There’s a song in Wicked where Glinda belts out the gospel of being Popular — full of sparkle, fluff, and self-assurance. Every time I hear it, I think of my sister. In high school, she was Glinda in the flesh. Being liked was her oxygen. She wanted to be included,

Every Thanksgiving, I used to drag myself to my aunt’s house. It was always the same scene: too much food, too many questions, and everyone pretending they’ve been living interesting lives. We’d do the same polite dance: hugs, updates, gossip, and that inevitable interrogation about what I’