10. Winnie #2
The superintendent arrived, looking exactly like a man who’d been informed there was a situation involving wealthy parents and physical violence. Meaning, he was exhausted already.
He was tall, silver-haired, and looked exactly how you’d expect someone to look if they’d survived many years at their job through strategic emotional dissociation.
The furious PTA mother descended upon him. “That child assaulted me,” she snapped, gesturing wildly at Billie, who was now sitting cross-legged under the table and eating one of the pastries.
The superintendent blinked once.
Billie blinked back with raspberry filling smeared around her mouth.
In the woman’s defense, from a distance, she did look slightly feral.
I held out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. I’m Winifred Carrington. I nanny the Lawrence children.”
He nodded and smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Rodriguez.”
The woman stepped toward the superintendent and continued. “This entire display is grotesque. Children are running around pretending to be dead and covered in blood and?—”
“Jam,” Bianca corrected from her chair without looking up from her book.
“Whatever it is,” the woman hissed.
The superintendent turned toward me. I made a snap decision without giving it too much thought, though I did try to justify it by reminding myself that glamour was not mind control.
Glamour worked best as a suggestion. A redirection of emotional certainty. One could not force someone to believe the impossible. But one could encourage them toward the easiest conclusion.
I rarely used it.
Very rarely.
Mostly because I disliked the feeling of stepping into another person’s perception and rearranging the furniture. I knew all too well what that felt like, and it wasn’t something I generally felt comfortable employing.
Still, this seemed warranted. I couldn’t stand the idea of the children suffering consequences on my behalf.
I lifted my gaze to the superintendent’s and allowed the smallest thread of glamour to unfurl beneath my words. I made a point not to be too aggressive. Instead, I wanted to give him the certainty that everything here was much less serious than it appeared.
“Surely,” I said gently, “this was simply a misunderstanding.”
The tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately.
“Yes,” he said after a beat. “Yes, I’m certain that’s all it was.”
The PTA mother stared at him in outrage. “A misunderstanding? She kicked me.”
Billie raised her hand. “In fairness, I did that on purpose.”
“Billie,” I hissed.
“What? I’m embracing honesty.”
The superintendent nodded thoughtfully, as though Billie had contributed meaningful civic insight. “Children become overwhelmed during exciting events,” he said mildly. “And emotions occasionally run high during fundraisers.”
The woman looked ready to combust.
“And frankly,” he continued, turning toward the pastry display, “I think these are imaginative.”
Several nearby children chose that exact moment to stagger past, pretending to be zombies as the raspberry compote dripped down their chins. One little boy groaned, “brAAAINS,” before slipping slightly on the gym floor and being redirected by a horrified father.
Mr. Rodriguez watched this with surprising approval. “You know,” he mused, “perhaps this is exactly the sort of creative, childlike energy these events need.”
The woman made a strangled sound.
He continued before she could recover. “In fact, I think we may need a new direction for the bake sale next year.” He turned toward me warmly. “If you would ever be interested in running the fundraiser, I would be more than happy to discuss it.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
The PTA mother looked as though she’d just witnessed me personally set fire to her social standing.
I smiled politely. “That is a very kind offer, Mr. Rodriguez.”
Bianca looked up from her book again. “Oh,” she said softly. “Mrs. Hutchins is going to explode internally.”
“Bianca,” I murmured.
“She is.”
Mr. Rodriguez gave Billie a kind look. “Perhaps we refrain from kicking in the future?”
Billie licked the raspberry filling from one finger. “What if people are rude?”
“Use your words,” he said.
“What if my words are kicks?”
The superintendent pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. “No more shin attacks, Billie.”
Billie heaved a sigh. “Fine.”
Crisis resolved, the crowd slowly dispersed, though not before Mrs. Hutchins shot me a look of disgust I’d only seen from people who were confronted with a tax audit.
“I regret nothing,” Billie whispered.
“I gathered as much.”
A softer presence approached the table several minutes later. “Uhm,” a woman said, “I just wanted to say I think these are incredible.”
She looked to be in her late-twenties, perhaps, with soft brown curls escaping a loose clip and enormous glasses that kept sliding down her nose.
She wore a cardigan with tiny, embroidered strawberries near the cuffs.
The energy radiating off her told me she was accustomed to apologizing for occupying physical space.
A little girl in pigtails, already covered in raspberry filling, stood beside her. The child grinned at me with red-stained teeth.
