Page 77 of Cinder
“Why?” I straighten slightly. “What happened?”
“At dance class today,” she starts, folding the cloth once and setting it down. “One of the moms referred to me as ‘the new arrangement.’”
She huffs a chuckle, clearly trying to deflect the entire thing, but I’m immediately irritated by the inference.
“Then she made some loaded comment about how lovely it is that families can findhelpso quickly.”
“They said that?”
The question comes out lower than I mean it to, and she watches me for a second, probably weighing whether I’m going to overreact.
“It wasn’t outright rude or anything,” she adds. “But I knew what she was getting at—felt the prickles of judgment.”
I nod, feeling the familiar stillness settle in my shoulders. It’s the same kind that settles before a call when the details start to narrow. The same kind that used to settle when Stacey would reappear with apologies and promises she couldn’t keep.
“Did you handle it?”
“I always handle it.”
She says it so casually I’m left with no doubt she’s had to handle things similar to this before, then she moves around the island to perch on one of the stools instead of continuing to tidy. The nervous energy hasn’t fully left her, but it’s shifted into something calmer now.
“Which one was it?”
“She didn’t introduce herself, but she was Olivia’s mom,” she says. “Which explains a bit considering what Elle told me about Olivia today.”
Of course it does.
“Olivia said something, too?”
“She called Elle’s sandwich a bird.”
I blink. “Itwasa bird.”
“Mhmm. Then she clarified that penguins are for babies.”
The irritation that flashes through me is sharper than it should be.
“She’s five,” I say, but then pause to take a breath and let my eyes meet hers. “What’d you say?”
“I told her it would be a boring world if everyone was the same, and that she doesn’t need to stop liking something just because someone else is loud about it.”
The kitchen feels smaller suddenly.
“You told her that?”
She hesitates, then nods, and something warm rolls through me as I study her.
“You make it look easy,” I say quietly.
“It isn’t.” She shakes her head. “I just remember what it felt like.”
She reaches for the edge of the counter instead of the rag this time, her fingers curling there as though she needs something solid to hold onto.
“It’s hard being the kids who sticks out,” she says after a second. “You start thinking the solution is to file yourself down until you fit in.”
I swallow, imagining how Elle would’ve looked at the barre this afternoon, with her shoulders squared just a little too deliberately, trying to be brave.
“But she didn’t?” I ask quietly.
