Little Wonders

by Kate Rorick

  “You’re pregnant?” she asked.

  “Two months. We’re very excited for Jordan to have a little baby brother. Or sister.”

  “Well, congratulations.” Oh thank GOD, Elia’s dad and another father were bursting through the doors that moment, pushing the flatbed with the folding chairs. “I have to go, but next time,” she said turning to Daisy, “sign up on the volunteer board in the lobby or on the Facebook page. Or on our Slack.”

  “Little Wonders has a Slack?” she heard the blue-haired Daisy say, bewildered, as Quinn walked away.

  The tents got set up. The chairs got set up. The decorations in the auditorium/multipurpose room were hung—twice actually, because the first time the volunteers went for “charmingly askew” and missed wildly. But she’d dug deep for her inner patron saint, Martha Stewart, and fixed it with serenity and poise. The Little Wonders Happy Halloween Parade was going to happen, and it was going to happen through the sheer force of Quinn’s will.

  She hadn’t eaten all day. Coffee was a distant dream, why even bother at this point? But it would all be worth it to see the Tadpole Room march in the parade, with Ham in his picture-perfect spaceship costume.

  Oh, the pictures were going to be amazing on Instagram.

  Then, she got the text from Stuart’s scheduler, Charlene.

  Charlene: Hello, Mrs. Barrett. A complication arose and Dr. Barrett is still in surgery. He won’t be able to make it to the parade.

  Disappointment filled her chest. Disappointment for Ham, for herself. She took a moment and stepped away to the far side of the historic barn in the corner of the school yard, giving herself a little privacy. She pinched the bridge of her nose—annoyance and sadness mixed to give her the beginnings of a wicked headache.

  And then . . . Hiccup Number Five arrived.

  “Mrs. Barrett,” Miss Rosie, Ham’s teacher said, approaching. “I’m sorry, but Ham wants to wear his fire truck costume, and he says this isn’t it.” Miss Rosie held out the spaceship by its sparkly elastic straps. Behind her, Ham stood, grasping Miss Rosie’s leg. He wasn’t dressed in his space suit; he was in a well-worn firefighter’s hat and coat from the classroom’s dress-up box. He had that miserable and stubborn look on his face that usually appeared only when she was trying to cajole him into using the potty.

  “Hamilton,” she said, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended, “your costume is a spaceship. You wanted a spaceship.”

  Hamilton just wrapped his arms about himself and shook his head.

  “I think, with the excitement of the parade and party . . . ,” Miss Rosie was saying as she knelt down next to Ham, “that he’s a little overwhelmed . . .”

  “Nonsense,” Quinn said, huffing out a breath. This was the last thing, the very last thing, that she needed. “Hamilton loves Halloween. Don’t you, sweetie?”

  This time, Hamilton stuck his tongue out at her.

  “Mrs. Barrett, I—” Miss Rosie was glancing over her shoulder. Across the yard, peeking their heads out of the door, was a line of small children, ready to show off their wide range of Elsa and Marvel superhero costumes.

  “Go,” Quinn said. “I’ll get him in his costume.” She would. And by the time the Tadpole Room marched by, she would just add him to the end of the line. Like Santa Claus at the end of the Thanksgiving parade—he would be the closer, what everyone remembered.

  After Miss Rosie trotted away, Quinn knelt by her son. “It’s time for the parade.”

  Head shake.

  “All your friends are waiting.”

  Tongue out.

  “We can’t go to the party unless you wear your spaceship.”

  A full-on raspberry.

  Quinn’s voice was rapidly losing its softness, leaving behind only the angry steel. She huffed a breath out of her nose.

  “Hamilton, I’ve had enough of this.” She rose to her feet. “Mommy has had a very long day. Very, very long. It’s Time. To. Put. Your. Spaceship. On.”

  “No!” Hamilton yelled. “I. Want. A. FIRE TRUCK!”

  The last word was screamed so loud, it echoed across the yard, flitting over red and gold treetops and no doubt reaching the International Space Station. Pity he wasn’t interested in space.

  Maybe it was Hamilton’s tone, so similar to her own. Maybe it was the headache that was quickly sweeping beneath her eyes and throbbing toward her temples. Maybe it was the hiccups. But for whatever reason, that was the moment that Quinn Barrett Completely Lost It.

