I went back to the memory.
21 years ago.
I was bored. So deeply bored I could feel it in my teeth. My parents sat on a park bench, speaking in hushed, excited tones about the "vibrancy" of the place, the "beautiful people" they'd glimpsed.
"I think that was the mayor's wife," my mother whispered, as if sharing a state secret.
My father nodded, serious. "The landscaping alone must cost a fortune."
It was mulch and money. That's all they saw. I saw the dirt under the shiny surface. I was five.
"Too sharp for your age," every adult who bothered to speak to me said. They'd pat my head like I was a clever dog. What did that make the other children? Dull. Normal. I didn't want to be sharp. I wanted to be invisible.
"Mum, I need the restroom." I tugged at her sleeve.
They were lost in their fantasy of belonging, their faces turned toward a world that glanced right through them. They didn't notice me slip away.
