Chapter 1: Picture Day

Just starting my senior year in high school, it’s early October and I’m seated in my usual back of the room spot in first period. I’m half-listening to the daily announcements over the loudspeaker when my head snaps up.

“Today is Picture Day, with formal portraits for the seniors. Appropriate clothing will be provided for the upper torso and space for hair and makeup as needed. Third period last names A through F, fourth period names G through O, fifth period P through Z.”

My name is Nora Vinke, so my walk of shame would be deferred to the last group. To explain, I have managed to avoid being photographed through my entire school career. There’s an obvious reason for this, which I will return to shortly. My sister Tara is a 16-year-old junior, but for the second period she was enrolled in my senior-level English class. Smart girl, my sister. Once we were seated, Tara reached across the aisle to squeeze my hand, seeing the fear and anger in my eyes.

At the bell, “Nora, you’re going to ditch, aren’t you?”

“You know I will, and you know why. I’m required to attend this miserable school for one more year, but they can’t put my face up on a wall or in a yearbook for public humiliation. I will see you back at home.” I stood, collected my things, and left the classroom. Tara watched me go, looking troubled and sad.

Back in my bedroom, I tossed my books on the bed and groaned. Another useless day as an 18-year-old high school senior. The whole academic year would be a waste, as I had already been accepted to UCLA for the next fall, and my diploma was assured. In the mirror, my angry gray eyes glared back at me between the two hanging curtains of my straight brown hair. I kept it long enough to cover my ears and jawline.

I had one last nightmare year to endure in the public schools.

From Kindergarten on, my peers were fixated on my ugliness. They bullied and abused me at all times and in all ways, just because of my face. In elementary school, I sat alone on the farthest bench. Seeking respite in my middle and high school years, at lunch periods I confined myself to the library. Overtaxed teachers tended to ignore me, preoccupied with their crowded and unruly classrooms. I had learned from the beginning to stay quiet and keep away from the mean kids. And they were all mean kids.

My parents, both working (of course), were unaware of how difficult my every school day was. I would not burden them by whining. And, anyway, what could my parents have done? The teachers were useless; the bullies were relentless. PE with the locker room and showers were the worst. I endured twelve years of misery in the public school system.

On better days, I passed unnoticed, carefully avoiding any interactions. I might finish an entire school day without speaking at all.

Worse days, I was snarled at, shoved, or hissed at, particularly by the other females. My very presence aroused their anger and disgust.

Which brings me to the elephant in my room, my deformity: my nevus. Technically it’s a nevus flammeus, which is medical Latin for a port wine stain birthmark. The most well-known person with a port wine stain birthmark is Mikhail Gorbachev, the late Soviet President, whose PWS birthmark was prominent on his bald head. A nevus is created when patches under the skin of tiny malformed blood vessels have improperly connected arteries and veins.

My nevus is about the size of a playing card, but irregularly shaped. It extends from in front of my left earlobe down to and along my jawbone. Over the years it has darkened from an original sunburn color (as a small child) to a dark reddish purple, hence the winey name.

For most people, laser treatments early in life are effective at reducing these stains significantly. But for me, no treatments, because of unlucky circumstances in my early childhood.

Avoiding notice as much as possible, I had also grown out my straight brown hair long enough to hang down past my jawline. And I kept my head declined—keeping the stain obscured.