“We do.” I nod. “In The Fourth Degree comics, there’s Tilly Stayzor, a fan favorite, but my personal favorite is Rylin Waters. She has the power of—”
“Electricity!” a little redheaded boy exclaims. He leans towards the girl. “Ohmygosh, it’s so cool. You need to see it, Mindy. She’s on The Fourth Degree: You and Me cartoon!”
The first season just aired.
“He’s right,” I say. “Rylin Waters can manipulate electricity, but if she pushes her powers too far, she can also short-circuit and lose her memory.” I gesture to Moffy who has the bag of action figures.
He climbs out of his chair and sets Rylin Waters on Mindy’s desk.
“We brought some action figures for everyone from the line. That’s Rylin,” I tell the little girl. She’s awed for a moment, and then I help Moffy pass out the rest.
“So that’s about it,” I tell the class. “I get to play with toys all day.”
Another hand in the air. I hold my breath for a second, always expecting a bomb to drop, but I nod for them to speak.
“What about your other job?” the redhead asks. “Hale Co.? What’s that?”
“It’s a company that produces baby products. If you have baby oil or diapers or pacifiers in your home and notice an HC on the label, that’s Hale Co.”
Another hand. Christ. “What do you do there?”
“I’m the CEO,” I say. “Which means, I run the entire company.”
Lots of child-like ooohs while the parent section is far from impressed. I’m not looking for their approval, but the guy that I’d been sitting next to—the stockbroker—yeah, he rolls his eyes.
“Like I said,” I proclaim, “the comics are more fun.”
“Aren’t you an actor?” a blonde girl asks. “I’ve seen you on my TV.”
“It’s not acting,” Moffy cuts in. “It’s real.”
“What Moffy said.” I turn to the teacher, hoping she’ll end this now. Princesses of Philly was so fucking long ago, and to this day, networks still air reruns, which blows my mind. We didn’t even make it to the end of the season. I can name a hundred better television shows to play on loop.
The teacher must take note of my sharpened glare. “Class, let’s give Mr. Hale a round of applause.” She thanks me while the kindergarteners clap again.
I return to my seat, my heart thrashing in my ribcage. My nerves just catch back up with me, even though it ended.
The stockbroker leans in towards me and whispers, “You did a great job. Didn’t look conceited or anything.”
His sarcasm is too thick to ignore.
But I almost laugh. Not dryly. A real fucking laugh. Because I’ve never been called conceited. Not one day in my life. Entitled, yeah. Arrogant, pompous—no.
This might be one of the few times I don’t seek out the last word. I don’t even want it. Moffy chats softly with a girl beside him. Still talking about my presentation, he points towards me and grins from ear-to-ear.
I smile back.
He’s the only one I ever needed to impress.
[ 25 ]
November 2021
Madame Daphne’s School of Ballet New York City
CONNOR COBALT
“Now for the butterfly,” the ballet teacher says, seated on the floor among the circle of young children.
They try to imitate Madame Daphne: feet together, heel-to-heel. The six-year-olds have an easier time, but the five and four-year-olds seem to struggle.
I’ve already watched them do the leapfrog and spread peanut butter and jelly with their feet. Metaphorical peanut butter and jelly, obviously. The childish names for these moves grate on me. I understand that it’s pre-ballet, but I’d rather Madame Daphne use the correct terminology: dégagé, tendu, rond de jambe.
It might take them longer to comprehend the action with the word, but it’s better than teaching them how to do the peanut butter and jelly.
Jane is the only six-year-old with her feet not pressed together. She spreads out her legs, her pastel turquoise tutu less dainty than the other girls. Jane picked it out, content with her lack of conformity. Much more than Beckett.
Just four, he tries to be precise in his foot placement, fixated on the instructor and her movements.
Jane has already attempted two somersaults of her own fruition. Beckett shrunk when the instructor scolded her the second time, as though he was in trouble by extension of his sister. He wasn’t, but each sibling affects the other in varying degrees.
“She’s going to get in trouble again,” Charlie tells me, his words very clear for four, but his tone is clipped. Almost deadpanned. He’s seated beside me on the long row of chairs, mostly filled with mothers.
I study Charlie and his frustrated but concentrated gaze. I shared that familiar look as a child. Maddened. I was maddened with, at, and by the world. His IQ is just shy of mine, and the more acutely aware he becomes of his surroundings, of people, of intentions and meanings and humanity, I draw closer to him.
There will be a breakdown.
I’m prepared for one with Charlie. I’m not sure when it will happen, but it will come.
My phone buzzes. I check the text.
Iron Man. Batman. Thor. – Rose The corners of my mouth rise at the Fuck, Marry, Kill question. I’m able to concentrate on both the class and the message without missing a moment.
I text: Are you asking for Lily or for yourself?
Rose and Lily are eating lunch at our house with the rest of the children while Ryke, Daisy, Sullivan, and Lo go hiking for the day. Ryke has an expensive backpack-carrier for Sullivan since she’d never be able to hike at her age.
Both, but it doesn’t go against our rules. You’re still required to answer, and answer truthfully, Richard. – Rose “This is stupid,” Charlie says softly, but his focus is on his twin brother and his older sister. He can see, as well as I do, how nervous Beckett becomes by Jane disregarding the instructed moves in favor of her own.
“He’s okay, Charlie,” I whisper.
Charlie crosses his arms and sinks in his chair.
Rose and I agreed that our children could choose their hobbies, even “trial runs” to potentially see what they liked. If they’re in the hobby or sport for longer than a couple weeks, they have to provide a good reason for quitting. We want our children to finish tasks, not take an easy way out. With their level of privilege, this is extremely important to us.
Today is just the first day of pre-ballet class, and only Jane and Beckett hopped on the idea. Charlie declined but said he wanted to watch, not with the hope of eventually joining. I think he came to support his twin brother.
I find time to text Rose a response.
Marry. Fuck. Kill.
Marry Iron Man. Fuck Batman. Kill Thor.
Thor is ridiculous, and I don’t mean the Norse mythology. I mean the one played by an actor on a movie screen.
Rose is quick.
Of course you would marry Iron Man. He’s as egotistical as you are. – Rose Another text.
Lily said you’re Batman, so you just fucked yourself, Richard. – Rose I rub my lips, my grin escalating tenfold. I reply: I have good taste.
I have better taste – Rose I type fast. You did choose me, so I think we can agree that we both have equally great taste when it comes to sex.
A pause before my phone buzzes.
Fine. We’re equals. It’s cemented. – Rose Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jane holding her feet and rocking.
“There she goes,” Charlie narrates.
Sure enough, Jane tumbles over her head and onto her bottom, a laugh widening her smile.
“Jane!” Madame Daphne scolds. “This isn’t gymnastics. We’re doing butterflies right now.” She snaps her fingers. “Back in the circle.”
Slowly, Jane scoots beside her brother. Beckett remains entirely rigid, certain pieces of his hair curlier, others just a little wavy, and he’s only one of two boys in the class. When we arrived, he never batted an eye at the fact.
Beckett suddenly looks to Charlie.
Charlie looks to me.
If they both choose ballet again, we’ll put Beckett in a different class from Jane. I want him to feel comfortable, but sometimes that comes from within.