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It has nothing to do with my goddamn clothes and everything to do with being famous. They’ve seen my face on magazines, television, and the internet.
I hold onto the fact that the children might not recognize me. Unless their parents let them on the internet without parental controls. Or watch reality TV—which would be doubtful. Our docu-series is uncensored on cable.
Ryke is no longer bleeped every four words.
I scan the desks. Two kids stare at me hardcore. Either they haven’t been taught it’s rude or they don’t give a shit. Maybe their parents subscribe to tabloids and they’ve seen my face in the pages.
I flash the driest half-smile, my features cutting like blades with that one action.
Their eyes bulge and they sink lower in their chairs.
Don’t pick on my kid, I’m thinking. He has to deal with enough, and I know what it feels like to have guys running after you in the hallways.
I feel the heat of a parent’s glare beside me. They’ve all been sizing me up and down since I walked in the goddamn room. For Christ’s sake, they’ve been watching me instead of the parent who speaks. I’m more uncomfortable because these aren’t strangers.
They’re the parents of Moffy’s peers, maybe even his friends.
I’ll never say this to Rose…but I wish she could be here. She’s stuck in another room down the hall. There are only four kindergarten classes at Dalton, and Jane and Moffy were unluckily split up.
“So when you’re older and you need your teeth nice and straight,” an orthodontist explains, “you’ll come to me.” He smiles wide, showing off his pearly whites. Everyone claps, and my nerves shift.
“Thank you, Dr. Ellis. That was very informative.” The teacher checks her list.
I fear mostly that I’ll do or say something to worsen Moffy’s situation. With Jonathan Hale as my dad, I learned to antagonize the people that hurt me, some that even tried to help me. Cut them up. Spit them out. I’d rather Moffy try to make friends than enemies, and I’m an influence on which way he goes.
I get it.
I crack some of my knuckles, and my nervous energy piles up at the teacher’s incoming words.
“Next is Maximoff’s father. Everyone give Mr. Hale a nice welcome.” She claps and the kindergarteners follow suit.
I slowly rise.
Moffy is already out of his chair before the teacher even says, “Maximoff, come and introduce your father to the class.” He wears a charcoal gray Sorin-X shirt and a Rylin Water’s wristband, all superheroes from The Fourth Degree.
As soon as he stops by my side, his bright face smothers every dark emotion inside of me. He has the biggest overpowering smile, three of his top teeth missing, and his eyes shine with some sort of pride. Of me. Jesus. My son is proud of me.
I’m not sure what for, but it almost rocks me back.
“This is my daddy.” Moffy motions to me with his thumb. “He’s got two jobs.” He holds up two fingers. “He owns Hale Co. and Halway Comics. The baby stuff is alright but the comics are soooo cool, and my mommy owns this café and comic book store where all the comics go. She’s awesome.”
Lily is going to freak out when I tell her this. That just made today worth every goddamn thing.
Moffy tilts his head up to me. “Alright, Daddy, it’s your turn.”
He hugs my side, I squeeze back, and then he returns to his seat.
Tone down your voice. It’s all I think right now.
Tone down my edged, I’m-going-to-kill-you voice. So I clear my throat once before I smile—a half-smile. Great.
I look to Moffy, and his lively smile never vanishes.
I can do this.
“Like Moffy said,” I tell the class, “the baby stuff is alright. The really neat thing is working with comics for a living.” My voice is harsh but not terrible. I can do this. “For my job, artists and writers submit comics they want to see in print. I have to choose which ones my publishing company will pick up. From there, I have a team that specializes in marketing, editing, design and merchandise. Like making action figures and posters.”
A little girl with brown pigtails raises her hand.
I point at her. “What’s up?”
“Do you have any girl superheroes?” she wonders.
“We do.” I nod. “In The Fourth Degree comics, there’s Tilly Stayzor, a fan favorite, but my personal favorite is Rylin Waters. She has the power of—”
“Electricity!” a little redheaded boy exclaims. He leans towards the girl. “Ohmygosh, it’s so cool. You need to see it, Mindy. She’s on The Fourth Degree: You and Me cartoon!”
