Page 2 of The Difference Between

Amanda stares at the classroom door like one of her beloved boys of NSYNC are about to walk in. “I can’t wait to meet them.” She squeals an eee! that makes me wince. “Are you so excited? Greg’s brother is in the program.”

“Greg’s brother is ten years younger than him?” I forgot about that. “Sounds awful.”

“One of those surprise babies.”

I hate surprises.

She laughs at my grimace. “He’s a handful but adorable.”

I roll my eyes. “Sounds fun.”

“God, Ree. If I die and you have to raise my kids, I hope you have a better attitude about them.”

I barely look her way. “Maybe don’t die and we won’t have to worry about it.”

Amanda signed up for the mentoring program because she genuinely loves kids. I signed up because volunteering to read with kids will look great on a college application. Not only will I be well rounded on top of having excellent grades in advanced-level math classes, it will negate the fact that I loathe team sports and refuse to participate in extracurricular activities. Why would I willingly sign up for something that requires me to pick up everyone else’s slack?

I doodle a three-dimensional cube in the margin of my notebook.

“I can’t wait to have kids,” Amanda says to nobody.

I eye the forty-two clips in her hair and the box of crayons on her desk. Even if I didn’t know she was crazy for kids, the confession tracks. And she’ll be a good mom.

“I want two,” she continues. “A boy and a girl. Maybe three.” She smiles with all her teeth. “How many do you want?”

Her joy is genuine and gives me the same glimpse into her future as it always does.

She’ll go to beauty school then marry Greg and they’ll immediately have the kids she wants. They’ll be her greatest achievement until they grow up and leave her, forcing her to spend the rest of her life regretting not prioritizing her career because she and Greg no longer have anything connecting them.

Maybe she’ll do hair, but probably not at the level she wishes. Her happiness will peak at the exact same moment I’ll be hitting my stride. At forty, she’ll be lost and looking for her purpose, spending her days clipping coupons and split ends.

Meanwhile, I’ll have it all: a winery, a family, and a bank account filled with money.

She’ll visit me and cry on my shoulder, and I’ll have a really hard time not reminding her about all the times she made fun of me for planning my future so perfectly.

I click my pen and study her, debating if I should tell her the harsh realities of her future now or hold them over her head later. I opt with later. “Undecided.”

Future Amanda will figure it out, but I already know when the time comes for me to reproduce, I’ll never sweat the money. Unlike my parents who count every dollar and save half of every cent, I’ll be able to spend without thinking.

Disney World? No problem.

Brand new Nikes? You got it.

An overpriced dessert off the menu at a restaurant on any given Tuesday? No shared plates needed.

“Class,” Mrs. Whitmore, the teacher heading the mentorship program, calls for our attention. “Miss Green will be bringing the student mentees in. You’ll be meeting with the same child every Thursday for the semester.” The door opens and a woman I assume to be Miss Green—sadly wearing pink—stands with a line of six- and seven-year-olds behind her. “You’ll be helping them with literacy goals. Fluency and comprehension, especially.” She pauses. “Any questions?”

As per usual in a room of high school seniors, asking questions is public enemy number one. In our silence, Miss Green leads the line of students in, pairing each of them with each of us. The other mentors ooh and ahh at how cute they are, but I’m indifferent; I just want to get this over with. I might want kids one day, but I want my own kid, not somebody else’s. And I definitely don’t want them today.

We were instructed to bring reading material to share, but as Amanda pulls picture books out of her backpack, I wonder if my copy of Newsweek missed the mark.

A little boy sits next to me wearing a raccoon-tailed hat, and we regard each other. I read his name tag, but since I don’t know how else to start the conversation, I ask, “What’s your name?”

He lifts his little chin. “Davy Crockett,” he says, hint of fight in his voice.

That’s not what his name tag says but I don’t care what I call him.

“The king of the wild frontier?”