“It’s a nightgown, not acceptable for school.” I counter while making three bologna sandwiches for their lunches.
“It’s a dress,” she challenges sweetly, complete with batting eyelashes.
“Nice try. It’s a nightgown with a cat wearing a tiara on it that says I’m feline like a princess. Nope. Not wearing it to school.” It’s not that their school is strict on dress code, but I know a nightgown would earn me a call from the office as soon as she walked in the door.
She slips down from her chair at the kitchen table. It’s one fluid movement, sulking down out of the chair, rather than standing from it. She grabs Pickles the cat from the table and looks determined as she heads to her room. That determination will translate in the nightgown being replaced with something equally as obscure, I’m sure of it. Kira is agreeable but she has a rebellious streak. Problems are rectified quickly, but always with a twist. And always with a sweet smile I can’t say no to.
“You want some help picking something out?” I call after her. Getting her dressed is always a production. She takes forever.
“Nope. I’ve got this, Daddy.”
I put extra pickles on Kira’s sandwich, wrap them all in baggies, and put them in their insulated lunch sacks along with a banana and a juice box. And then I grab the pizza flyer that’s lying on top of a pile of junk mail on the counter, tear it into thirds and I write the following note on each of them, along with tons of hearts because it embarrasses the boys, and put them in their lunch sacks along with the food:
When I walk into the living room, Rory is sitting on the couch with his backpack in his lap. He’s fiddling with the straps, needlessly adjusting them. He’s always been fidgety. “It would be ace if they had a quidditch team at my new school.”
“Yes, it would. But alas, Montgomery Academy is not for wizards. Sorry, mate.” I play along because I can tell he’s nervous about the first day at his new school. He likes it when I call him mate, the little prideful smirk on his face every time I say it tells me so.
“You think there’s a chance I could be a wizard, though? Maybe I just haven’t discovered my powers yet?” he says with a straight, hopeful face.
“No such luck. You’re a Muggle. No powers. Except your sense of humor.” I wink and walk out of the room to check on Kira and Kai.
“I’d rather turn someone into a toad than make them laugh,” he yells as I walk down the hall.
“Ribbit,” I yell back.
He laughs. I love to hear that laugh. It’s hard earned, and I feel triumphant when I can coax it out of him.
Kira is standing in the kids’ bedroom wearing a pink skirt with yellow polka dots, a blue plaid shirt, lime green flip-flops, and a sparkly tiara. I’d likely be a bit disappointed if her outfit matched. “You look beautiful, princess. Your chariot awaits. Grab your backpack. We’re off.” I smile as I hang my hand low, palm exposed.
She giggles and picks up her backpack from the floor near the closet and high fives me as she walks through the door into the hallway.
I knock on the closed bathroom door. “You ready, Kai?”
He’s brushing his teeth when he answers the door, but gives me a thumbs up.
We’re all loaded up in the car by seven-thirty and on our way to the schools—two of them. Theirs and mine. Their school, Montgomery Academy, is the neighborhood charter school, kindergarten through eighth.
Before the divorce, we lived twenty miles from here, which meant the kids had to change schools when we moved. I feel guilty about that, but it made sense to be closer to my job. And the apartment is affordable. Our old neighborhood wasn’t. But I still feel guilty. And guilt is heavy, like an anchor holding me in place and hindering any and all advancement.
Disturbingly human
present
“Isn’t that our neighbor?” Kira asks.
“She looks knackered,” Rory adds.