Mom smiles mysteriously. She won't say, though Dad told me one of his golf buddies had a friend on faculty at a hospital in Boston and he pulled some strings to get us in. Mom was very happy with that, but now I can see the victory is tainted.
“Enjoy your chowdah,” she says. Only Dad and I get how condescending he's being.
Dinner is painful. Even sitting in this fancy place with the best Bostonians, I can tell Mom and by extension Dad that they feel rejected. And they are not. It is my rejection that they are feeling.
They ask me about my classes, and I obediently tell them about chemistry, physics, biology, and Mandarin, without telling them how hard it is to stay awake in class, no matter how early I go to bed or how sick I feel. doing in the subjects I got in high school. Talking or
