“First of all, let’s talk about this boy,” John said with a frown. He’d already spent most of his college years prying Jessi away from the lurid clutches of frat boys. He wasn’t ready for round two. “You don’t have to say anything to him if you don’t want to. A simple ‘hi’ will do just fine.”

Becca just glared. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I like him, Uncle Johnny, and I’m trying not to look like a complete idiot in front of him in P.E., which is hard to do when I’m tripping over my own giraffe legs.”

“You’re going to be tall like your dad and me,” he tried.

“But do I have to be tall now?”

“Girls grow earlier than boys,” John said. “And this business about not looking like other girls is silly.” He knew that wasn’t even scratching the surface. What Becca was referring to was much deeper than that. She was attending a predominantly white private school and couldn’t find her crowd. He could relate to an extent, but would never fully understand her anxiety.

Her expression told him as much. Before she could shut down and return to “nothing,” he had to convince her that she was alright.

“What has your mom told you about fitting in?”

“That it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, she’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still feeling shitty.”

Becca’s eyes went round. “Uncle Johnny—”

He held up a hand. “Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush, honey. Being twelve is shitty. You just left fifth grade where you knew everyone, your mom is in Europe doing work you don’t understand or care about, and your parents are divorced. Is that the long and short of it?”

She nodded.

“Okay, got it. You can’t control these things. You can’t go back to fifth grade, you can’t bring your mom back early, and whatever is going on with your parents is their problem.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “You’re going to one of Farmingdale’s whitest schools, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make friends with girls who think like you. There’s got to be at least ten like-minded girls who can create another vegan feminist collective, right?”

Becca managed a hesitant smile. “Maybe?”

“Alright, find those girls, form a gang, and start your own zine about dismantling industrial farming.”

“Okay...”

“And about not being blonde, blue eyed, and average height... You are truly beautiful as you are.”

A shadow flickered across her delicate features. “I don’t feel like it.”

“And you’re not going to feel like it for a few years,” John said honestly. “Everyone who hits this age feels strange in their bodies, but it’s because you’re still growing, Becca.”

“It’s just hard, is all.”