’t eaten dessert at her own birthday in years. We said we were doing this for her future, but we never asked what she wanted that future to look like.”

Her mom’s shoulders slumped. “I just wanted you to have what I didn’t,” she said quietly. “I wanted people to see you and think, ‘That girl is special.’”

“They can still think that,” Aubrey said. “Without a sash.”

Her mom looked at her bare face for a long time. “You are special,” she said, voice breaking. “With or without the crown. I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to earn that.”

“So no more forcing me into heels?” Aubrey asked, tentative.

Her mom laughed through her tears. “You can wear sneakers to the grocery store,” she said. “But I reserve the right to ask for a little lip gloss at Thanksgiving.”

“We can negotiate,” Aubrey said, smiling for real.

The next morning, under the same bright California sky, two girls walked toward the same school with faces they’d chosen.

Mera stood on the sidewalk, mask in her pocket instead of on her skin. Her scars were cool in the morning breeze. Her heart thudded in her chest, but there were no hands shoving fabric at her face this time. Her parents stood a few feet back, arm in arm.

“You okay?” her dad asked.

“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m ready.”

“We’re right here if you need us,” her mom said. “And if anyone says anything—”

“I’ll handle it,” Mera said. “Just… let me try.”

He nodded. “Go show them who you are,” he said.

Across town, Aubrey walked out of her front door with nothing on her face but sunscreen. No contour, no lashes, no lipstick. Her hair hung in a simple ponytail. Her mom reached for the makeup bag automatically, then stopped herself.

“You look like you,” her mom said. “I’d forgotten what that looked like.”

“Is that… okay?” Aubrey asked.

“It’s perfect,” her dad said. “Go be a teenager for once. Not a pageant contestant.”

At the school entrance, their paths crossed.

Mera stepped onto campus, waiting for the whispers. The pointing. The word “monster” hanging on someone’s tongue.

Instead, a girl at the lockers did a double take.

“Whoa,” she said. “I’ve never seen you without your mask before.”

“Yeah,” Mera said. “I, uh… decided I’m done hiding.”

The girl grinned. “Your scars look kind of awesome,” she said. “Like… warrior stripes. You look unique.”

“Thanks,” Mera said, thrown.

Kids still stared. But it was different this time. Curious, not cruel. A few smiled. One boy with freckles gave her a thumbs-up like he thought he was being subtle.

“Aubrey!” someone called.

Mera turned.

Aubrey walked up the front steps, catching sunlight on her bare skin. A few of her friends blinked. One whispered, “Where’s your liner?”

A boy from the soccer team let out a low whistle. “You look different,” he said, clearly searching for the right words.

“I’m not wearing makeup,” Aubrey said. Her stomach flipped, but she kept her chin level.

“Nice,” he said. “You look a lot prettier this way.”

“Really?” she blurted.

“Yeah,” he said. “Definitely. I always thought something about you seemed… kind of staged. No offense. But now you look like a real person. I like it.”

Her cheeks warmed in a way that had nothing to do with blush.

Matthew jogged up, backpack bouncing. He glanced between them.

“Hey,” he said to Mera. “You look great. I mean—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I always thought you were great. Just saying.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He turned to Aubrey. “You too,” he said. “I like this version of you. It feels…” He searched for the word. “Honest.”

Aubrey laughed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my face in years,” she said.

The bell rang.

As the students funneled inside, Mera hesitated at the doorway, the memory of that first scream echoing faintly in the back of her mind.

“Oh my God, a monster. Somebody call—”

“Mera?” Aubrey said quietly beside her.

“Yeah?” Mera asked.

“We can do this together,” Aubrey said. “Right?”

Mera looked around—at the American flag snapping in the breeze, at the California sunshine bouncing off chrome lockers, at a hundred kids with a hundred stories walking into the same building.

“Right,” she said.

They stepped through the doorway side by side.