“Are you okay?” he asks into my shoulder.
I nod against his hair, but it’s a lie.
A messy, maternal lie.
Because I can’t give him answers.
Not yet.
And maybe not ever.
The classroom smellslike warm glue and melted crayon wax. There’s a sort of pre-performance buzz crackling in the air—the low hum of kids trying to act calm while vibrating with nerves. Paper stars hang from the ceiling on fishing wire. One of them’s already halfway untethered and drifting like it’s got stage fright.
I’m standing in the back, next to Principal Jennings, who looks like she’d rather be doing dental surgery than attending a kindergarten play.
“What’s this one called again?” she asks me in a tone that suggests it’s not really a question.
I glance at the flyer taped crookedly to the door. “‘The Kind Pirate and the Galaxy Cupcake.’”
She closes her eyes like she’s summoning patience from another dimension. “Of course.”
The lights dim.
A recording of classical space-opera music starts up—slightly too loud, slightly too glitchy—and the curtain (which is actually just a refitted shower screen) slides open.
Jav is crouched in the wings, feeding lines to a kid in a pirate hat that keeps sliding over his eyes. “Say it like youmeanit, Zay,” Jav whispers. “You’re apirate,not a politician.”
Zay nods gravely and charges onstage. “ARRR! I seek the sacred cupcake of the galaxy, but only if it be fair trade and free of allergens!”
The parents laugh. The teachers clap.
The play continues in utter chaos.
There’s a talking starfish with a speech impediment. A sentient cupcake that sings. A villain named “Dark Choco-lord” who’s defeated by a hug. The kids are clearly making up half the lines as they go, and Jav just rolls with it, improvising like a pro.
When the starfish forgets their cue, Jav steps in as “Captain Good-vibes” with a cape made out of a cafeteria tray and a glue stick wand. He dances.Dances.The kind of ridiculous, full-body commitment that says,I have no shame and I love these kids.
They love him back.
You can see it in their faces. The way they look at him like he’s the coolest grown-up alive. Like he hung the very paper stars above their heads. Like they’d follow him to the ends of the quadrant if he promised there’d be juice boxes and stickers.
Ben’s the cupcake, of course. Foam frosting hat and all.
When he trips over a moon prop and faceplants into a galaxy mat, Jav rushes onstage, scoops him up, and spins it into the ending:
“And thus, the Cupcake of Compassion saved us all… with sprinkles!”
The placeerupts.
Tiny claps. Squeals. A standing ovation from one dad who’s definitely been sipping from a “coffee” thermos that smells suspiciously like space rum.
The lights go up.
The kids bow, mostly out of sync.
Jav gives a little salute, and all the parents start mobbing the front for pictures.
I stay in the back.