  “You don’t want the spaceship? Fine! FINE!” The spaceship that had been sitting delicately on the ground next to Quinn was picked up. Not by Quinn—no, surely it wasn’t she who picked up the cardboard, LED lights, and chrome paint masterpiece and tore it in half like the Incredible Hulk. It couldn’t have been Quinn who then flung the silver remnants to the ground. And surely it wasn’t Quinn who proceeded to stomp on said masterpiece.

  “I did”—STOMP—“All of this”—STOMP—“For you!”—STOMP—“The parade!”—STOMP—“The party!”—STOMP—“The freaking food trucks!”—STOMP—“And if you”—STOMP—“Don’t want it”—STOMP—“You don’t get to have it!”

  Her hair had flown about wildly. Her stiletto boot heel had gotten caught on the spaceship, and she had to windmill to keep herself from falling. Her breath fell out of her in wild, hot pants.

  And Ham was staring at her like she was a snarling beast—the villainous creature in his book of fairy tales that he always made her skip over.

  Shock settled over her bones. What the hell did she—the one and only Quinn Barrett—just do?

  Shock seemed to hold Ham still too, as she knelt in front of him. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry, I’m—”

  A long, thin cry built up from inside his chest, and broadcast itself out like an air raid siren.

  “aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!”

  Tears started to rain down Ham’s little face. Snot from his nose. Little gulps of breath the only punctuation to his cries.

  “My spaceship!” he despaired. “MY SPAAAAAACCCCEEEESHIIIIIIP!!!”

  “Oh, Ham,” she said, practically hyperventilating. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She folded him into her arms. He allowed her to hold him while he cried. Which was all that she could do.

  Because she was the world’s worst mother.

  Just, the absolute worst.

  On the other side of the historic house, she could hear the Halloween music she had picked out playing over the loudspeaker. Elia’s dad had moved on from making a hash of tent setup to making a hash of MCing the parade.

  “And now, here comes the Tadpole Room!”

  The parade went on. No one had noticed that they were missing. Or if they had, they didn’t care. Because everyone had their own kids in costumes to coo over.

  Ham was now on the downhill side of his upset, his leftover cries perfunctory, tapering out.

  She chanced pulling back, to look at his face. He still wouldn’t meet her eye.

  “Ham, do you want to be a fireman in the parade?” she asked.

  Slowly he shook his head. “I peed.”

  She looked down and noticed the dark patch on the front of Ham’s trousers. He’d wet himself.

  Oh hell.

  “Oh, Ham . . . do you want to clean up, then skip the parade and go get ice cream?” She felt awful. Truly, like she needed a crater to crawl into and then let the earth swallow her whole. That was what she deserved. How could she have done this in front of her sweet little Ham? He was only three. She was supposed to be the grown-up here.

  Ham nodded fervently, his tears drying very quickly at the mention of such a special treat.

  She picked up the mangled remains of the spaceship and picked up Hamilton. She ducked around the historic house to see if anyone was looking.

  Nope. Everyone had their eyes on the parade, their cell phones out, recording their own kids, locking in their cuteness for posterity.

  She minced quickly around the ed
ge of the yard and slipped in the school’s door. She ran to the Parent Association closet and grabbed her purse. They could figure out how to throw a kids’ dance party and break down everything by themselves.

  She loaded a now completely fine Ham (he was babbling about the kind of ice cream he wanted) into the car, and then threw the spaceship into the trunk. As she did, she found herself staring at it. Her beautiful Instagram spaceship. Covered in her stomp prints. There were even little holes where her stiletto boots stabbed their way through.

  She shut the trunk, and a small hysterical giggle escaped her lips.

  If anyone had seen what she’d done to the spaceship, they would have her committed.

  But luckily, no one had.

  Thank God for small miracles.

  Chapter Two

  Oh. My . . .”

  Shanna’s voice was coated in delicious scandal. So much so that Daisy couldn’t help turning her head. Years in Los Angeles traffic had beaten the rubbernecking instinct out of her, but suburban New England must have made her rusty, because she immediately looked.

