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She peeked inside the fort that I’d filled with pillows, blankets, and my laptop since we didn’t have a TV. If Dani, Kinsley, or I wanted to watch anything, we had a mini projector we could hook up to our laptops to project the show on the white brick wall that ran the length of our loft.
“Don’t be shy. Get comfy while I get the ice cream. And if you still want to, I left my phone in there so you can google anything you’d like.” Wait, I should probably add a caveat to that. There were a lot of things she shouldn’t be googling. “I mean, you can google about happiness.”
That got her to go in. She went straight for my phone.
While the girl genius did her homework, I made ice cream sundaes that would make you cry tears of joy, or hopefully in Whitney’s case, at least crack a smile. Kinsley had made a batch of vanilla ice cream made with Tahitian vanilla beans. It gave it a cherry chocolate flavor. I made a quick cherry sauce to drizzle over it and then added some chocolate wafer cookies. Kinsley would be so proud. I would have taken a picture of the sundaes and sent them to Kinsley, except Whitney was using my phone, doing her best to prove me wrong in the fort of happiness.
“This study here says that older people who are happier live longer, but it could be because of well-being. And well-being is tied to having good social relationships,” her voice faded.
I ducked under the blankets holding two big bowls full of happiness to find a quivering lip and watery eyes. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I am going to die young.”
What in the world? I set the bowls down outside the fort and crawled in to take Whitney in my arms, if she would let me. She did without any resistance. I held her close to me and stroked her hair. “Whitney, you’re not going to die young.”
“I am, because I do not have any friends.”
Oh. My heart thudded and then dropped. “Honey, you just moved here. You’ll make some friends.”
“I will not. I never do. Everyone thinks I am weird, and I talk funny. They call me a know-it-all or a freak,” she cried.
“You’re not a freak. There’s nothing wrong with being smart. You should be proud of that.”
“That is what my mother says, but I want friends too. How do I make people like me? I tried what google says. I ask other kids questions and I listen to them. But they do not want to talk to me.”
Oh, Jonah was getting more than an earful. I wasn’t prepared for these kinds of life-altering questions, especially when I couldn’t figure out my own life. But I knew I had to soothe her, help her if possible.
I pulled her closer to me. Her little body curled against me. I kissed her head. It felt warm and wonderful, like it was what I was meant to do. “What kind of questions do you ask the other kids?” I thought maybe that was a good place to start.
She shuddered against me. “I ask them what their favorite documentary is.”
I stifled my laugh.
“One girl said, ‘You are so dumb. What is a dog men Terry?’ I tried to tell her what a documentary was and tell her my favorite one is called Walking with Dinosaurs. She said I was boring and only boys like dinosaurs.”
“That’s not true. I love dinosaurs. Did you know we live near Dinosaur National Monument?”
She sat up, her eyes brighter. “We do? Can you take me there?”
“Yes, but not tonight. You need to go during the daytime.” What was I doing promising this girl outings? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t sorry for it.
“Oh.” She fell back against me.
“Whitney,” I rubbed her arm, “can I tell you something?”
“Okay,” she squeaked.
“Most of the time when someone is mean to you, it means they’re either afraid or jealous of you.”
“Why? I am a nice girl.”
“Yes, you are, but you’re very bright for your age. And very pretty. That probably makes a lot of kids jealous. My guess is that they don’t understand you.”
“How can I make them understand me?”
“Well, maybe you can help them when they don’t understand their schoolwork.”
“Like with math problems?”
“Yes. Or sounding out new words.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
“But they might not want me to because they say I talk funny. Why do they think that?”
Yikes. How did I put this? “Do you know what contractions are?”
She nodded against me. “My mother said contractions are forbidden in academics.”
“I think she meant higher education, like college, and probably when you’re writing dissertations or something.” It wasn’t like I knew a lot about that sort of thing. “But when people speak, especially children, we use contractions. Like, I bet your classmates would say something like don’t do that, instead of do not do that.”