“You approve of the anatomical direction?” I asked.
The woman laughed nervously. “Honestly? I think they’re the most memorable thing here.”
“That’s diplomatic phrasing.”
“It’s true.” She lowered her voice slightly. “The unicorn cupcakes all kind of blend together after table four.”
I liked her immediately.
“I’m Winnie,” I said.
“Oh. Right, sorry. I’m Millie. Millie Applebaum.”
Billie pointed dramatically at the child beside her. “You look haunted.”
Millie looked alarmed until she noticed the filling all over her kid’s face and hair. “Oh my god. Hazel, honey.”
Hazel grinned wider. “I’m a zombie princess.”
“Yes, you certainly look like one.” Millie looked exhausted, and I noticed she didn’t have a ring on her left hand.
Single mother. I should’ve guessed based on the dark circles under her eyes, the mismatched socks on Hazel, and the general air of not giving a fuck.
Single moms were the real MVPs, typically doing everything without an ounce of help.
I softened slightly. “Would you like a wet wipe?”
Her face lit with genuine gratitude. “You have wet wipes?”
“I plan ahead.”
“That’s honestly the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Then she froze. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean?—”
I laughed before she could die from embarrassment. “You’re perfectly all right.”
Billie stared between us thoughtfully. “I think you just proposed marriage.”
Millie covered her face.
CJ looked up from his notebook. “I would attend that wedding.”
“You’d attend anything if snacks are involved,” Bianca said.
Millie laughed helplessly into her hands before finally accepting the wet wipes I handed her. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
Hazel took another enormous bite of the pastry. Raspberry filling immediately exploded down the front of her shirt. Then she screamed joyfully, “Look, Mommy! I’m bleeding!”
Across the gymnasium, several other children had had similar experiences. Small monsters roamed everywhere now. One child had smeared filling across both cheeks. Another hissed at passing adults.
And because I had anticipated this outcome completely, I distributed wet wipes like a battlefield medic while parents attempted to recover emotionally.
“You really prepared for this,” Millie said, watching me hand another wipe packet to a desperate father.
“Children enjoy a good theme.”
Millie laughed. “That they do.”
The fundraiser became increasingly chaotic as it progressed, but the chaos had momentum now. Parents loosened. Children laughed louder. Even some of the previously horrified mothers began taking photographs once they realized the pastries were the hit of the event.
When the sale finally ended, Mr. Rodriguez climbed onto the small stage near the bleachers, holding a microphone. Feedback shrieked briefly. Half the gym winced.
“Thank you all,” he began, “for another successful PTA fundraiser.”
Polite applause followed.
He smiled out toward the tables. “And while we appreciate every contribution tonight, I’d especially like to recognize the runaway success of Miss Carrington and Billie Lawrence’s… ah… cardiovascular-themed desserts.”
CJ applauded immediately.
Billie wriggled out from under the table and bowed.
Mr. Rodriguez continued, “I believe it’s important to remember that fun is the first part of fundraiser.”
More applause this time. Children cheered. Somebody in the back yelled, “Zombie cupcakes next year!”
Mrs. Hutchins looked moments from spiritual collapse. Millie high-fived me so suddenly I almost missed it.
“You won the sugar festival,” Billie informed me proudly.
“I believe we did.”
Millie adjusted her glasses and looked at the trays, which were mostly empty. “Seriously, though, would you be willing to teach me how to make things like that?”
“The pastries?”
She nodded quickly. “My fillings always seize up. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“It’s usually the temperature.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve made many pastries over the years.”
Billie leaned against my side. “She’s old.”
Millie choked on her own laughter.
I sighed. “Thank you, Billie.”
“You’re welcome.”
Millie flashed me a shy but genuine smile. “Maybe we could have a baking night sometime? After work?”
Friendship. It had been a long time since someone had asked for that without an agenda. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time. And while I might not be cut out for family, friendship was permissible.
“I would like that,” I said honestly.
Her face brightened instantly. “Really?”
“Of course.”
We exchanged numbers while Hazel and Billie compared frosting stains.
As the gym slowly emptied around us, CJ and Bianca packed away their things, and Billie picked up the remaining pastry tray as if it was her sacred treasure.
I stood in the middle of fluorescent-lit suburban chaos, surrounded by sticky children, exhausted parents, and raspberry-stained napkins, feeling treacherously close to ordinary.