She stared at one. The filling slowly oozed down the side. “Why are they shaped like hearts?”
Billie answered before I could. “Because inside every person is a heart that has a very real risk of developing a cardiovascular disease at some point in their life.”
The woman blinked.
I folded my gloved hands together calmly. “They’re anatomically inspired.”
“Anatomically inspired,” she repeated faintly.
Another mother approached from the neighboring table carrying lemon bars.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “They look like actual hearts.”
“They’re not actual hearts,” Billie clarified. “Mostly flour.”
I could feel the judgment accumulating around us in real time. Honestly, I had expected it. Humans were extremely uncomfortable whenever food reminded them too directly that they themselves were technically made of meat.
One of the mothers finally gathered enough courage to say, “Well. I suppose the children might find them… creative.”
“Hopefully they find them delicious,” I replied. “In the end, it’s all for charity, right? Surely what matters is who raises the most money.”
Several women exchanged glances. Competitive instinct activated immediately.
Excellent.
One particularly severe-looking woman gave me a slow once-over, taking in the black clothing, gloves, parasol resting beside the table, and dramatic pastries.
Then she asked, with astonishing rudeness, “Why are you dressed like that?”
Billie’s head snapped toward her immediately.
I smiled politely. “I inherited my Irish ancestors’ sensitivity to the sun.”
The woman looked unconvinced. “I see.”
“You needn’t. I can see just fine.”
CJ made a choking sound from his chair that suspiciously resembled suppressed laughter.
The woman’s lips flattened into a thin line. Before she could respond, Billie stepped closer to me protectively.
Billie often understood emotional truths before she understood social nuance. She didn’t follow every layer of adult conversation, but she absolutely recognized mockery.
So, when the woman looked at me with disdain, Billie understood that instantly. Unfortunately, Billie’s conflict resolution instincts were deeply physical.
“Don’t be mean to Winnie,” she said.
“Excuse me?” the woman said.
Then Billie kicked her in the shin. The entire gymnasium froze as the woman yelped loud enough to startle three nearby children.
“Billie,” I scolded.
Billie looked entirely unrepentant. “She was being rude.”
The woman clutched her shin in outrage. “Did your child just assault me?”
“She’s not technically my child,” I said automatically.
