Then she looks at the mixer.
Not at me. Not at Mrs. Bellamy. Not at the cookie tray that’s cooling near the window.
The mixer.
As if stainless steel has suddenly become very interesting.
I pause with a piping bag in my hand.
“Hi, Bug.”
“Hi.”
One syllable.
Flat. Wrong.
Mrs. Bellamy looks up from boxing cranberry orange shortbread. Her eyes meet mine briefly. She hears it too.
I set the piping bag down. “How was school?”
“Fine.”
Fine.
The official word children use when something is absolutely not fine.
“Did you have art?”
“Yes.”
“What did you make?”
“Stuff.”
Mrs. Bellamy inhales softly. I almost smile despite myself.
Jillie Bennett has never once in her life described art as “stuff.” Last month she spent eleven minutes explaining a paper snowman whose emotional journey involved losing a scarf and finding community.
I wipe my hands on a towel and walk around the prep table.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
Now I am officially terrified.
“You always come home hungry.”
“I had a snack.”
“What snack?”
“Crackers.”
“What kind?”
“Regular.”
