Fine, maybe it’s a little cold.
“You called herthat woman. Like she put a curse on our great-grandparents, or something. You know Scottie.”
“Yeah, I know her the same way I know Mildred in accounting—she’s employed by the same organization that pays my salary, so I’m polite. But if Mildred had led me on for nine months and then started dating the biggest tool in MLB history, I wouldn’t keep bringing her coffee.”
“I knew you had a crush on Mildred,” I say. “And Scottie didn’t lead me on.”
“You saw her with a lost kid one time and decided she was it for you.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
He’s not wrong about the kid. Last April, during the postgame rush, a girl—maybe seven or eight—had followed the wrong crowd through a propped staff door and ended up in the service corridor beneath the stands. Logan and I were cutting through on our way to the parking lot when I heard it: not crying, which somehow made it worse. Just this small, effortful breathing, like she was working very hard not to fall apart.
She was pressed against the concrete wall outside the equipment room with her arms locked around her knees, her face tipped up at the fluorescent lights like she was trying to memorize the ceiling. Her cheeks were wet. In her hand was a bag of cotton candy, blue and pink, squished almost flat where she’d been gripping it.
We were about to stop when we saw Scottie was already there.
She didn’t crouch down in that performative way adults do with kids. She didn’t sayit’s okayordon’t cryor any of the things that make kids go numb so adults can feel more comfortable. She just sat cross-legged on the concrete floor in fancy slacks, close enough to be a presence but not so close as to crowd the girl. She sat there like it was the only place shewanted to be. Like hanging out in that corridor with that scared kid wringing her cotton candy was her only plan for the evening.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Becca.”
“Okay, Becca. I’m Scottie. Do you know your dad’s phone number or just his name?”
The girl knew his name. Scottie nodded, pulled out her radio, and rattled off a description to someone on the other end with the same tone she’d use to request a facilities update. No drama. Nopoor baby.Just: here’s the situation, here’s what we need, here’s how we’re going to solve it.
Her competence was more comforting than any gushing ever could be.
And Logan and I were just standing there, ten feet away, watching.
When Scottie put the radio away, she looked at the cotton candy.
“That’s pretty squished.”
Becca looked down at it. “I like it squished.”
Scottie clicked her tongue. “Ooh, that’s a shame. Cotton candy’s best when it’s still fluffy.”
“No, it isn’t,” Becca said, matching Scottie’s confident tone like she didn’t have red slushy drips on her shorts. “When it’s squished it gets sweeter. The sugar all sticks together.”
Scottie’s eyes went flat behind her glasses. “I’m going to need to verify that claim.”
Becca held the bag out.
Scottie pinched off a piece of the flattened section, put it in her mouth, and chewed once. Then she went quiet.
“Huh,” she said.
“See?” Becca said.
“I’m not ready to concede entirely,” Scottie said, taking one more pinch and setting it on her tongue. “Shoot. You’re right.”
Becca smirked. “Told you.”
Logan and I looked at each other. Then we sat down on the floor on Becca’s other side, our long legs folded up like we were in kindergarten, because neither of us was going to leave Scottie sitting alone in a concrete corridor with a scared kid if we could help it.
“Can we get in on this?” I asked, and a grin broke over Becca’s face as she held open the bag.
