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“Good girl.”
The guy tries. Jesus, does he try.
More than once I want to haul off and punch him in the fucking mouth for what he says in front of my daughter. Are you drinking again? Still getting high? Why’d you assault that reporter? Are you pissed off the world has learned your dirty little secret? Cute kid, why’d you try to hide her? Are you ashamed of her mother or something?
My footsteps stall in front of the school, and I look down at Madison. “Go on inside.”
I try to let go of her hand, but she resists, squeezing me tighter, tugging. “No, you gotta come, too.”
“I have to come inside?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Just ‘cuz,” she says, pulling as hard as she can, trying to get me to budge. I concede, following her inside, letting her lead me to her classroom.
“Shouldn’t I have to sign in at the office or something?” I ask. “Show ID? They don’t just let adults roam the halls, do they?”
“I dunno,” she says, shrugging.
“Well, that clears that up…”
She pulls me into the classroom, stopping right at the doorway. “Ta-da!”
I glance down at her, confused, as everyone in the classroom looks at us. “Is it career day or something?”
“No, silly,” Madison says. “Show & Tell!”
“What?”
“We can bring a favorite thing so we can show each other,” she says, explaining Show & Tell to me, like she thinks I’m just not getting it. “But nothing too expensive, ‘cuz it could get stole, but I didn’t pay nothing for you.”
“You brought me for Show & Tell?” I ask incredulously. “I thought you brought Breezeo.”
The moment I say that, it clicks.
I’m the Breezeo she brought today.
“Duh,” Madison says. “Mrs. Appleton, can I do my Show & Tell now? ‘Cuz I can’t keep him in my backpack ‘till lunch.”
The teacher doesn’t seem to have any idea of what to say, so she just waves at Madison, giving her permission. Madison pulls me to the front of the classroom as the bell rings.
“This is my daddy, but he’s not just my daddy. He’s also Breezeo. The real Breezeo!”
There are a few ohhs and ahhs, but a little boy in the back scoffs. “He doesn’t look like Breezeo.”
“Well, he is,” Madison says before looking at me. “Right, Daddy?”
Talk about awkward. “Right.”
The teacher clears her throat. “Questions come afterward, guys. Not during the presentation.”
I look at the woman with disbelief. “Questions?”
She nods, mildly amused.
“First, I got my daddy… I dunno when,” Madison says, brow furrowing as she thinks about that. Guess I don’t fit into the format. “When I was a baby, I think, but I didn’t know ‘till I was five. And, uh, I think my mommy gave him to me.”
The teacher is trying very hard not to laugh.
“Second, he was made by his mommy and daddy, but I don’t know them,” Madison says. “And third, he’s one of my favorite things ‘cuz he’s my daddy. And ‘cuz he’s Breezeo. So thank you for listening and raise your hands if you have questions.”
Way too many hands shoot up, including the teacher’s aide lurking in the back of the classroom. Madison grins, bubbling with excitement from being the center of attention.
“Can I get a chair?” I ask. “I have a feeling I’m going to be here for a while.”
After my ass is planted in a seat, the questions start. Is Breezeo really real? Can he go invisible? When did he become Breezeo? How come he doesn’t look like him? Madison answers them the best she can, but I chime in occasionally to clarify that I’m, in fact, not actually a superhero.
“But are superheroes real?” a little boy asks.
Madison looks at me expectantly, yielding to my expertise on that one, but I’ve got nothing. I’m not killing the imagination of a room full of kindergarteners with that reality. The paparazzi coming after me are bad enough. Moms with torches? Hell no.
“Heroes are certainly real,” the teacher’s aide says. “Mr. Cunning actually saved a young woman from being hit by a car recently.”
There goes the ohhs and ahhs, a ‘whoa’ or two tossed in for good measure.
“Wasn’t that big of a deal,” I say, looking at my wrist. “I just happened to be standing there when it happened.”
Mrs. Appleton chimes in. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to get started on today’s lesson.”
I seem to be the only one not disappointed by that. The teacher thanks me and Maddie hugs me and I’m out the door and heading down the hallway before the teacher’s aide can cry this morning.
Stepping outside, I see the damn guy still lurking that followed us here. Lowering my head, I walk past him as he asks, “Johnny, what does your wife think about this whole thing?”
“I have no wife.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
I walk away, but he doesn’t follow.
Guess his job isn’t as fun without an audience, either.
