Once, her friends even pushed me onto a stage during a gathering. “Eds, sing us a song!” they cheered.
I froze under the spotlight, my face burning red like a steamed crab. “I can’t,” I stammered. “I sing out of tune.”
Their playful jeering only grew louder. I had no choice but to stumble through a rendition of “July,” forgetting half the lyrics and singing off-key.
After that, no one invited me out again. Their parting comment lingered in my mind: “Eds, you’re a little different from before.”
Hurt but resigned, I returned to my solitary routine: shuttling between home, the lab, and the piano room. It didn’t matter. I was used to it. Or so I told myself.
On my birthday, I took the day off, applied light makeup, and went to the airport to pick up Kim.
She spotted me immediately, running over with excitement—but the shock in her eyes was impossible to miss.
“Why are you dressed so plainly?” she blurted. “Where’s your sexy, hot camisole? And your big waves? You’ve straightened your hair?” Her voice softened as she added, “Eds, why do I feel like you’re... a little different from before?”
That word again. Different. It pierced me like a needle, sharp and unrelenting.