Page 172 of The Difference Between

Today’s youth are being indoctrinated by mediocrity, and it shows.

Exhibit A: The kid playing the daisy is wearing a costume made of cardboard. Cardboard. I learned to sew to make Addie a buttercup, and it paid off. She has the best costume by far.

And imagine how delighted she was when I found kid-sized Louboutins that could easily be covered in green glitter to match.

Nobody will notice a daisy made of cardboard.

“Her costume is the best, right?” I whisper to Gavin as we settle in our seats in the auditorium. “I mean, there’s no comparison.”

He laughs softly. “No comparison.”

“And did⁠—”

“For the hundredth time—” He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “I saw the cardboard daisy. Addie’s is the best. You did good.”

I smile. I did. “Thank you.”

Down the row, Remy and her kids take their seats, and we exchange waves and nervous smiles. Remy, whose tenure in Fontain was supposed to be as short as mine, accepted the position at the library full time after the teacher on maternity leave decided not to come back for the year. She’s still a vault about Darren, but her taking a job in a town her husband isn’t tells us everything we already know: They’re done. Even if she’s not ready to talk about it.

Next to Remy, Nancy, Mom, Nash, Bennie, and Rue file into their seats, Rue’s large belly leading the way. When she smiles, it’s both glowing and miserable. Turns out, being pregnant at forty-two is exhausting. Or so Rue claims every time she waddles into the room.

People settle around us as music and the mic are tested. Gavin and I exchange nervous smiles and squeeze hands. “She’ll be fine,” I say, mostly to myself.

He grins. “She will be.”

Neither of us know that for sure. In the fall production of Wizard of Oz, when Addie took the stage as Toto, she froze. She stared at the crowd and couldn’t get a single bark out. When the spring casting came around for Alice in Wonderland, I was surprised when she said she wanted to try again. But she did, and here we are, me so nervous it’s like I’m the one getting up on that stage.

Banyan shows up at the last second to take the vacant seat to my left. “You’re late,” I snap.

“Time is a construct of man,” he says in his stupid voice. “And I had to pick up my date.”

When said date fills the seat next to him, I nearly fall over. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Sylvia smiles. “Reese,” she says, leaning forward to see past me and wave down the row to my mother. “I knew you’d be here.”

“Don’t Reese me,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “And of course I’m here.”

To Sylvia, Banyan says, “Fire Lady’s always like this.” To me: “Why are you always like this?”

Before I can answer, Sylvia says, “Trust me, I know.” She pins me with a high-browed look. “I had to sage the place—repeatedly—after her last visit.”

The lights of the auditorium dim. Sylvia leans over Banyan to whisper, “But I see you took my advice.” She points her dagger of a fingernail at my hand holding Gavin’s. “The answer was in plain sight, just like I told you.” To Banyan, she says, “I knew that would happen.”

“You can’t tell her anything, Syl,” Banyan says. “I think she’s a Republican.”

I bare my teeth and hiss. These two are a match made in hell.

“Relax.” Gavin pecks me on the cheek. “She’s harmless.”

“I hate her,” I snap. “And her fingernails should be outlawed.”

He laughs fully, making the parents in front of us scowl over their shoulders.

I take a breath and focus on the closed curtain of the stage.

“I’m nervous,” I admit. “What if it’s like last time?”

“She’ll be fine.”