Each musical note blossoms with color. Each color infuses a distinct flavor in my mouth. C# is light blue and metallic. A—my favorite—is yellow and peachy. I cannot escape the constant barrage. Everything has a tone. The school bell rings out an E—it's green, tastes like pistachio ice cream. The hum of the fluorescent lights is out of tune to an A-flat. Even silence has a note, because it's never truly silent. When I plug my ears, even the blood rushing through me has a note. A color. A taste. If I tune one out, it means tuning in something else. Like Mr. Steever in history droning on and on mostly in low F, a swirl of gray and beige, tasting like mashed potatoes with nothing added to them—earthy and bland. I can handle his class. My therapist calls it a gift. I call it a prison, and I don't know where the key is, or who has it, or if one even exists. I can't focus on Ms. Donaldson's lectures. Her voice hits almost all the notes but F. Most of my class thinks she's the best teacher. She probably is, but I usually leave her class with a splitting headache. I wish I could have a brain transplant. “Sadly, it's not a medically viable option, Allie,” my dad said. So, what do they do with a freak like me? They stick me in the gifted classes. I told them, this is not a gift. Plus, in the gifted classes, we just get more homework and harder assignments. So not what I need. They say I'm under-performing. What they don't realize is I can't perform. Not when I have three distracting channels going on inside of me—at all times. My only friend is my dog, Cody. After school I bury my face in his fur, and I can finally focus on a different sense: touch. I could lie there for hours, rubbing his fur. Nothing else calms my other senses. But I don't tell anyone this. It's my secret. I don't want them to make me go to school with a guide dog. I have enough trouble making friends. I think my mom knows I'm different when I'm with Cody. It makes her happy, and that makes me happy, too. Today my lab partner, his name is Jay, brought his rabbit in. It had babies last week. Jays in 4-H and wants to show off his project, which Ms. Donaldson is more than happy to oblige. I've never held a rabbit before, but I'm anticipating the feeling of it. Everyone passes the baby rabbits around, and Jay hands me the mama rabbit. I hold her close and stroke her head and ears. I close my eyes and hold her up to my cheek. The notes fade. The colors turn to gray. My tongue tastes . . . like nothing. When I open my eyes, half of the class is staring at me. My face heats up as I lower the rabbit. Someone points at me with their mouth popped open. I scratch my wrist and sniff. My nose is stuffed. Was I crying? Jay takes the rabbit. “Are you okay?” I scratch my chin. “I'm fine,” I say, but I don't feel fine. “I think you're having an allergic reaction.” Jay takes my hand and says to Ms. Donaldson, “I'm taking her to the nurse.” Jay pulls me into the hall. His footsteps echo with mine. His are A and C: true perfection. My one shoe squeaks out F, F, F—dull, boring, mashed potatoes. But together, the notes make a beautiful chord. I look at his hand holding mine. My wrist is covered with red bumps. “This happened to my sister's friend,” says Jay. “You need to wash your skin.” My face tightens around my mouth, cheeks, and chin. I touch my lips and scratch. “Don't touch your face,” Jay says. “Let's go in here.” We duck into the teacher's-only bathroom. Jay turns on a stream of cool water—B-flat, terracotta, cinnamon with a hint of chocolate. “Wash up,” says Jay. He puts my hands under the water and starts to rub them. He pumps soap out of the dispenser and rubs my wrists, and lower arms. I stand speechless and tune out the sounds, the colors, the tastes to focus on his rough, sand-papery skin rubbing my smooth arms. It feels so good to be touched. And not in an accidental or slight way, but in a firm, intentional way. I can feel this and feeling it makes my prison slowly disappear. “Wash your face,” he says, but my hair falls forward into the sink. He holds it back as I cup water into my hands and splash my face over and over. When I come up for air I'm shaking. He doesn't let my hair go until I wipe my face with the rough paper towels. “You'll be okay. Don't worry.” He takes my arms, turns them over, and looks at the insides of my wrists again. “They haven't gotten worse, so that's good,” he says. “Let's go see the nurse.” I don't move with him. I want Jay to hold my hands forever. How can I tell him I don't want him to let go? I look into his deep brown eyes and grab his hands. I've never held a boy's hand before. But I can't let him go. Not yet. He tips his head and narrows his eyes, questioning. “Come on,” he says, but he keeps holding on. We walk to the nurse's office. I still feel miserable, but I don't hear the notes of our footsteps. I only feel his firm grasp; the key I've been searching for my whole life.