She’s only sharpened six in the electric sharpener but my nose already itches and burns while thoughts of lead poisoning dance through my head.

“Why don’t you sharpen just one twelve pack?” I suggest, making Eva her favorite sandwich, two slices of bland turkey with a smear of mayo on extremely white bread.

She doesn’t even look up as she jabs the next pencil in. “We have to have all pencils sharpened.”

“But you can’t use all of them on the first day.”

“The school supply sheet said they had to be sharpened.”

I rest the mayo knife on the cutting board. “And it would just kill you to break a rule, wouldn’t it?”

My daughter glares at me and pushes another pencil into the sharpener, measures the progress with what’s quickly becoming a practiced eye. Drawing the pencil out, Eva studies the tip, puts it back in for another whirr, whirr, whirr.

Pencil sharpened, she returns it to the box and reaches for another.

I go back to finishing her sandwich.

I didn’t want to return to the Pacific Northwest, and I definitely didn’t want to live in suburbia. I love big cities and none suited me better than Manhattan with its river of taxi cabs and racing engines. I like the sirens at nights and the bright lights and how just two blocks off one street can be another all narrow and quiet, lined with the leafiest green trees.

The heavy humidity in summer suited me, and I never felt alone or lonely not with the thousands of impatient pedestrians, not with the battles for cabs or the ridiculous cost of housing. All the things that made it hard, were positives for me. All the difficulties were challenges I enjoyed meeting.

“Your lunch is ready,” I say, cutting her sandwich and putting it on the plate.

“Can I have an apple?”

“Yes.” I reach into the fruit basket beneath the counter.

Eva watched me slice the apple. “Are you going to the meeting today or not?”

“You really want me to go.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason you ask me to brush my teeth.”

I put down the knife. “What?”

“Some things we do because we have to do them. That’s what you’re always telling me. Brushing your teeth, seeing the dentist, getting shots.” Eva presses the next pencil into the sharpener for what seems like an endless moment. But when she removes it, the point is perfect. She blows the dust off the tip and places it in the box. “Going to meetings is the same thing. You don’t like it, but they make things better.”

“For whom?”

“Everybody.” Her shoulders lift, fall. “You. Me. The school.”

I can see even more clearly the reason why Eva’s struggling socially. She doesn’t talk or think like a typical nine year old. She talks and thinks like a little adult. Because we’re alone together so much Eva talks to me about everything, feels comfortable challenging me about anything, but then gets to school and can’t find the right nine year old tone and banter. Girls her age gossip and whisper. Eva discusses culture, education and politics.

My fault, I’m afraid.

Born in New York, we had a great apartment in Tribeca. From the time she was a toddler, Eva went to preschool and then elementary school with children whose parents were as diverse as the names in the phonebook, parents whose work ranged from jobs with non-profits, to the struggling musician and artist, to coveted positions with the United Nations.

Now my East Coast Eva tries to fit in with children that view adventure as a 4 star resort with 24 hour room service and an eighteen-hole golf course.

“I’ll go,” I say, still leaning against the counter. “We’ll go. Happy?”

She beams at me and immediately starts cleaning up her pencil mess. “So what are you going to wear?”

“No.”

“No what?” she asks innocently, stacking the remaining boxes of unsharpened pencils on the counter by the phone.

“I’ll go to the meeting, Eva. But I’m going as I am.”

“Don’t you think you want to dress up a little?”

I know in her eyes, I’m the mom who doesn’t volunteer very much in the classroom. I’m the mom who doesn’t know all the kids names. I’m the mom that sits alone at the country club pool. “I’m not going to dress to impress.”

“Other moms do.” She’s gotten the 409 and a paper towel from under the sink and is spraying and wiping all pencil residue away.

“And if that works for them, great. It doesn’t work for me.”

She almost slams the 409 on the table. “Why not?”

My hands go up. “I think it’s fake.”

“Why? Because you want to make a good impression?”

“It’s more than that, Eva. It’s changing who you are just to satisfy others. It’s worrying about what people think—“

“Which is important—“

“No! No, it’s not.”

She stares at me long and hard.

She’s such a pack animal and I appreciate her need to be part of a group, but there are dangers in a group. If you’re part of a pack you must think like the pack and follow the pack leader and I won’t do it. I’m not a follower. I’m a lone wolf. Leader of my own pack.

“I will go to the meeting,” I say more quietly as I carry our sandwiches to the table. “But I won’t change who I am.”