The first season just aired.
“He’s right,” I say. “Rylin Waters can manipulate electricity, but if she pushes her powers too far, she can also short-circuit and lose her memory.” I gesture to Moffy who has the bag of action figures.
He climbs out of his chair and sets Rylin Waters on Mindy’s desk.
“We brought some action figures for everyone from the line. That’s Rylin,” I tell the little girl. She’s awed for a moment, and then I help Moffy pass out the rest.
“So that’s about it,” I tell the class. “I get to play with toys all day.”
Another hand in the air. I hold my breath for a second, always expecting a bomb to drop, but I nod for them to speak.
“What about your other job?” the redhead asks. “Hale Co.? What’s that?”
“It’s a company that produces baby products. If you have baby oil or diapers or pacifiers in your home and notice an HC on the label, that’s Hale Co.”
Another hand. Christ. “What do you do there?”
“I’m the CEO,” I say. “Which means, I run the entire company.”
Lots of child-like ooohs while the parent section is far from impressed. I’m not looking for their approval, but the guy that I’d been sitting next to—the stockbroker—yeah, he rolls his eyes.
“Like I said,” I proclaim, “the comics are more fun.”
“Aren’t you an actor?” a blonde girl asks. “I’ve seen you on my TV.”
“It’s not acting,” Moffy cuts in. “It’s real.”
“What Moffy said.” I turn to the teacher, hoping she’ll end this now. Princesses of Philly was so fucking long ago, and to this day, networks still air reruns, which blows my mind. We didn’t even make it to the end of the season. I can name a hundred better television shows to play on loop.
The teacher must take note of my sharpened glare. “Class, let’s give Mr. Hale a round of applause.” She thanks me while the kindergarteners clap again.
I return to my seat, my heart thrashing in my ribcage. My nerves just catch back up with me, even though it ended.
The stockbroker leans in towards me and whispers, “You did a great job. Didn’t look conceited or anything.”
His sarcasm is too thick to ignore.
But I almost laugh. Not dryly. A real fucking laugh. Because I’ve never been called conceited. Not one day in my life. Entitled, yeah. Arrogant, pompous—no.
This might be one of the few times I don’t seek out the last word. I don’t even want it. Moffy chats softly with a girl beside him. Still talking about my presentation, he points towards me and grins from ear-to-ear.
I smile back.
He’s the only one I ever needed to impress.
[ 25 ]
November 2021
Madame Daphne’s School of Ballet
New York City
CONNOR COBALT
“Now for the butterfly,” the ballet teacher says, seated on the floor among the circle of young children.
They try to imitate Madame Daphne: feet together, heel-to-heel. The six-year-olds have an easier time, but the five and four-year-olds seem to struggle.
I’ve already watched them do the leapfrog and spread peanut butter and jelly with their feet. Metaphorical peanut butter and jelly, obviously. The childish names for these moves grate on me. I understand that it’s pre-ballet, but I’d rather Madame Daphne use the correct terminology: dégagé, tendu, rond de jambe.
It might take them longer to comprehend the action with the word, but it’s better than teaching them how to do the peanut butter and jelly.
Jane is the only six-year-old with her feet not pressed together. She spreads out her legs, her pastel turquoise tutu less dainty than the other girls. Jane picked it out, content with her lack of conformity. Much more than Beckett.
Just four, he tries to be precise in his foot placement, fixated on the instructor and her movements.
Jane has already attempted two somersaults of her own fruition. Beckett shrunk when the instructor scolded her the second time, as though he was in trouble by extension of his sister. He wasn’t, but each sibling affects the other in varying degrees.
“She’s going to get in trouble again,” Charlie tells me, his words very clear for four, but his tone is clipped. Almost deadpanned. He’s seated beside me on the long row of chairs, mostly filled with mothers.
I study Charlie and his frustrated but concentrated gaze. I shared that familiar look as a child. Maddened. I was maddened with, at, and by the world. His IQ is just shy of mine, and the more acutely aware he becomes of his surroundings, of people, of intentions and meanings and humanity, I draw closer to him.
