Then when we got in the car, Mom turned it on and turned the radio down.

“Remember when we told you about Turner syndrome?” Mom asked.

“Yes. We had chocolate cake. Are we going to get chocolate cake?”

Mom laughed. “If you want, but it’s not quite that kind of a chocolate cake moment. It’s another part of … everything.”

“The icing.”

She looked at me. “Do you remember the boy in your third-grade class who took medicine for ADHD?”

“Do I have ADHD?”

“No, no, you don’t, I’m trying to find an example…”

“Oh.”

“And maybe that’s not the right way to start … I don’t know. I’ve never had to explain … But, well, everyone learns differently, right?”

I nodded.

“And there are lots of things our brains do.”

“Yeah.”

“Now,” Mom said. “Your brain is working totally fine. It’s just that a lot of times with Turner syndrome there’s something else that happens that influences the way your brain learns things.”

“Like ADHD does.”

“Sort of, yes, but this is different. It’s called a nonverbal learning disorder.”

I looked at the deep line across the bridge of her nose. She still hadn’t started driving. “I have a learning disorder?”

“I don’t like that word,” Mom said, and she kept talking, almost to herself. “The literature makes it sound … And she asked if you wanted special modifications or special testing…” Mom looked at me. “You don’t need special help on tests, do you?”

“Special help?” I asked. “What do you mean? I ace my tests.”

Mom looked ahead and nodded. “That’s what I said.” She took a deep breath, then looked at me. “But sweetie, this is part of why you … why you worry about things or get focused on things that are making you anxious. This is why certain things are especially tricky for you. Like learning piano.”

I was so focused on trying to understand the worried way Mom kept looking at me that it took a second for the words to make sense.

“This is why piano was hard?” I said finally.

“Yes. A nonverbal learning disorder makes certain things more difficult, things that you can’t explain in words. Or maybe when you’re talking with people it’s harder to understand the things they don’t say out loud. Things like friends and piano stretch your brain in a really good way, but a hard way. Do you understand?”

Her eyes searched my face like a flashlight scanning words across a page.

I thought about Nonny’s Silent Questions, and her long fingers hopping across the piano keys like jumping spiders. This was why it took me so long to figure out about Silent Questions. This was why I couldn’t ever get my brain and hands to connect to the music no matter how much I practiced.

I didn’t quite know how to feel about this new information, like it was both hot and cold at the same time. This was another way I was different. Another way I couldn’t do things the way Mom and Nonny could. If they were graceful swans, was I always going to be a fuzzy little goose?