Chapter 31
The Message
JONAH
Elementary school hallways and carpets smell like glue and are chock-full of artwork.
Some PTA hero made a sign for the play: “BLASTMAN AND FRIENDS: A SUPER SMELLY ADVENTURE!” Underneath it, Eli and twelve other kids in capes are mugging for a group photo.
Most of the adults here are hiding behind Starbucks cups and pretending to like each other.
I’m not supposed to check in with Eli at all.
Supervised means supervised, and the system is clear—I don’t get the pre-show pep talk, I don’t get to help with his costume, and if I duck into the cast room and get caught, they’ll throw me out on my ass and hand Gwen the game ball.
So I keep my head down. Cap low, collar up. Radar set to “don’t make a scene.”
I show up way too early anyway, just to walk the space.
The stage is the same one from my own third-grade musical—it’s been repainted blue, but the curtains haven’t changed. Someone took the time to tape up more signs: “SUPERHEROES THIS WAY.”
I kill a few minutes by lurking near the coat rack.
Phones are out everywhere. Parents in blazers and work shoes, toddler siblings running full laps around everyone.
I spot my parents near the front row, Mom fussing with a bouquet, Dad already shaking hands with two other ex-coaches from youth league days. They’re in full grandparent mode.
I don’t have time to go say hi because I’ve just spied something that gives me an idea.
All plays have a flaw in the system, and today, the flaw is Mr. Barrett.
He’s the second-grade math teacher—bald spot, glasses, voice that carries all the way to the playground. He’s playing Turdman in the show, which I know because the flyer in the lobby says, “Turdman,” and has him wearing a poop emoji costume. Legend.
But right now he’s limping up the hall, one hand on the wall for balance, the other clutching what has to be the Turdman suit.
I pounce. “Barrett.” I keep my voice low.
He jumps. The Turdman dome almost slips out of his grip.
“Oh! Mr. Holt. Didn’t see you there.”
I nod at his leg. “Hamstring?”
He grimaces. “Pickup soccer. Never again.”
I keep it simple. “I’ll take your place in the play. I mean, if that’ll help.”
His eyes go round. “You’ll—wait. You want to suit up as Turdman?”
“Yeah. If you want. No pressure.”
He looks left, then right. “You’re cleared for that? With the visitation?”
“I’m allowed to be here. If there’s no contact, there’s no problem. I’ll just play my part.”
Another beat, probably to measure if I’m fucking with him. Then he flashes a relief-grin that says he was dreading this so hard he probably didn’t sleep.
“Take it. Oh my God, take it.”
He shoves the bundle at me, and the “smell prop”—a green feather boa zip-tied to a hanger—gets tangled in the dome.
Then I get a quick download: go out right after Blastman’s second big speech, plant the feet, deliver the line, wait for cues.
He’s got a whole staging chart on a Post-it: Turdman left, Blastman right, crowd in the middle.
“Anything else?” I say, because now we’re in this together.
His look is desperate. “Just—don’t let the dome slide off. It’s weighted with deck screws.”
And now I know why it’s heavier than some actual game gear. I almost laugh.
“Got it.”
“Good luck.” Barrett limps off, muttering about ice packs, and I duck into the “costume area,” which is really a janitor’s closet with a cracked tile floor and a box of old musical instruments in the corner.
The suit is foam-padded, low-rent couch brown, stitched up the back with safety pins and what might be fishing line.
I get one leg in, then the other. The thigh padding is fine, but up top?
Disaster. My shoulders make the chest stretch so hard I’m afraid I’ll blow a seam.
The dome—the oversized poop emoji, complete with googly eyes and felt eyebrows—barely fits, but there’s a hole for my face.
I wedge it on and rub brown face paint on.
I’m sweating already and it’s not even showtime.
Ready to leave, I glance up and freeze.
A second-grader stares at me through the door. Just a sliver of face—big eyes, no blinking.
We lock stares for a solid five seconds.
“Sup,” I say, deadpan.
He says nothing. Just blinks, very slow, and then disappears.
Cool. Life with kids.
It’s curtain time, so I make my way to the auditorium. Inside, the crowd’s settling, or trying to. I push out of the supply closet, dome askew, boa dragging, and head for the wings. The principal, holding a clipboard and radiating stress, almost drops her paperwork when she sees me.
“Mr.—Holt? Is that—is that you?”
“Took over for Mr. Barrett because of an injury.”
A half-second passes. Then she cracks a smile.
“Break a leg,” she says. “Not literally.”
No promises.
I tuck into the wings, heart pounding.
I get a sliver of the stage through the curtains.
Eli’s already out there.
He’s center stage, cape on crooked, mask low over his eyes, voice tight.
