All I had to do was put my mind to the problem and work out a solution. If I couldn’t attract kids with my genius, I would infiltrate their playdates and bring my genius to them. Surreptitiously, of course.
So, in the pursuit of true friends (who I hoped would one day become kindred spirits), I willingly engaged in inane activities like dressing up Bratz dolls, and pretended that a jolly fat man squeezing down a chimney (with a sack of toys, no less) made logical sense. And all I asked for in exchange was a chance to play them music from Wagner’s Ring Cycle so I could teach them about leitmotifs, which I thought were pretty awesome. Baby steps, right? But that sort of compromise was beyond the seven-year-olds in my neighborhood.
Meanwhile, I was zipping through school at light speed. I thought things would change once my classmates were high schoolers—intellectual equals at last! They were almost adults, so I automatically assumed we’d have stuff to talk about. But my teenage classmates were too engrossed in dating drama and unrequited-love angst to listen to me rhapsodize about the latest robotics news. And at that age, the only boys I didn’t think were gross were dead scientists—and it’s not like I wanted to kiss those guys. (No offense, Niels Bohr.) What could I really contribute to the lunchroom gossip?
Regardless, I persevered. I kept telling myself that one day , I would find a place where I fit in. I would find my people. And I had plenty of time to refine my technique.
Thanks to my dad’s job, my dad, my nana, and I moved around a lot. Every new city offered me the opportunity to reinvent myself and learn from past mistakes. Instead of lecturing on topics no one else cared about, I started to study potential friends and try to find common ground—like, if they were into a certain type of music, I’d listen to it at home and see if maybe I could like it, too. And, okay, obviously that didn’t always work, but it didn’t turn people off as fast either.
Once I graduated from college (that was last year—so yes, you can stop worrying about how this crappy school is going to affect my transcript), I stopped being so defined by my genius. It was still a huge part of who I was, but since I wasn’t in a classroom, I wasn’t the weird prodigy girl anymore—I was whoever I wanted to be. I could hide my genius until I was ready to reveal the truth—without the risk that people would judge me before they got the chance to know me.
I met Sophie at an ice-skating class. I noticed she liked Japanese toys and manga and stuff, so the following week I brought in some Hello Kitty key chains I’d bought in Japan, and showed her that a lot of Japanese cities have their own special Hello Kitties—something I’d always found interesting. It started off simply, but now she’s my best friend.
I met Nicholas because he lived down the street and our dads knew each other, and we bonded over a mutual love of strategy games. (Granted, I used to prefer chess, but now I’m all about rolling dice and crushing his orc army.)
They’re amazing people. They’re part of that bigger, better world I feel like I was born to be a part of. They have their own “specialties” that make them different, like me . . . and, like YOU. (Don’t pass out. Please. I’m almost finished.)
I want to have adventures. I want to make an impact and be remembered. I don’t want to be the tree that falls in the forest and doesn’t make a sound. And I feel like I’m finally in the right place.
Looking back, it seems like all those years of trial and error and rejection were preparing me for this. Like it’s kismet. And since I haven’t had a lot of friends, the ones I do have mean a lot to me.
I guess what I’m trying to tell you, Avery, is that I consider you a friend, too. I know this is a lot to take in, and you’re probably freaking out a little and wondering if you can trust me with certain things that will not be
So, in the pursuit of true friends (who I hoped would one day become kindred spirits), I willingly engaged in inane activities like dressing up Bratz dolls, and pretended that a jolly fat man squeezing down a chimney (with a sack of toys, no less) made logical sense. And all I asked for in exchange was a chance to play them music from Wagner’s Ring Cycle so I could teach them about leitmotifs, which I thought were pretty awesome. Baby steps, right? But that sort of compromise was beyond the seven-year-olds in my neighborhood.
Meanwhile, I was zipping through school at light speed. I thought things would change once my classmates were high schoolers—intellectual equals at last! They were almost adults, so I automatically assumed we’d have stuff to talk about. But my teenage classmates were too engrossed in dating drama and unrequited-love angst to listen to me rhapsodize about the latest robotics news. And at that age, the only boys I didn’t think were gross were dead scientists—and it’s not like I wanted to kiss those guys. (No offense, Niels Bohr.) What could I really contribute to the lunchroom gossip?
Regardless, I persevered. I kept telling myself that one day , I would find a place where I fit in. I would find my people. And I had plenty of time to refine my technique.
Thanks to my dad’s job, my dad, my nana, and I moved around a lot. Every new city offered me the opportunity to reinvent myself and learn from past mistakes. Instead of lecturing on topics no one else cared about, I started to study potential friends and try to find common ground—like, if they were into a certain type of music, I’d listen to it at home and see if maybe I could like it, too. And, okay, obviously that didn’t always work, but it didn’t turn people off as fast either.
Once I graduated from college (that was last year—so yes, you can stop worrying about how this crappy school is going to affect my transcript), I stopped being so defined by my genius. It was still a huge part of who I was, but since I wasn’t in a classroom, I wasn’t the weird prodigy girl anymore—I was whoever I wanted to be. I could hide my genius until I was ready to reveal the truth—without the risk that people would judge me before they got the chance to know me.
I met Sophie at an ice-skating class. I noticed she liked Japanese toys and manga and stuff, so the following week I brought in some Hello Kitty key chains I’d bought in Japan, and showed her that a lot of Japanese cities have their own special Hello Kitties—something I’d always found interesting. It started off simply, but now she’s my best friend.
I met Nicholas because he lived down the street and our dads knew each other, and we bonded over a mutual love of strategy games. (Granted, I used to prefer chess, but now I’m all about rolling dice and crushing his orc army.)
They’re amazing people. They’re part of that bigger, better world I feel like I was born to be a part of. They have their own “specialties” that make them different, like me . . . and, like YOU. (Don’t pass out. Please. I’m almost finished.)
I want to have adventures. I want to make an impact and be remembered. I don’t want to be the tree that falls in the forest and doesn’t make a sound. And I feel like I’m finally in the right place.
Looking back, it seems like all those years of trial and error and rejection were preparing me for this. Like it’s kismet. And since I haven’t had a lot of friends, the ones I do have mean a lot to me.
I guess what I’m trying to tell you, Avery, is that I consider you a friend, too. I know this is a lot to take in, and you’re probably freaking out a little and wondering if you can trust me with certain things that will not be
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