She festooned our living room in green and yellow streamers, the colors of my new school. She cooked a small mountain of artichoke dip. Still, my mother persevered, awash in the delusion that I had kept my popularity secret from her all these years. Although I was more or less forced to invite all my “school friends,” i.e., the ragtag bunch of drama people and English geeks I sat with by social necessity in the cavernous cafeteria of my public school, I knew they wouldn’t come. To say that I had low expectations would be to underestimate the matter dramatically. THE WEEK BEFORE I left my family and Florida and the rest of my minor life to go to boarding school in Alabama, my mother insisted on throwing me a going-away party.
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