I told Mom that I needed to do rehearsal for the talent show instead of coming to her office. It went like this:

Me: Mom, I can’t come to the office today. I have to go to rehearsal for the talent show with Ms. Smith.

Mom: (Silent.)

Me: So, can I?

Mom: I want to see all your work before you go to bed.

Me: Okay.

Mom: (Nods. Leaves the room.)

This completely fantastic interaction has not left me a lot of hope for the conversation in which I ask her to come to therapy with me. I try to psych myself up, to get myself to ask her. Instead, I just look like a creeper. I go into her room; she’s in her bathroom doing her makeup. I stand there telling myself that when she comes out, I’m going to ask her to come to therapy with me. When I hear her put down her lipstick, I run out of the room. “Sparrow?” she calls. I don’t answer. I sit at the island, poking at my cereal and promising myself that when she comes downstairs, I’ll say it. I hear the creak of the stairs as she starts down them, and I literally run out of the house. I don’t even say good-bye.

“Sparrow.” It’s Tanasia whispering to me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice before.

“What?”

“Your turn.” I look up and the whole class is looking at me, including Ms. Smith over her glasses, which is never a good sign.

“You weren’t paying attention,” says Ms. Smith.

“Right. Sorry.”

“ ‘Sorry’ is for when you’re not going to do it again.”

I have heard Ms. Smith say this a million times, but never to me. I want to fall through the floor. I keep my face very still so that I don’t cry.

“So, can you tell me what you think about the relationship between Nick and Gatsby?”

“He idolizes him.”

“Yes, we have that already.” She gestures to the board, where the class has apparently been making a list for quite a while. “Does anyone else have anything new?”

With her eyes off me, I can start to breathe again. Tanasia sneaks me a smile, like it happens to everyone. Except that it never happens to me, at least not in English. At the end of the period, I still want to fall through the floor and I’m trying to get out of the room as fast as I can.

“Sparrow.” Ms. Smith stops me.

I sigh. “Yes?” I look up because I don’t want her to say what adults always say when you don’t want to look at them: Look at me when I’m talking to you!

“Tough day. See you at the theater at three.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t seem mad, but it’ll be a while before my stomach untwists.

When I get to the theater at three, Ms. Smith is already there. “Hi!” she says happily from the stage. “Come on down, I promise I won’t make you sing and dance.” I head to the front and take a seat near her.

“That’s the light booth up there; we’ll get there last. First you’re going to get to know backstage. That’s where I’ll be. The night of the show, you’re going to be in the light booth, but before that you’ll be backstage with me making sure all the props are where they should be and everyone knows the set order. Okay? Good. Come,” she says, and we sneak behind the heavy green curtain.

Backstage looks like a construction site, all beams and hidden walkways. It smells warm and slightly dusty. There’s a table that Ms. Smith says will be the prop table; she tells me I’ll collect props from everyone and put them on the table in order of how they’ll be used by each performer. She tells me we’ll have walkie-talkies so that she’ll be able to communicate with me in the light booth if anything needs to be adjusted—because, she says casually, I’ll also be running sound.

“Isn’t that kind of a lot? I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“True, you would have learned in a performing arts class if you’d taken one. Pity.”

I open my mouth to protest but she says, smiling, “It’s okay, Sparrow. You’re a quick learner and we have two weeks before the performance.”

As we head up to the light booth, I say, “I really am sorry about class today.”

“Well, I know you wish it hadn’t happened, but, my dear, it’s not the first time. You’re almost always just on your way back from somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’re here, but you’re also far away.”

“I’m trying to be here more.”

“I know that too. It’s okay. It’s hard to be here sometimes.”

I feel my face getting warm, but not because I’m embarrassed.

“Let’s take a look at this.”

Ms. Smith shows me the light board and she lets me play around with the settings. I make the theater really bright, and then I make a really narrow spotlight, I make everything bright blue, I make it orange. She laughs.

“Okay, but mostly you’re going to use this one.” She shows me how to make a spotlight in the middle of the stage.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Now let’s take a look at sound.” She stands onstage with a microphone (reading selections from Gatsby, of course), and I practice getting the levels right until it’s time to go home.

“That’s a wrap!” calls Ms. Smith as she heads toward the light booth.

“Thanks for letting me do this,” I say.

“You’re most welcome. It seemed like it was even—let me see if I can find the right word—fun?”

I smile. “Maybe.”

“That’s a good start. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.” I mean it in every sense.

She’s right. It was fun. So much fun that for the last hour or more, I haven’t thought about what’s waiting for me at home. My feet move more and more slowly as I get close to the house. I wait on the steps for Mom. She’ll be home any minute now. I sit and read my Gatsby assignment, and a piece of paper falls out of the book. A small square in the same handwriting as the last one. It just says They say I’m different.… My heart skips a beat. Either they’re making fun of me or this is a clue of some kind. I want to go google it right now but I feel Mom turn the corner onto the block. So that I don’t just sit and stare at her until she turns into our gate, I keep my eyes on the page, rereading the same sentence over and over, sticking the note in the back of the book. The words aren’t even making sense anymore; it’s just a place to keep my eyes until I can look up. I hear the gate creak.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How was rehearsal?”

“Good. I know I’ve got to work to do; I’ll try to get it done.”

“Coming in?”

“Sure. There’s, um, there’s kind of something I want to talk to you about.” No turning back now.

“Okay.” I follow her into the living room and she sits on the couch. This seems like a good sign. Like what a happy family on TV might do to have a Big Talk.

“So, um, obviously, I’ve had some, um, trouble talking.”

“Right.” She seems nervous. Who can blame her? I sound like a lunatic.

“Dr. Katz … ” I can’t finish the sentence.

“We can find you someone else if you want. Or maybe you’re done?” It’s impossible not to hear the hope in her voice. Things are looking less sitcom every second.

“Um, no, it’s not that. It’s fine with her. It’s, um, it’s good. She wanted me to ask you to come to the next session. With me. Can you?”

“Of course.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Sparrow; I’m your mother. If you want me to come, I’ll be there.”

“I want you to.”

“That’s that, then.”

Okay. It’s done. I let out all the breath I’ve been holding for days. We’re not cuddling, but it’s possible I’ll be speaking with her earlier than college. Mostly all I can think is it’s done it’s done it’s done.

“Do you want to order Indian?” she asks.

“Yes, definitely, yes.”

“The usual?”

“Sure.” I turn on the TV. It’s the doctor show she loves. “Want to watch?” I ask, hoping she’ll let us watch and eat.

“Sure,” she says. “Get your backpack. You can get at least three math problems done during the commercials.”

After Indian food, an episode of the doctor show, and a full sheet of math plus homework for tonight, Mom releases me to my room. I sit at my computer and type in the words. The first result is the one I’m meant to see. Betty Davis roars into my stereo. I play what is so clearly meant to be the loudest song on earth quiet enough for Mom not to come storming into my room; I wouldn’t try to contain this voice in headphones. I fall asleep with the slightest smile on my face.