My stomach flipped over. What were they talking about? Me, of course. They had nothing else in common. What was my mom telling her? I had been presenting a carefully curated image of myself to Freya, revealing personal information only as I saw fit. My mother could blow this for me.

I hurried up to them. “Hey.”

My mom swept me into a hug. “Congratulations, honey!”

I turned to Freya who hugged me quickly. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“Freya says you’re an excellent potter,” my mom said.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” But I was pleased.

“Low’s my favorite student,” Freya added.

Other than a group of seniors Freya taught on Sunday afternoons, I knew I didn’t have a lot of competition. But still, I was warmed by the compliment.

“That’s so nice,” my mom said. “Can you join us for dinner, Freya?”

While I wanted to celebrate with Freya, the thought of bringing her back to our home filled me with anxiety. What would she think of our clutter and chaos? The plethora of parents bustling around the kitchen, playfully teasing and tickling each other. Our chickens, goats, and the pig? Would she judge us like so many others had?

“I’d love to,” Freya said, squeezing my mom’s hand, “but I’m meeting a friend.”

A friend?

Something dark and ugly filled my stomach, worked its way up to my chest and throat. It was jealousy. I’d experienced it years earlier with a brief middle school friendship. But this was deeper, more powerful. Because Freya had made me feel special, treasured, unique. She was mine and I was hers. And now I was finding out that she had a friend? Who was she? How had Freya found her? And could this mystery person offer Freya something that I could not?

She turned to me. “I’ve got to run, but I wanted to see you on your special day.” Standing on her toes, she pecked my cheek and then left.

I watched her hurry through the rain, as did my mom, Vik, Leonard, and a number of others intrigued by her beauty and presence. It could have been an excuse, I realized. The thought of eating lentil stew with my motley family may have provoked the invention of an imaginary friend. As Freya climbed into her white Range Rover, my mom spoke.

“She seems nice.”

“She is.”

“And she’s very pretty.”

“She’s beautiful.”

I could feel my mom’s eyes on me then: curious . . . even suspicious. But she must have pushed her innate protectiveness aside, because she smiled. “Let’s get you home. I made a big pot of dal. Your favorite.”

But dal wasn’t my favorite. A bacon double cheeseburger was my favorite. My own mother didn’t even know me.

“I’ll join you guys in a bit,” I said. “I want to stop by one of the grad parties.”

My dad approached us then. “I’ve got some homegrown in the glove box. Do you want to take it?”