“Surely,” I said gently, “this was simply a misunderstanding.”
The tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately.
“Yes,” he said after a beat. “Yes, I’m certain that’s all it was.”
The PTA mother stared at him in outrage. “Amisunderstanding? She kicked me.”
Billie raised her hand. “In fairness, I did that on purpose.”
“Billie,” I hissed.
“What? I’m embracing honesty.”
The superintendent nodded thoughtfully, as though Billie had contributed meaningful civic insight. “Children become overwhelmed during exciting events,” he said mildly. “And emotions occasionally run high during fundraisers.”
The woman looked ready to combust.
“And frankly,” he continued, turning toward the pastry display, “I think these are imaginative.”
Several nearby children chose that exact moment to stagger past, pretending to be zombies as the raspberry compote dripped down their chins. One little boy groaned, “BRAAAINS,”before slipping slightly on the gym floor and being redirected by a horrified father.
Mr. Rodriguez watched this with surprising approval. “You know,” he mused, “perhaps this is exactly the sort of creative, childlike energy these events need.”
The woman made a strangled sound.
He continued before she could recover. “In fact, I think we may need a new direction for the bake sale next year.” He turned toward me warmly. “If you would ever be interested in running the fundraiser, I would be more than happy to discuss it.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
The PTA mother looked as though she’d just witnessed me personally set fire to her social standing.
I smiled politely. “That is a very kind offer, Mr. Rodriguez.”
Bianca looked up from her book again. “Oh,” she said softly. “Mrs. Hutchins is going to explode internally.”
“Bianca,” I murmured.
“She is.”
Mr. Rodriguez gave Billie a kind look. “Perhaps we refrain from kicking in the future?”
Billie licked the raspberry filling from one finger. “What if people are rude?”
“Use your words,” he said.
“What if my words are kicks?”
The superintendent pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. “No more shin attacks, Billie.”
Billie heaved a sigh. “Fine.”
Crisis resolved, the crowd slowly dispersed, though not before Mrs. Hutchins shot me a look of disgust I’d only seen from people who were confronted with a tax audit.
“I regret nothing,” Billie whispered.
“I gathered as much.”
A softer presence approached the table several minutes later. “Uhm,” a woman said, “I just wanted to say I think these are incredible.”
