But right outside the kitchen door she heard her parents talking. Laughing, actually. Those whisper-laughs that sounded like little wheezes.

“Honestly,” her mom said, “it’s an understandable mistake. If I’d just read the word without hearing it, I would’ve pronounced it wrong, too.”

“But she’s never heard it? Of course she has. She couldn’t put two and two together?” Her dad’s voice a not-quite-whisper. “That’s the concerning part, if we can be serious for a second. The not-putting-two-and-two-together that hors d’oeuvres are hors d’oeuvres.”

“Oh, come on,” her mom said back, her voice gaining a little volume, as Marianne heard her lightly smack Marianne’s dad’s arm. “It’s not concerning. It’s just the beginning of the year.”

“Love, we’re talking about Marianne here,” her dad said. “She’s never been the ‘star pupil’ type.”

“I think it’s brave she just goes for it even if she doesn’t know how to say something,” her mom said. “When I was a kid? I had panic attacks at the thought of doing a single thing wrong.”

“My little type A perfectionist,” her dad said. And there was quiet for a second. Ew, were they kissing?

“Poor kid,” her dad said after a minute. “So she’s a bit of a ditz sometimes. Doesn’t make me love her any less!”

“Ethan,” her mom laughed, “don’t say that.”

“It’s true! Not every kid is ‘gifted.’ Who cares?” her dad said, chewing on something.

“It can’t be easy watching Lillian just breeze through life, acing it. That must be hard,” her mom said.

“They just come out who they are, don’t they?” her dad said. “And she came out adorable and sweet and she will love state school.”

“Ethan!” Her mom must have smacked him again.

“Hey, it’s cheaper for us!” he said. “Kidding, kidding,” he added.

They both started laughing harder, and Marianne went back upstairs.

So she’s a bit of a ditz sometimes, her dad had said.

Was that what Lorelai Wheeler was? she had wondered. A “ditz”?

The path had instantly become clear. They’d carved it out for her. Who didn’t love someone adorable and sweet and stupid?

Lorelai had given her the perfect example: Don’t cry; don’t fidget or hide or blush. Be bubbly, without a care in the world.

Shrug and giggle and disappear.

Her parents had seen her that way, anyway. Why not embrace it?

And it had helped her survive.

“Ms. Blume? Are you still with us?” Mr. Garcia asked, dipping his head a little lower to get her attention, like he was searching for contact. “Ms. Blume, what will be point one?”

With no words but only a smile-free face, she tried to implore him to please not make her do this, please, not then, not when everyone thought she was a winner, not when she knew she was a fraud.

But he waited for her answer.

She checked the clock. Twenty minutes left to go. No escape.

She glanced at her notes. She’d written nothing.

She could picture Lorelei Wheeler perfectly, twisting her hair and batting her lashes and putting on makeup during class and cheering everyone else on while she giggled every question away. Marianne wished she could talk to her and find out how she’d really felt about being cute and stupid and discover what she’d really been interested in and confused about and good at.