Page 8 of Lance

“I’m allowed to go to a party,” I tell her, my voice tight. “I missed Christmas, for God’s sake. I can go to aparty.”

There’s a pause and I wonder if she’s finally hearing me. “Of course you can, sweetheart. Breaks are important for all of us,” she finally says, and I actually pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it in wonder. My mother is backing down? But by the time I bring it back to my ear she’s continuing. “I just wonder if this is quite the rightwayfor you tosocialize.”

Oh, wonderful. Here wego.

“You know the type of people that will be at this event,” she says. “Do you really think that kind of company is good foryou?”

“Is it good for your son?” I snap, not bothering to hide mytemper.

“Sweetheart, you and James are very different people.” She pauses. “I just don’t want you to feel…uncomfortable. That’s all. You know how you get. Fitting in can be…hard. That’s all I’msaying.”

My skin feels suddenly cold. Intellectually, I can understand that what she’s saying isn’t all that different from what I said to Nia a few minutes ago. Of course I know how I get. But there’s something about hearing it from my motherwhen—

Nia sticks her head through the door, raising her eyebrows when she sees me on thephone.

My mother, I mouth back and she makes a big deal of rolling her eyes and shuddering. Then she looks down at my dress and grins, giving me a thumbs-up before disappearing back into thehallway.

And just like that, I don’t feel like throwing up anymore. A new emotion is coursing through me. Not fear; not even annoyance at my mom. It takes me a second to recognize it—I’mpissed.

My best friend spent the night building me up. Helping me to look and feel my best, giving me pep talks, reacting to all of my weird little quirks with humor. And five minutes of talking to Mom has all of that about to disappear. It isn’t fair. My mother shouldn’t be dragging me down. She shouldn’t be reinforcing all of the negative things I already think about myself. She should be encouragingme.

And not just when it comes to myschoolwork.

“Actually, Mom,” I say, not bothering to temper my voice at all. “I’m running late so I’m going togo.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I’ll tell James you say hi.Goodnight.”

And then, for the first time in my life, I hang up onher.

I stand in my room for a few seconds, scarcely able to believe that I just did that. Waiting for the guilt to kick in, for the urge to call her back and apologize to takeover.

But it doesn’t. Instead that same rush of anger continues to pulse, a little less intense now but there just the same, below the surface, making my heart beat a littlefaster.

I’mtiredof conversations like that. I’m tired of feeling the way she just made me feel—like there’s something wrong with me and everyone knows it. Like I’m so different from my brother and the rest of the world. Just because I’msmart.

Okay, so smart might be a bit of an understatement.Exceedingly giftedwere the exact words that the psychologist had used after the director of my pre-school insisted I be tested. They let me come to the meeting that they held with my parents to determine the best course of action for me and I’d heard the word “genius” banded about more than once. I was, they explained to my mom, far too advanced to continue on in theirprogram.

And that was the end of my public school experience. I was enrolled in a special school, the kind of place without classes or grades where the kids are encouraged to self-guide their own education. While the neighbor kids walked together to the local elementary, my mom drove me forty-five minutes each way to my “learning center.” While everyone else got to join soccer and girl scouts and have play dates, I focused on my work. When I got older, there were no dances at my school. Why would we want to waste time on something so frivolous? More to the point, there were no boys who would have wanted to dance with me in the first place. Certainly no boys who would have wanted to date me. No girls who were interested in being friends. All of that would have taken away precious time we could have been devoting to ourwork.

The goal of the center was to make us independent learners. We definitely had the independent partdown.

After that first assessment, James had started to call me Einstein. I kind of liked it. I had read a book about Einstein and I thought he was not only smart but pretty funny too. But when I advanced to algebra in kindergarten,Freak of Naturebecame the more common nickname. It hurt my feelings, but I knew most big brothers teased their sisters. I read about it in a sociology book I found in the library. I supposed Freak of Nature was better than brat or lame-brain. At least he smiled when he said it, like he thought I was funny, if not at all relatable. His freaky little geniussister.

But wasn’t that supposed to be a good thing? Being a so-called genius? Did it really mean that I should expect to spend my entire life feeling left out and excluded? That I could only ever care about work and advancing? That I could never have anyfun?

“Screw that,” I whisper. The whole point of coming to this university, instead of skipping college altogether to start grad school, the way my advisor had suggested, was to change all that, in spite of my mother’s horror when I told her where I planned to enroll. But I had stood up for myself for once in my life, explaining that I was going to burn out if I didn’t meet some people my own age who actually cared about life outside of their books. If I didn’t get the chance to have some fun for once. And sure, I’ve had some missteps over the years. I still stay in more often than I go out, still study more than socialize. But Ihavemade progress. And I’m done letting my mother make me feel guilty forthat.

I wander back over to the mirror, staring at the stranger with the good hair and a kick-ass dress looking back at me. Actually, scratch that. She doesn’t look so much like a stranger anymore. She looks like me. Like the me that Icanbe, if I just come out of my shell a little bit. If I just stop listening to that voice in my head that tells me I’m toodifferent.

“Wow, you’re still standing,” Nia says from behind me. “Conversations with your mom usually send you to seek comfort in Ben and Jerry’s and aFireflybinge.”

I turn away from the mirror to see her standing in my doorway, obviously ready for the party. She’s wearing something black made up of scraps of leather and lace, and she looks insanely good in it. It’s really enough to make any girl throw up her hands in defeat and giveup.

But for once in my life, I don’t feel out of place with her. Of course, I could never touch her in the looks department. Or in confidence or grace or any other number of things. But that doesn’t mean I can’t hold my own. It doesn’t mean I can’t walk into that party knowing that I look good, and I have every bit as much right as the next person to bethere.

“NoFireflyfor me tonight,” I tell her, grabbing my purse off the desk. “We have a party to goto.”

She raises her eyebrows at my bravado, grinning. “That’s what I’m talking about. Live a little, Willa Nathans. You deserveit.”

I take a deep breath. I can do this. “Let’s gothen.”