She was digging our grave with a teaspoon. Mrs. Tremaine tilted her head slightly. Not angry. Worse. Suspicious.
“Oh?” she said. “I wasn’t aware Eleanor was . . . making new friends.”
Mel muttered under her breath, “Oh boy.”
Stacey’s smile didn’t fade, but her eyes had sharpened, curious and humming with Tremaine-level gossip potential.
My pulse kicked up a notch. This was bad. Not terrible yet, but definitelyoff.
You could feel the air shift.
They had both just mentally connected dots in this lobby, and we were not ready for them to connect.
And from the corner of my eye, I saw the doors from backstage open, and Eleanor stepped out with a costume in her hands, searching the crowd. Her gaze landed on us briefly. Her eyes widened.
The moment froze.
And I felt the ground shift under all of us.
We shuffled back into the auditorium with our water bottles and popcorn, but the easy chatter from earlier was gone. The run-in with Mrs. Tremaine had left a chill clinging to me like fog.
I didn’t know the full extent of Eleanor’s relationship with her mother, but I knew enough now to recognize tension when I saw it. The kind that lived in your bones, not your words. The kind that made your shoulders want to hunch even when you stood up straight.
Mel plopped into her seat and whispered, “Okay, that was weird, right?”
Belle scoffed, crossing her arms. “Why did I say that? Why? That woman terrifies me, and it’s like I can’t shut up.”
I kept my eyes on the stage, scanning instinctively for Eleanor even though she wasn’t out here yet. “Yeah,” I murmured. “I’m sure it’s fine.” I was not sure . . . at all.
Mel leaned over me. “Her sister seemed nicer.”
“Mm-hmm,” Belle said, clearly unconvinced. “Nicer like a wolf in better lipstick.”
I didn’t laugh.
Because truthfully, I couldn’t stop thinking about Eleanor’s face when she saw us with her mother. That flicker of shock. That tightening around her mouth. That resigned bracing.
She’d told me what living with her mom was like. Now I was watching the live-action version.
I settled into my seat but sat at an angle, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
As I sat there, I tried to decide if I should text her. Give her a heads-up of what had just happened.
But would that make it worse? Would it draw attention if she checked her phone backstage?
She had enough going on. And the last thing I wanted was to make whatever that . . . situation was any harder.
I locked my phone and shoved it into my pocket.
“Are you going to message her?” Belle whispered, leaning dramatically close.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’ll talk to her after the show.”
Belle nodded, surprisingly gentle. Mel gave me a sympathetic pat.
The house lights dimmed for the second act.
I tried to focus on the stage, on the kids, on the magic of it all.