The script is cheesy—lots of “let’s save the city!
” and “evil will never win!”—but he’s in it, hitting his marks.
You can tell he’s holding back, though. Shoulders hunched, voice thunking flat at the end of each sentence.
Every third line, he glances at the wings.
The audience is chaos. Parents with phones up—some filming, some already doomscrolling. Grandparents smiling too hard. Siblings wriggling in folding chairs, most of them more interested in their own feet than the show. It smells like graham crackers and old sneakers.
I get a glimpse of Mom—front row, tissues out already. Dad’s next to her, grinning.
My dome itches. Under the padding, sweat collects and streams down my neck. The hanger end pokes my collarbone with every breath, but I plant my feet, steady my head, and wait for the signal.
Mr. Barrett, off right, waves. This is it.
Here we fucking go.
I lumber onto the stage.
The world goes silent, then detonates.
All at once, every kid in the front row screams. Parents howl. Some dad in the eighth row is probably peeing himself, picturing what it means to see a full-grown defenseman in a poop emoji suit, six foot two and bad decisions.
I turn all my focus on Eli—dead ahead.
He freezes.
I plant my feet, square up, and give him the line, loud as center ice with two thousand fans on their feet: “I don’t take no crap.”
And I mean it.
Time stops.
Eli stares at Turdman.
I stare back.
For a second, I think maybe I went too hard. Maybe he’s going to bail, or fuck up the next line, or melt down in front of everyone.
But then—
He sees me.
The dome, the brown, the boa—none of it matters. He zeros in on my face, and he just—
smiles.
Not the tiny, polite smile. This is the one that cracks his whole face, top to bottom, lights up every freckle. It hits so hard, I nearly forget I’m on a stage.
He gets it, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see all the way inside: not the kid holding it together for everyone else, but the kid who is, for one fucking moment, absolutely glowing.
The audience loses its shit. Laughter is so loud, the second-grade teacher plugs her ears.
I give Eli a tiny nod. One inch, no drama. You’ve got it, kid. Now go.
He straightens up—cape swings loose, voice jumps up a register, and he finds the next line like it was loaded in the chamber. “Tell me why you’re the best sidekick, Turdman.”
I play my role. “I don’t take no crap.”
The crowd howls. Barrett is holding the curtain offstage, doubled over.
God, I wish Zoe was watching this. She would love it. I’d love seeing her love it.
Eli rides the laugh with perfect timing. “Then let’s flush these villains!”
There’s a bit with the boa. I whip it around—smell cloud strikes!—and three evil henchmen go down in a tangle of pool noodles and orange vests. Eli gets the solo, blasting the “stink bomb” out of a can of Silly String. The crowd is standing up now, phones in the air, total mayhem.
The script is silly. The acting is silly. But the kid on stage? Not silly at all. He’s flying.
I say it three more times:
One mid-battle: “I don’t take no crap!” Evil Minion wails and falls off the bench.
The second during a moment of despair: “We’re stunk, Blastman! But I don’t take no crap.” Eli ad-libs, “That’s my Turdman!” like he’s won an Oscar.
Three, the grand finale. The script called for Turdman to pop back on stage and wave, but I step up, throw one arm wide, and shout so loud I might get banned from the district for life:
“I. Don’t. Take. NO. CRAP.”
Riot.
Kids in the first row have tears in their eyes; they’re laughing so hard. Several parents and grandparents record the whole thing. Mom’s dissolving—face in her hands, bouquet forgotten. Dad’s gripping her elbow, probably to keep from falling out of his chair.
Final scene: Eli and Turdman, standing in triumph over a pile of villains, faces shining in the hot gym lights.
Curtain call.
I fumble my bow, dome bobbing. Next to me, the real Mr. Barrett takes a bow, too, a little sideways, but the spotlight is on the little actors. The applause is full-on playoff-level, and the sound lands in my chest.
After the curtain drops, chaos erupts in the wings.
Kids tripping over pool noodles, teachers herding chaos, confetti flying everywhere.
I try to pull off the dome, but it’s wedged too good; I just stand there, woozy and sweating, until Eli finds me.
Gwen is with him, standing off to the side, so I’m allowed to talk to him.
Eli steps up, still in his cape, hair wild, cheeks red. “That was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen a lot of things.”
It knocks the air out of me.
I laugh—real, and raw, and so big it rattles around inside my head. Crouch down so I’m at eye-level, foam suit and all.
“I meant the line, by the way,” I whisper.
Eli nods. No smile now, just dead serious.
My shirt’s soaked, and the dome is still half-cocked on my head. But I don’t want to leave.
Not with the look on his face.
Not with the feeling that today, I did something right.
But I do. I wave, smile, and walk away before I give Gwen any ammunition for court.