When the music stopped the first time, there was an empty chair right in front of me, and so everything was fine. But when the music stopped the second time, the closest chair already had someone sitting in it, someone who was squeezing the seat with both hands. I got really worried then, because even though I didn’t have time to look, I guessed all the other chairs were already taken, too. Which meant that, any second now, everyone was going to yell “You’re out!”

At me.

Unlike Ben Larson’s mom (oops, more about that party later), Carrie Greenhouse’s mom talked to my mom right in front of me.

“—and she just—shoved him out of the chair. Onto the floor.”

Mom looked sorry and turned to me. “Bea, did you apologize?”

Carrie’s mom said, “I just think it’s so important that kids know how to be uncomfortable for a second, you know? She needs to learn— Oh, thank you! For coming!”

We were standing right next to the elevator, and people were streaming by, grabbing party bags from a big basket next to Carrie’s apartment door. Jason Feld’s little brother cried for a party bag, and Carrie’s mom turned away from us, waved at the basket, and said, “Of course he can have one! I got extras, just in case! Of course I’m sure!”

Mom squeezed my hand: once, twice, three times.

I. Love. You.

I squeezed hers back: once, twice.

How. Much.

And then Mom squeezed mine again, long and hard.

Sooo much.

Carrie’s mom turned back to us. “Maybe there’s a book you can buy her? My sister is a teacher, and she says this kind of problem doesn’t usually get better on its own. Unfortunately.”

Yes, even Carrie Greenhouse’s horrible mother has a sister.

Mom was polite to her. We got into the elevator. And then, just as the doors were closing, I threw my party bag at Carrie’s mom. It hit the wall right behind her, and everything inside—candy corn, mostly—exploded all over the floor.

Later I told Miriam that when I saw that candy flying everywhere, it was like fireworks were going off inside me, but there were two kinds of fireworks—one kind felt really bad, like I didn’t want to be doing what I was doing, but the other kind felt good. Like I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing.

Miriam said that if I had looked past the moment I was afraid of, which was the moment of not getting a chair when the music stopped, I would have seen that pushing someone off a chair onto the floor was not the best idea, because then everyone looked at me much more.

That’s called thinking two steps ahead.