1
“You ain’t a momma’s girl, girl. You a momma, and you ain’t even had a child,” Lily Putney told me.
She spit the words at me. Anyone watching how aggressively she had approached me and seeing the hateful expression on her face would think I had done something terrible to her, something unforgivable.
Her normally big eyes bulged out even further, like two egg yolks about to explode in the pan.
Her lips stretched and became two thinning, about-to-snap rubber bands.
She looked angry enough to breathe fire.
And she clenched her teeth, which I thought could turn into fangs at any moment. She was so over-the-top that I had trouble not laughing, which I knew would have resulted in something more violent. There was nothing magical about my perception, but my ability to anticipate what most of the kids in my school were about to say or do was usually spot-on, as my father would say. I had what I knew was a habit that annoyed the other students at school, the habit of finishing their sentences. Yes, I was impatient and I suppose a little intolerant. But this wasn’t the catalyst for Lily’s hostile moves and words. It was something far less personally insulting.
All I had done was say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” when she offered me the X. And for that, she called me a momma, meaning that I behaved like one. In her mind and unfortunately in the minds of her friends, a momma was someone too old and proper to enjoy a good time and, consequently, someone who would ruin yours.
Her friends, who were classmates of mine, too, closed in like a bunch of white blood cells attacking an infection.
That’s not an accidental comparison. I had duplicated the immunity process in a group of cells during my lab period in school today, so the topic was on my mind. Mr. Benjamin, our biology teacher, was so impressed that he embarrassed me with compliments, especially when he began raving about me in the hallway to Dr. Storey, our school principal, all the while keeping his hand on my shoulder so I didn’t run off in the middle of his words, which was something I usually did when any of my teachers spoke hyperbolically about me. I felt that the more attention drawn to me, the less chance I had to develop good friends in my school—not that I had any girlfriends I could call good friends. The motive most had to befriend me was to get help with their homework.
My shying away from compliments wasn’t simply because I feared people envying me for my intelligence. It went beyond that. Sometimes when someone is as brainy as I am, the average and even above-average students get annoyed because the spotlight on that person washes the others out. Everyone anticipated that I would win every possible academic award on graduation day. I would surely be the valedictorian, with the highest average ever for someone graduating from this school. Other parents might growl or grunt when my name was called repeatedly. I might moan myself.
I had just left the gym, where the spring school party was, and come into the bathroom, where I was surprised to find Lily and her clique. The moment I had entered, she had pounced on me with her offer. I had hesitated to attend this party. I knew how bad it could get, but despite what the girls in my class thought about me, I, too, wanted to have a good time. However, unlike them, I didn’t think I had to set my brain on fire to do it. Unless some of them did that, they were bored—and to them, there was nothing worse than being bored. A list of their causes of boredom could paper over the walls of their bedrooms. Every day, they tried to outdo one another by adding to the list of what bored them the most.
Being in class was dreary no matter who the teacher was or what the subject was. Homework was dreadfully boring and was always thought to be a punishment or a burden.
Being with your family was boring.
Going to family affairs like birthdays, anniversaries, and even Christmas dinners was extra boring.
Watching most television was boring, especially if you had to do it with your family.
Eating a good breakfast was so boring you could fall asleep chewing and swallowing, especially if your mother was standing over you and telling you what was good for you.
Reading was boring, unless it was a tweet.
Being in the library, where it was very quiet, was as boring as sleeping. It turned stomachs into beehives and tongues into fish flopping on the shore.
Doing anything regularly, like brushing your teeth, taking a bath or a shower, brushing your hair, washing your clothes, cleaning up your room, or, if you had to, watching your younger brothers or sisters, was borrrrrrring beyond belief. Sharing your suffering was the only way to cool off the rage. Some of these girls breathed complaints instead of oxygen from the moment they stepped out of their homes.
Boredom was worse than death, because boredom lasted longer, and the stress might give you pimples or something worse, like an inferiority complex. You could go crazy!
To them, even though they came to this school party, it was in and of itself boring because it was a school-sponsored party, so the only way to enjoy it was to . . . forget it!
And how did you forget it?
You lit up your brain with some designer drug and took a trip to some other planet.
“What, are you too smart to do the things we do, Corliss Simon?” Marsha Bloom asked, shaking her head at me. She smiled coldly. It was a smile that could freeze molten lava. “Or are you just too good for us?”