The main hall at Michaela’s school has been transformed into a showcase space—elegant display stations, tasteful lighting, children in navy uniforms presenting their research with alarming competence. It’s objectively impressive. It’s also a minefield of unstructured social interaction. My nervous system is looking for an out.
“You doing OK?” Audrey murmurs, squeezing my hand.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You look like you’re calculating escape routes.”
“I’m not—” I stop. She’s right. I’m dreaming about the outside where it’s less peopley. “There are three. Four if you count the window, but we’re on the second floor, so the probability of injury is?—”
“Logan.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m fine. Really.”
I’m not fine. I’m in a room full of parents who all seem to know each other, making the kind of effortless small talk that has always eluded me. Someone’s discussing a vacation home in Lake Geneva. Someone else is comparing notes on summer enrichment programs. A woman in cashmere just touched my arm and asked if I was Michaela’s uncle and I said, ‘statistically, no’ before Audrey rescued me.
This is why I prefer servers to people. Servers don’t ask follow-up questions.
“There she is,” Caleb says, nodding toward a display near the windows.
Michaela stands beside a tri-fold board covered in photos, graphs, and what appears to be a hand-drawn dolphin wearing a graduation cap. She’s added a blazer over her uniform—because of course she has—and she’s gesturing emphatically at a woman I recognize immediately.
Principal Harrison. Auburn hair in a low twist. Green eyes. The same calm competence I observed the day David and I came to collect Michaela after Kelsie’s unauthorized appearance.
“Is that her teacher?” Layla asks.
“That’s Principal Harrison,” David says, and his voice does something strange. Tighter. Higher. The vocal equivalent of a system under unexpected load.
I watch him watch her. Rapid breaths. Dilated pupils. Involuntary postural adjustment. It’s like his body is trying to optimize for attractiveness without consulting his brain first.
“Ah,” Audrey whispers so only I can hear. “That’s her? The principal you told me about?”
“That’s her.”
“She’s pretty.”
She is. And David is currently exhibiting approximately seven of the twelve physiological indicators of romantic attraction. Michaela was right about the stars.
“Earth to David,” Dominic says, waving a hand. “You good?”
“Great.” David clears his throat twice. “Let’s go see Michaela’s project.”
We navigate through the crowd. I keep Audrey’s hand in mine—partly because I want to, mostly because it gives me something to focus on besides the social chaos. A man in a blazer nods at me. I nod back. This seems to satisfy him. Human interaction is occasionally simpler than I expect.
Michaela spots us, and her face transforms. “You all came!”
She bounces once, then composes herself again. The shift from child to mini-professional takes approximately 0.3 seconds. Impressive emotional regulation for an eight-year-old.
“Wouldn’t miss it, monster,” Caleb says, reaching for her hair.
She blocks him. “Uncle Caleb, I’m a professional tonight. No hair touching.”
“My apologies, counselor.”
Her attention shifts to me, eyes narrowing. “You’re back. Did you fix things with your lady friend?”
Audrey stiffens beside me. “His what?”
“When Uncle Logan came to my school, we had a talk while Dad was in Principal Harrison’s office.” Michaela delivers this information like a quarterly report. “He said he liked someone, but did something that hurt her feelings. I told him people can’t forgive you if they don’t understand.” She examines Audrey with clinical interest. “Are you the lady friend?”