  And saw what could only be described as the preschool equivalent of a Maserati spinning out on the 101 Freeway.

  “Is that . . .”

  Shanna nodded, her eyes wide.

  Quinn Barrett, the president of the Parent Association, and having-it-all motherhood motivation poster, was having the mother of all meltdowns.

  Daisy and Shanna were sitting on a little rise by the rotting “historic” barn. Shanna had said it was the best spot to watch the parade, although now Daisy wished she had insisted on the front row. She’d wanted to get good footage of Carrie in her costume. Rob was rushing from work—she could see him in the tracking app she had on her phone, willing him to magic his way past all the horrible Massachusetts drivers (apparently in Massachusetts drivers’ ed they taught signaling was optional).

  Carrie couldn’t be more thrilled to be in the parade. Her daughter was a round little bullet train, ready to barrel through anything with a big smile and a type of joy that, previous to parenthood, Daisy didn’t know existed. The first day she had come to the Needleton Academy for Potential Prodigies and Little Wonders, she had walked up to three kids in the Tadpole Room, said, “Hi! I’m Carrie. I like Star Wars and dragons. You’re my friend now.”

  And all three of those kids complied. Falling in behind Carrie and playing castles and dragons and Jedi knights while Daisy watched, completely astonished.

  She’d planned to stick around, to ease Carrie into her first school experience. But her kid was more ready for school than Daisy was.

  “She’ll be fine,” Miss Rosie had said, patting Daisy’s shoulder as Carrie practically pushed her away. Daisy quickly found herself sitting in the Little Wonders parking lot, heaving loud sobs.

  And now, at the Halloween parade, she found herself pushed to the back again, but this time it was against the crappy old historic barn that only housed vermin and the school’s chicken coop. Shanna had settled into a folding chair next to Daisy’s, but almost as soon as her Lululemon-covered butt hit the chair, she jumped up again.

  “Oh! There’s Cass and Rebecca! They’re Charlie and Calvin’s moms. I have to go ask them something about the next Parent Association meeting. Hold our seats, okay?”

  And just like that, Shanna had danced across the yard toward two women whose smiles could not mask the bone-deep tiredness of having twin boys.

  Daisy pulled at the sleeves of her cardigan—since the move she had been the recipient of a half dozen cardigans, pea coats, and puffy jackets, mostly from Robbie’s well-meaning family. Everyone thought that as a transplant from LA, she’d be ill-equipped for a New England winter. But the sun was fighting its way through the clouds—and she missed the sun. The cardigan felt lumpy and unnecessary. So she shed it.

  Daisy had beautiful arms. It was one of her favorite features. Perfect, strong shoulders, tapered wrists, muscles born of carrying her daughter around for the last three years. (The rest of her body had turned into Play-Doh, but her arms were in amazing shape.) Her tattoo artist loved them—she’d cried when she finished Daisy’s sleeves, because she couldn’t work on such great arms anymore.

  It felt good to let her best side out, for once.

  She’d sat in the sun for some minutes, letting the mass confusion of a preschool event wash over her. She scanned the crowd for Shanna. There she was, now talking to . . . oh god, which dad was that? He was setting up a sound system and doing it wrong.

  Daisy was half a step from leaving their chairs to go tell him how to fix it. She knew her way around AV cables. But then she stopped. Shanna wanted her to save these seats.

  Normally, she would have marched over and cheerfully offered her assistance. But she was still learning the landscape. Of Little Wonders. Of Needleton. Hell, of the entire northeastern quadrant of the United States. So, she stayed where she was.

  Suddenly, there had been a commotion. The parade was starting up. A tiny little Captain America was peeking out of the doors of the school.

  And everyone’s phones went up, at the ready.

  Daisy raised hers, too.

  And on days when her daughter was dressed in her handmade General Leia Organa costume, complete with headband ear buns, she was glad she had the convenient phone instead of the bulky equipment she’d used for work in her previous life.

  As she raised the phone to eye level, turned on the camera app, and zoomed the camera in (gah, they were stupidly far away from the parade route), Shanna had approached from the crowd.

  But Shanna hadn’t been looking at her.

  Shanna had been looking beyond her.

