I knew that the revolutionary speech Emmett had given at the Pittsburgh summit last week had been written on my laptop at three in the morning.

To my brother, I was just a strange sister who scribbled little things in coffee shops and had never accomplished anything of note.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the back of the room, where I found the disaster that was Table Nineteen.

There were plastic cups and crayons scattered everywhere, plates of cold chicken nuggets, and a baby crying in a stroller.

I sat down in the middle of the chaos until a young boy with a crooked bowtie looked up and told me he liked my dress.

“Thank you very much,” I replied with a small smile.

“I like monsters and fast cars,” he told me, holding up a blue crayon.

“I like those things too,” I said, as the woman watching the children gave me a sympathetic look from across the table.

“Did they exile you to the corner as well?” she whispered with a tired laugh.

I told her I apparently didn’t fit the desired profile for the main tables, and she said at least nobody at this table was pretending to be someone else.