Chapter 11 Kairo
KAIRO
The school smells like glue sticks and desperation.
There’s a cluster of folding chairs arranged in a loose circle in the library, which has been poorly disguised as a “Planning War Room” with construction paper banners and a sad tray of lukewarm caf sludge.
I slide into a chair near the back, hoping to lurk, observe, and escape before anyone ropes me into decorating hallways with glitter glue.
Ben’s somewhere down the hall in aftercare, probably teaching poker to the other four-year-olds.
Principal Jennings bustles in, hair slightly singed at the ends, likely from the science lab explosion yesterday.
“All right, team!” she says, breathless.
“We’re here to brainstorm our school-wide Kindness Week!
Let’s think big, think bold, and please, someone hide the dry erase markers from Room 2C! ”
I chuckle along with the others, until the doors swing open.
And in walks Jav.
Wearing a button-up shirt that probably cost more than my aircar. Holding a datapad. Smiling like sin dipped in honey.
He saunters to the front like he owns the place—and, knowing him, he probably filed a false deed to prove it.
“Good evening, fellow educators,” he says, as if the words don’t burn in his throat. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a few ideas for Kindness Week.”
Jennings blinks. “Oh. Wonderful.” She clearly has no idea who he is—or if she does, she’s too tired to care.
Jav taps the screen, and a holo projection flares to life behind him.
“First, an ‘Adopt-A-Starship’ initiative, where each classroom sponsors a long-haul freighter and sends encouragement vids to the crew.”
A few teachers murmur politely.
“Second, an ‘Alien Cuisine Potluck’ to promote interspecies empathy. I’ll personally prepare the Grolgath bloodroot stew—mild version.”
Someone coughs nervously.
“And third,” he adds, eyes glittering as they sweep the room, “a mural project called ‘Kindness is Universal,’ painted across the front wall of the gym. Volunteers from every species. One community.”
It’s absurd.
It’s dramatic.
And damn it—it’s working.
By the end of the meeting, he’s got a sign-up sheet three pages long. Jennings claps like a seal, declaring this her “favorite committee meeting ever.”
I wait.
Let the crowd thin out. Let the applause die down.
Then I grab him by the elbow and march him into the nearest supply closet.
“What. The actual. Hell.”
He smiles, leaning against a stack of foam math blocks like he’s posing for a noir film. “Is this about the bloodroot stew? I can bring a non-lethal version.”
“Don’t play coy, Jav. Why are you really here?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. All that smugness fades like steam off metal.
“You know why.”
I cross my arms. My heart’s thundering, but I keep my voice low. “You want to play teacher, fine. You want to earn some goodwill, great. But Ben? He’s not part of your redemption arc.”
His jaw tightens. “I never said he was. But I see him. I see how he lights up when he gets something right. How he watches the other kids to figure out how to fit in without trying too hard. I see you in him.”
I step back like he’s slapped me. “You have no idea what being a father means.”
“Then teach me.”
Silence.
It stretches long and thin between us.
“Please, Kairo,” he says. “Give me a chance. One week. Let me show you I can be more than what I was.”
I don’t know what to say.
So I don’t.
I walk out.
And leave him there, standing in the dark, surrounded by boxes of construction paper and the ghosts of who we used to be.