“You always do this.”

“You wear those ridiculous long sleeves in the middle of summer just to make people ask questions.”

She pointed a manicured finger at my arms.

“Tell them, Maya,” Chloe said, her eyes wide and pleading.

“Tell them you’re just being dramatic.”

“Tell them there is nothing under there.”

I looked down at my wrists, where the thick fabric of my linen shirt met my skin.

Underneath the white cloth, the tight, shiny scar tissue pulsed in the heat of the afternoon.

“I wear these sleeves because Mother and Father ordered me to,” I said.

Chloe stopped laughing.

Her hand fell to her side.

The silence on the patio grew heavier, broken only by the hum of the pool filter.

“What are you talking about?” Chloe whispered.

“They told me I had to hide them,” I said, looking her straight in the eyes.

“They said if you saw what the fire did to my body, you would never forgive yourself.”

“They said the guilt would destroy you.”

Chloe shook her head quickly, her blond curls bouncing.

“No,” she said. “No, that’s not true.”