  “Oh. My . . .”

  And that’s when it happened. Daisy whipped her head around.

  She also whipped her camera phone around.

  “Is that . . . ,” she said in the barest whisper. Her phone auto-focused on Quinn Barrett, who stood around the corner of the ancient vermin shed, looking like she might murder the small child in the fireman’s helmet she was standing in front of.

  Then, they watched as Quinn picked up a (surprisingly cool and well-constructed) chrome-painted spaceship and tossed it to the ground. Then she had an epic rage-out, punctuating each of her words with a stomp on the poor silver cardboard.

  “. . . And if you”—STOMP—“Don’t want it”—STOMP—“You don’t get to have it!”

  Daisy cringed at every word. But she couldn’t tear her eyes or her phone away.

  And when Quinn Barrett’s foot got caught, and she windmilled to keep her balance—well . . . it was really, really hard not to laugh.

  Daisy wasn’t the only one who found it funny, because she heard Shanna, behind her, snort into her hand.

  When the wailing cry of “MY SPAAAAAAAACEEEEEESHIIIIP!!!!!” went up, Shanna pulled Daisy back around the corner, hiding them from view.

  “She’s looking over,” Shanna whispered. “Act cool, act cool.”

  Daisy hadn’t been told to act cool since she was under the bleachers vomiting up the cafeteria lunch after one hit from her high school friend’s itty-bitty joint, but she did as she was told, holding silent as a church mouse until Shanna moved, peeking her head back around the side of the historic house.

  “They’re gone.” Shanna exhaled. “Ohmigod, did you get it?”

  “Get it?” Daisy said, bewildered.

  “On your phone. Did you record that?”

  “Oh! Um . . .” Daisy looked down at her hand. Yes, her phone had been up. And yes, she had hit Record. So, yes, the thirty-five seconds of pure parental freak-out from one of the most uptight people she’d ever seen had been recorded for all posterity on her phone.

  “Ohmigod, you have to email that to me,” Shanna said, juicy delight in her eyes. “Not for, like, public consumption, but I have to show Jamie, he wouldn’t believe it.”

  Daisy hid the phone behind her back. “Actually, I hadn’t pressed Record yet, sorry.” For some reason she didn’t trust Shanna with
something so damning. Daisy didn’t have any love for Quinn Barrett—hell, she didn’t even know Quinn Barrett beyond the fact that she was scary and made Daisy feel like a naive kid for having the audacity to move chairs without having signed up to do so—but giving it to Shanna seemed . . . cruel somehow.

  Even though Shanna was her cousin-in-law. And friend.

  A shiver ran up Daisy’s spine.

  “You cold?” Shanna asked, bending down. “Here, put on your sweater. New England weather will sneak up on you.”

  Daisy felt Shanna’s eyes on her tattoos as she took the sweater from her. Everyone always stared. Usually they were her favorite conversation starter. But here, in Needleton, no one seemed to want to have that conversation.

  But the sun had gone behind some big puffy fall clouds. She was legit chilly.

  “Look, there’s Rob and Jamie!” Shanna said, waving to the two men who looked more like twin brothers than cousins and who were waist deep in children as they cut across the parade route.

  Seeing Rob in his work uniform of Red Sox hat, chambray shirt, and workman’s pants sent a little zing through her heart. His eyes met hers, and he grinned wide, sending the zing shooting all over.

  And just like that, the video, the incident, was all but forgotten.

  “Come on,” Shanna said, taking Daisy’s hand, “let’s move up toward the front. I can’t see anything of the parade from back here.”

  * * *

  That night, Daisy emerged from Carrie’s room, stepping down into the basement of Rob’s grandfather’s house, where she found Rob snoring softly on the ancient plaid pull-out couch.

  It had been less than a month that they had been crashing at Rob’s grandpa’s house, but damned if that couch didn’t envelop Rob’s body like an ex-lover. If it wasn’t an inanimate object, Daisy might be jealous.

  She smiled and lightly shook his foot, causing him to wake up with a jolt and a snort.

  “Jesus!” he said, pressing his hand to his heart. “I thought it was an earthquake.”

  “Nope, sorry,” Daisy replied. “This side of the country is quake free.”