Page 60 of Cinder
“For?”
“In case she needs some playground diplomacy, or a reminder that she can be brave.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to do all that.”
“I know.” She keeps writing. “I like doing it.”
“You realize she’ll expect it every day, now.”
“So?” Penny glances up. “Five-year-olds need to be brave all the time. Grown-ups have just forgotten how hard it is.”
My brow pulls into a frown, but not because she’s wrong. “Hard how?”
Her expression softens. “New classrooms and loud kids. Missing her dad, or asking to be included… Small things can feel pretty big when you’re little, and it’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
The words land a little too close, and I wonder who has made her think of bravery in that way.
“That’s a lot for one penguin joke.”
Her mouth curves. “Penguins are very emotionally capable.”
She finishes the note and folds it up, tucking it into the side pocket of Elle’s lunch box.
I move further into the kitchen and lean back against the counter, watching her move around. She wipes down the counter without thinking about it, then refills the coffee before it runs dry. Moves the salt back into the exact spot I always leave it.
None of what she’s doing feels performative, she just notices things. What’s empty, or needs replacing, or what might make somebody’s day brighter before they even think to ask.
I used to think that was normal, that if you kept giving enough of yourself to people, eventually they’d meet you there. Turns out some people are happy to keep taking as long as you let them.
Stacey was.
The thought twists ugly in my gut because I know exactly what people do with someone like Penny. They get used to the lightand the warmth. The kind who get so used to being taken care of that they stop noticing the person doing it.
And if this is the version of Penny her stepfamily had, and still managed to hurt her, then they were too damn blind to deserve her in the first place.
She hums along with the chorus again, off-key and unbothered. The house used to be quiet at this hour of the morning. I’d get up, make coffee, get Elle dressed and pack her lunch, then get out the door.
Now there’s music in it.
She glances over her shoulder at me, and I look away first. “You’re very judgy for someone who hasn’t contributed to any kitchen dance parties yet.”
“I’m not dancing.”
She takes a gulp of her coffee. “You shifted your weight from one foot to the other yesterday.”
“That was a balance thing. Checking my reflexes. Very important for what I do.”
Her mouth curves. “Still counts.”
The song shifts into the chorus again, and she moves without thinking, her bare feet sliding over the tile and a hip knocking lightly against the counter. I push off the counter and reach for my own mug, trying my hardest to avoid watching her.
Thankfully, right on cue, there’s a thud down the hallway. A door creaks open, then small feet pad across carpet.
Penny’s eyes light up before Elle even appears. “Showtime.”
Elle shuffles into the kitchen, her hair a little wild and one pajama sleeve twisted halfway up her arm. She stops dead in the doorway, blinks once at the music, then grins.
“Is it a dance party morning again?”
