Chapter 29
Logan
There are approximately seventy-four adults in this room, and I’ve already made awkward eye contact with at least twelve of them.
The main hall at Michaela’s school has been transformed into a showcase space—elegant display stations, tasteful lighting, children in navy uniforms presenting their research with alarming competence.
It’s objectively impressive. It’s also a minefield of unstructured social interaction.
My nervous system is looking for an out.
“You doing OK?” Audrey murmurs, squeezing my hand.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You look like you’re calculating escape routes.”
“I’m not—” I stop. She’s right. I’m dreaming about the outside where it’s less peopley. “There are three. Four if you count the window, but we’re on the second floor, so the probability of injury is—”
“Logan.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m fine. Really.”
I’m not fine. I’m in a room full of parents who all seem to know each other, making the kind of effortless small talk that has always eluded me.
Someone’s discussing a vacation home in Lake Geneva.
Someone else is comparing notes on summer enrichment programs. A woman in cashmere just touched my arm and asked if I was Michaela’s uncle and I said, ‘statistically, no’ before Audrey rescued me.
This is why I prefer servers to people. Servers don’t ask follow-up questions.
“There she is,” Caleb says, nodding toward a display near the windows.
Michaela stands beside a tri-fold board covered in photos, graphs, and what appears to be a hand-drawn dolphin wearing a graduation cap. She’s added a blazer over her uniform—because of course she has—and she’s gesturing emphatically at a woman I recognize immediately.
Principal Harrison. Auburn hair in a low twist. Green eyes. The same calm competence I observed the day David and I came to collect Michaela after Kelsie’s unauthorized appearance.
“Is that her teacher?” Layla asks.
“That’s Principal Harrison,” David says, and his voice does something strange. Tighter. Higher. The vocal equivalent of a system under unexpected load.
I watch him watch her. Rapid breaths. Dilated pupils. Involuntary postural adjustment. It’s like his body is trying to optimize for attractiveness without consulting his brain first.
“Ah,” Audrey whispers so only I can hear. “That’s her? The principal you told me about?”
“That’s her.”
“She’s pretty.”
She is. And David is currently exhibiting approximately seven of the twelve physiological indicators of romantic attraction. Michaela was right about the stars.
“Earth to David,” Dominic says, waving a hand. “You good?”
“Great.” David clears his throat twice. “Let’s go see Michaela’s project.”
We navigate through the crowd. I keep Audrey’s hand in mine—partly because I want to, mostly because it gives me something to focus on besides the social chaos. A man in a blazer nods at me. I nod back. This seems to satisfy him. Human interaction is occasionally simpler than I expect.
Michaela spots us, and her face transforms. “You all came!”
She bounces once, then composes herself again. The shift from child to mini-professional takes approximately 0.3 seconds. Impressive emotional regulation for an eight-year-old.
“Wouldn’t miss it, monster,” Caleb says, reaching for her hair.
She blocks him. “Uncle Caleb, I’m a professional tonight. No hair touching.”
“My apologies, counselor.”
Her attention shifts to me, eyes narrowing. “You’re back. Did you fix things with your lady friend?”
Audrey stiffens beside me. “His what?”
“When Uncle Logan came to my school, we had a talk while Dad was in Principal Harrison’s office.
” Michaela delivers this information like a quarterly report.
“He said he liked someone, but did something that hurt her feelings. I told him people can’t forgive you if they don’t understand.
” She examines Audrey with clinical interest. “Are you the lady friend?”
“I... yes? My name is Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you, Audrey. Did he explain his reasoning?”
Audrey glances at me. I feel my ears heating. “Eventually,” she says. “Yes.”
“Good. Communication is important.” Michaela nods, satisfied with her data collection. “You’re pretty. And you’re the scientist, right? The one my dad said makes him less weird?”
“I don’t know about less weird,” Audrey says. “Maybe just weird in better ways.”
“That’s acceptable.” Michaela gestures at her display board. “Now. Would you like to hear about why dolphins—or delphinids, if you want to be scientific about it—are actually smarter than dogs, even though dogs have better PR?”
The presentation is remarkable.
She’s structured her argument with a precision I associate with peer-reviewed papers, not second-graders.
Brain-to-body-mass ratios. Problem-solving studies.
Communication complexity analysis. There’s even a limitations section acknowledging the inherent difficulties in cross-species intelligence measurement.
