“I... yes? My name is Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you, Audrey. Did he explain his reasoning?”
Audrey glances at me. I feel my ears heating. “Eventually,” she says. “Yes.”
“Good. Communication is important.” Michaela nods, satisfied with her data collection. “You’re pretty. And you’re the scientist, right? The one my dad said makes him less weird?”
“I don’t know about less weird,” Audrey says. “Maybe just weird in better ways.”
“That’s acceptable.” Michaela gestures at her display board. “Now. Would you like to hear about why dolphins—or delphinids, if you want to be scientific about it—are actually smarter than dogs, even though dogs have better PR?”
The presentation is remarkable.
She’s structured her argument with a precision I associate with peer-reviewed papers, not second-graders. Brain-to-body-mass ratios. Problem-solving studies. Communication complexity analysis. There’s even a limitations section acknowledging the inherent difficulties in cross-species intelligence measurement.
“She cited unihemispheric slow-wave sleep,” Audrey whispers, impressed.
“I taught her that term.” A small point of pride.
When Michaela finishes, we applaud. She accepts the recognition with a small bow, then immediately drops the professional demeanor.
“Did you see Principal Harrison watching? She said my methodology was ‘impressively rigorous.’ That’s administrator-speak for ‘you’re definitely getting honors.’”
“I’m sure you earned it,” David says, and his eyes drift over to where Principal Harrison is now speaking with another group of parents near the refreshment table—which, I notice, features actual catering rather than store-bought cookies.
Michaela follows his gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “You should go talk to her, Dad.”
“Michaela.”
“What? I’m just saying. She asked about you last week. Wanted to know how you were doing after the whole Mom thing.” She shrugs innocently. “I told her you were sad buthandling it. And that you make really good pancakes on weekends.”
David pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why would you tell her about pancakes?”
“Because it’s true. And because she said she can’t cook. So I was being helpful. You could make her pancakes sometime.”
“That’s not—we’re not—” David looks desperately at the rest of us for help. No one offers any.
“She’s pretty,” Michaela continues relentlessly. “And smart. Just like Audrey and Layla and Serena. Those are important qualities in a life partner. Right, Uncle Bennett?”
Bennett clears his throat. “Right.”
“And she doesn’t have any kids, which means she probably wants some, and you already have me, so that’s like a bonus?—”
“Michaela.” David’s ears have gone crimson. “That’s not appropriate.”
“I’m just being helpful.”
“You’re being a menace.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Caleb laughs so hard he has to lean on Serena for support. “God, I love this kid.”
“Don’t encourage her,” David says, but he’s fighting a smile.
Principal Harrison chooses this moment to approach. I watch David’s systems fail in real-time—posture overcorrection, voice modulation malfunction, complete inability to determine appropriate hand placement.
“Mr. Kingsley,” she says warmly, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m so glad you could make it. And you brought quite the cheer section.”
