Several parents turned to look at me. I pretended not to notice.
"She's going to be a great performer," Emma whispered, leaning close enough that her breath tickled my ear. "No stage fright whatsoever."
"She gets that from Rebecca. My sister could walk into any room and own it within five minutes." I shifted slightly in my plastic chair, which creaked ominously under my weight. "I'd rather face a mountain lion than a crowd."
"And yet here you are. In a crowd. Surrounded by small-town parents and questionable popcorn."
"Special circumstances."
She smiled at that, something knowing in her expression.
The music teacher, a nervous young man who looked like he was seriously reconsidering his career choices, raised his hands. The children fell silent with varying degrees of success. Then they began to sing.
The song was about autumn leaves, delivered with the magnificent off-key enthusiasm that only elementary school choirs can achieve. One boy in the front row was clearly just mouthing the words. A girl at the end was singing at approximately twice the tempo of everyone else. Sarah was belting out every note with determination, her small face screwed up in concentration.
It was objectively terrible. It was also, somehow, wonderful.
Emma sang along softly beside me, her voice a gentle melody under the chaos. She clapped enthusiastically after each number, cheered when the children took their bows, wiped her eyes when a tiny kindergartener forgot his solo and just stood there frozen until the music teacher gently sang the first note for him.
I tried to clap in rhythm with everyone else, feeling clumsy and oversized in my too-small chair. I couldn't stop glancing at Emma's profile; the way the gymnasium lights caught the gold in her hair, the soft curve of her smile, the genuine delight in her eyes.
She caught me looking during the third song. Instead of looking away, she reached over and squeezed my hand once, quickly, before returning her attention to the stage.
My heart forgot how to beat properly for several seconds.
After the performance, Sarah found us in the crowd, vibrating with post-show energy.
"Did you see me? I remembered all the words! Even the hard part in the second verse!"
"You were incredible," Emma said, crouching to her level. "A true professional."
"I was the loudest," Sarah announced proudly.
"Volume is definitely a strength," I agreed.
We wandered through the festival together, Sarah running ahead to examine every booth while Emma and I followed at a more reasonable pace. She introduced me to people along the way, smoothing over my awkward pauses with practiced ease.
"Janet, have you met Cole? Sarah's uncle? He's been such a wonderful help with our Saturday tutoring program."
Janet, a woman with aggressively highlighted hair and an expression that suggested she was mentally cataloging this information for later gossip, looked between us with obvious curiosity. "The beekeeper? From up on the ridge?"
"That's me."
"Well." Her gaze sharpened with interest. "How nice that you could make it down from the mountain."
"Cole's wonderful with Sarah," Emma added, her tone perfectly pleasant and completely insistent.
"I'm sure he is," Janet said, in a tone that suggested she wasn't sure at all, but was very interested in learning more.
We escaped toward the pumpkin display, Emma steering us with diplomatic grace.
"You handled that well," she said quietly, once we were out of earshot.
"I didn't handle anything. You did all the handling. I just stood there looking vaguely threatening."
"Teamwork. You provided a stoic presence. I provided words. A perfect division of labor."
"Seems unbalanced."
