So there I was, standing at the fourth grade booth in my sad pumpkin costume, with my ex-husband’s laugh still ringing in the air and his girlfriend tucked under his arm.
Nigel finally broke the kiss. He looked at me, still grinning, and seemed to realize, maybe for the first time, that other people were watching. The grin shrank a little.
“Come on,” he said. “It was a joke. Lighten up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said.
“You’ve got the face.”
“This is just my face, Nigel.”
Annabelle laughed again. “Okay, that one was actually funny.”
I set the tray down carefully. My hands wanted to throw it. I put them flat on the table instead.
“Dustin,” I said, as brightly as I could, “why don’t you go show your dad the ring toss? You were really good at it last year.”
Dustin didn’t move. He just kept looking at Nigel.
“Dustin?”
“I have to go do something,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
And he turned and walked away, stem flopping, into the crowd. I watched his orange back weave between the booths toward the stage, where Mr. Hale was setting up a laptop and a projector screen for the awards slideshow.
“What’s with him?” Nigel asked.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t trust my voice.
“Well,” Annabelle said, picking up one of our cupcakes and examining it like it might be poisonous, “these are cute. Very homemade.” She put it back down without taking a bite. “Nigel, babe, can we get a coffee? I’m freezing.”
“Sure.” He glanced at me. “We’ll be around.”
They walked off. I watched her lean her head on his shoulder.
Then I said to the mom running the booth beside me, “Can you watch this for a second?” and I walked as fast as I could, which isn’t very fast in a hula hoop pumpkin, to the girls’ bathroom by the cafeteria.
It was empty. I pushed into the last stall and stood there. The costume was too wide to let me close the door all the way. I didn’t care.
I pressed my hands against my eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. You have orange makeup on your cheeks. You are a grown woman dressed as a vegetable in an elementary school bathroom.
I heard the door open.
“Jenna?”
It was Tasha. Tasha’s daughter, Mia, had been in Dustin’s class since kindergarten. Tasha was loud, funny, divorced twice, and the kind of friend who would show up at your house at eleven at night with ice cream and a crowbar, no questions asked.
“I’m in here,” I said. “I’m the pumpkin.”
“Yeah, I figured.” She came over and leaned against the sink. “I saw that.”
“Everybody saw that.”
“I mean, I saw all of it. Her. Him laughing. The whole kissing in front of the cupcakes thing. Girl.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It is,” I said, and my voice cracked right down the middle. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Tasha didn’t say anything. She just reached into her purse, pulled out a packet of tissues, and passed one through the gap in the stall door.
I took it. I pressed it under my eyes, careful of the orange paint. We stayed like that for a minute, her by the sink, me in the stall, neither of us talking.
“You know what the worst part was?” I finally said. “Dustin’s face.”
“I know. I saw it too.”
“I’ve done everything right. Everything. I never say anything about Nigel. I never complain. I smile and I smile and I smile. And it doesn’t matter, because they just keep going, and he has to watch it.”
“Maybe smiling isn’t the right thing,” Tasha said gently.
“What’s the alternative? Scream at her in the middle of the fall fair? In front of Dustin’s teachers? Then I’m the crazy ex-wife and she wins.”
“I didn’t say scream.” Tasha pushed off the sink. “Come on. Fix your face. They’re about to do the prizes, and Mia’s convinced your kid’s going to win best costume out of pity.”
That made me laugh, a wet, ugly laugh. “Out of pity?”
“Her words, not mine. Kids are brutal.”
I came out of the stall. In the mirror, my face paint was smudged on one side, and my pumpkin was more lopsided than ever. I straightened it as best I could.
“How do I look?”
“Like a pumpkin who’s been through something,” Tasha said. “Perfect. Let’s go.”
Back in the gym, the crowd was gathering toward the stage. Folding chairs had been set out in rows, and parents were finding seats while kids sat cross-legged on the floor up front. I spotted Nigel and Annabelle near the back, by the bleachers, holding coffee cups. Annabelle was scrolling on her phone. Nigel was looking around, probably for Dustin.
I looked for Dustin too.
I didn’t see him.
“Where’s your boy?” Tasha asked.
“I don’t know. He said he had to do something.”
Up on stage, Principal Okafor tapped the microphone. She was a tall, warm woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain and a voice that could quiet four hundred kids in under three seconds.
“Good afternoon, Oakridge families!”
“Good afternoon,” the kids shouted back.
“What a wonderful fair this year! Thank you to every parent who baked, built, volunteered, and dressed up. I saw some truly creative costumes out there.” Her eyes landed on me, and she smiled. A few people turned to look. I wanted to sink into the floor.
“Before we announce our prizes,” Principal Okafor said, “I just want to thank Mr. Hale and his media lab students for putting together our slideshow today.”
Mr. Hale, sitting at a small table beside the stage with the laptop, gave a little wave.
“So, without further ado…”
And then Dustin walked up the steps onto the stage.
He was still in his costume. The stem was bent sideways. He walked right up to Principal Okafor and said something I couldn’t hear. She leaned down. She looked surprised. She looked at Mr. Hale. Mr. Hale gave a small nod, like he’d been expecting this, though his face looked uncertain.
Then Principal Okafor, a little reluctantly, handed Dustin the microphone.
My heart started pounding.
“Um,” Dustin said. The mic squealed. A few kids giggled. He held it further from his mouth. “Hi. I’m Dustin. I’m in Ms. Rivera’s fourth grade class.”
“Hi, Dustin!” a few of his classmates yelled.
He didn’t smile.
“Please,” he said, “before the awards, I want to show everyone something. It’s really short. I promise.”
He walked to the edge of the stage and handed something down to Mr. Hale.
A small blue flash drive.
Mr. Hale plugged it in. He clicked something. The big projector screen behind the stage went black.
I had no idea what was happening. I looked at Tasha. She looked at me and shook her head slowly. She didn’t know either.
Then white letters appeared on the black screen.
THINGS I HEAR AT MY DAD’S HOUSE
A murmur went through the crowd.
And at the back of the gym, something fell. I turned. It was a coffee cup. It had hit the floor and splashed all over the bottom of Annabelle’s cream colored coat.
She didn’t even look down.
She grabbed Nigel’s arm so hard he flinched. Her face had gone completely white.
“Make him stop!” she said, and her voice carried across the whole quiet gym. “Nigel. Make him stop!”
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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