I thought she’d realized I was never going to take the bait. Never.
“It’s just that—”
“I’m capable of dating without your help.”
Mother’s eyes lit up with hope. “Are you seeing someone?”
“No,” I replied shortly.
“You know, I always thought you and Owen Campbell would make a—”
“I know what you’ve thought.”
Owen and I had come to a kind of unspoken truce since our argument—at least, I assumed we had, since we were both acting like everything was fine between us. But even if Owen weren’t a factor, I couldn’t imagine anything more excruciating than a blind date set up by one of my parents.
Mother and I were silent for a long time after that. I considered turning on the radio, despite the fact that 95 percent of what played on it made me cringe. Eventually, she said, “I worry about you, Gideon.”
I briefly closed my eyes.
“You’re so isolated,” she went on.
“I attend high school. It’s impossible to be isolated while attending high school.”
“How many people do you interact with while you’re there?”
“I have plenty of friends.”
“You have Cass.”
“And Arden,” I pointed out.
“You’ve never been very welcoming to Arden.”
Mother was an extrovert. She couldn’t understand that having a small social circle never made me feel like I was lacking. I didn’t want tons of friends. She thought that made me broken, like something was essentially wrong at my core. And I hated that.
Different humans had different needs.
For instance: a man of average height and weight with an active lifestyle might require 3,500 calories a day to maintain weight and be functional. Whereas a similarly sized man who was entirely sedentary would require 2,200 calories. Though the men might have the same BMI (body mass index), each has specific caloric needs that fit their unique bodies.
Social interaction was the same.
Mother was bolstered by social events. I was the opposite. It didn’t mean anything was wrong with me, just that she and I were made differently.
“Will you at least consider it?” Mother asked.
“Consider what?”
“Going on a date with Alex. I think you’d like him.”
Resentment welled up inside of me. Why couldn’t she accept me for who I was?
“I just don’t want you to be one of those people,” she went on.
I raised my eyebrows. “What people would those be?”
“Someone who lives for their work and looks back one day and realizes how little life they’ve experienced.”
I barked out a sharp laugh. Mother lived for work as much as I did. She never even had to work—it was her choice. She went from venture to venture, never able to settle down, because she needed to be in motion, needed to be accomplishing something. She was even willing to overlook an absurd alien story, just because it might help grow her business.
And I’d experienced plenty of life. It wasn’t the same way Mother experienced it; it wasn’t made up of personal interactions and social events. But I knew how the world functioned. I knew how nebula became star systems. I knew how hydrogen and helium formed the gas giants, while other atoms formed the terrestrial worlds. I knew Earth’s ideal conditions for life and I knew the Drake equation said there must be other, similar, planets out there.
I knew about the universe, the wide scope of it.
That was life. Looking at the sky, seeing stars and planets and galaxies, seeing the intricate way they functioned together, the balance of it. That was an experience. I’d never trade it for a bunch of awkward first dates.
There was more to life than the human experience. It was so hard to grasp that most people didn’t even try. But you could experience life on a universal scale. On a cosmic scale. You just had to open your mind to it.
I didn’t tell Mother any of this for two reasons:
1. She’d probably take it as further proof of my oddness.
2. We’d arrived at our destination.
I’d seen some of the Seekers’ campgrounds while traveling around Lansburg, and I assumed J. Quincy Oswald’s setup would be similar. In some ways, it was. There were tents and campers, and a music festival sort of look. Or, at least, what I imagined a music festival would look like.
But while the Seekers had set up a commune, Oswald had a kingdom. And as with every kingdom, the king had a castle that set him apart from the peasants.
Calling J. Quincy Oswald’s temporary home an RV was inadequate. It was a palace on wheels, the largest and gaudiest camper I’d ever seen.
Tents and lesser RVs surrounded Oswald’s grandiose