“She cited unihemispheric slow-wave sleep,” Audrey whispers, impressed.
“I taught her that term.” A small point of pride.
When Michaela finishes, we applaud. She accepts the recognition with a small bow, then immediately drops the professional demeanor.
“Did you see Principal Harrison watching? She said my methodology was ‘impressively rigorous.’ That’s administrator-speak for ‘you’re definitely getting honors.’”
“I’m sure you earned it,” David says, and his eyes drift over to where Principal Harrison is now speaking with another group of parents near the refreshment table—which, I notice, features actual catering rather than store-bought cookies.
Michaela follows his gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “You should go talk to her, Dad.”
“Michaela.”
“What? I’m just saying. She asked about you last week. Wanted to know how you were doing after the whole Mom thing.” She shrugs innocently. “I told her you were sad but handling it. And that you make really good pancakes on weekends.”
David pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why would you tell her about pancakes?”
“Because it’s true. And because she said she can’t cook. So I was being helpful. You could make her pancakes sometime.”
“That’s not—we’re not—” David looks desperately at the rest of us for help. No one offers any.
“She’s pretty,” Michaela continues relentlessly. “And smart. Just like Audrey and Layla and Serena. Those are important qualities in a life partner. Right, Uncle Bennett?”
Bennett clears his throat. “Right.”
“And she doesn’t have any kids, which means she probably wants some, and you already have me, so that’s like a bonus—”
“Michaela.” David’s ears have gone crimson. “That’s not appropriate.”
“I’m just being helpful.”
“You’re being a menace.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Caleb laughs so hard he has to lean on Serena for support. “God, I love this kid.”
“Don’t encourage her,” David says, but he’s fighting a smile.
Principal Harrison chooses this moment to approach. I watch David’s systems fail in real-time—posture overcorrection, voice modulation malfunction, complete inability to determine appropriate hand placement.
“Mr. Kingsley,” she says warmly, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m so glad you could make it. And you brought quite the cheer section.”
“These are our friends,” Michaela announces before David can respond.
“That’s Uncle Caleb and his girlfriend Serena, and that’s Uncle Bennett and Layla—they’re engaged—and that lady who’s kind of hanging behind and looking like she doesn’t belong is Jenna, she works with Bennett, and that guy hovering near her is Uncle Dominic, nobody likes him—”
“Hey!”
“—that’s because we love him—”
“Better.”
“—and you already met Uncle Logan. And that’s Audrey, his lady friend. They fixed their communication problems.”
Principal Harrison’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “It’s lovely to meet all of you. Michaela has told me she has an ‘extended family’. It’s wonderful to see such a strong support system—especially with...” She trails off, glancing at David meaningfully.
“We’re doing well,” David says quietly. “Thanks to you. The way you’ve handled everything—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“It’s my job to keep these kids safe.” Her voice softens. “But I’m glad Michaela has so many people looking out for her. I’ve heard so much about all of you. Michaela is quite the talker.”
“Only good things, I hope,” Layla interjects, breaking the tension. “About this extended family, I mean.”
“Mostly. Although I did hear an interesting story about someone named Dominic and a karaoke incident involving—”
“And that’s enough of that,” Dominic interrupts, shooting Michaela a betrayed look. “What happened to attorney-client privilege?”
“You’re not my attorney. Uncle Caleb is.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You don’t have to agree. I gave you a dollar. Money exchanged hands. It’s binding.”
Caleb’s mouth falls open and Dominic grumbles something about him being the client, not the attorney, since he doesn’t even have the qualifications.
Principal Harrison laughs—a warm, genuine sound—and I watch David watching her, his expression somewhere between terrified and transfixed.
“Well, regardless of who’s attorney to who,” David starts, finally finding his voice, “I think I can safely say we’ve all enjoyed the showcase this evening. Thank you for putting it on. Michaela’s been talking about it for weeks.”
“She’s a remarkable student. One of the most intellectually curious children I’ve had the pleasure of working with.” Principal Harrison smiles at Michaela. “Although she does have a tendency to raise objections during class discussions.”
“Objections are important,” Michaela says solemnly. “Uncle Caleb says so.”
“In court, yes. In second-grade literature circles, perhaps less essential.”
“Literature has interpretations. Interpretations can be challenged.”
David sighs. “We’re working on knowing when to pick our battles.”
“Aren’t we all.” Principal Harrison’s eyes meet David’s and hold.