Elma May Willcott was a strange girl. At least, that is what everybody told her. Elma May did not feel strange; she felt like herself. In fact, she suspected it was the world that was weird, and not her. She did not care that she was not a proper girl. She didn’t wish to learn to make pie, or do needlepoint, or say please and thank you. All of those things were boring. Worse yet were the times when she was lectured by her mother about the need to be polite and laugh at unfunny jokes sweetly, like she cared.