Chapter 15
Diane
I hover near the back row of parent seating, where every other mother seems to be equipped with a camera or camcorder, tracking their child’s every move.
Nathan sidles up next to me, cradling a pair of Styrofoam cups of coffee. He hands one to me and says, “She’s a natural.”
“She’s petrified,” I whisper back, afraid the force of my hope might jinx her.
Onstage, Cassie begins her pitch. I can see the muscles in her jaw clench and unclench as she pushes through her opening lines, eyes flickering from judge to project and back.
She’s prepared, but she’s also thirteen, and the words trip over themselves in their hurry to be worthy.
The judges lean in, peering at the sandbar, the swarms of tiny hand-drawn sanderlings, the reconstructed ocean scene.
One of the women asks a question, and Cassie’s answer is a little too loud, like she’s surprised to find her voice still functioning.
The words tumble out—facts about brackish marshes, why piping plovers nest on the leeward side, how jellyfish stings don’t actually kill you, but it really hurts, and here’s a fun story about my last summer vacation. The narrative wobbles but never falls.
I study her posture, the way her hands start to move as she gets comfortable, sketching the shape of the ocean and wind in the air.
Her hair has come loose in the front, and a thin sheen of sweat is already forming at her temples.
The judges are smiling, not condescending but genuine, taking notes with their school-issued pens.
“She’s killing it,” Nathan says.
The pitch ends, and the judges thank her, moving on to the next table. Cassie stands rooted, then slides down into the folding chair behind her project, face in her hands. I can’t read her expression from here, but her body language is pure relief, the aftershock of surviving an avalanche.
Nathan and I walk the perimeter of the gym, pretending to admire the other projects, but our attention is fixed on Cassie’s corner. When we finally approach, she looks up with eyes red and shining.
“I said ‘fecal matter’ in front of everybody,” she stage-whispers.
“Honestly, that’s the most accurate term,” says Nathan. “You’d be surprised what passes for scientific language in the adult world.”
Cassie giggles, then covers her mouth, cheeks bright. “Do you think they liked it?” she asks, her gaze darting between us.
Nathan smiles, cool and easy. “Are you kidding? They ate it up.”
I want to hug her, but the gym is full of witnesses. I settle for a hand on her shoulder, squeezing just enough for her to feel my pulse through the bone. “You did amazing, honey. Really.”
She looks at the project, at the place where the repair is obvious, and traces the blue seam with one finger. “Do you think it matters that it’s broken?”
“Nah,” he says. “I think it makes it better.”
Cassie’s face scrunches up. “How?”
“Because, it shows that no matter what happened, no matter the setbacks, you persevered. Instead of crumbling, you faced a challenge and didn’t let it defeat you. That’s something to be proud of. Not everyone could do that.”
There’s a lull, the hour between presentations and awards, where parents crowd the bleachers, and kids trade compliments or critique, depending on their blood sugar.
Nathan disappears briefly, returns with two cans of soda and a donut from the teacher’s lounge.
“Sugar rush,” he says, handing them over like contraband.
Cassie breaks the donut in half, gives me the bigger piece, then perches on the edge of the chair, legs swinging, eyes locked on the judges huddled at the front of the gym with their clipboards and whispers.
At the next table, a boy demonstrates his Rube Goldberg machine, which works beautifully until the final step, when the balloon pops prematurely, and the dominoes scatter sideways.
All the while, Cassie’s project stands, imperfect but proud, the new ocean horizon sketched by Nathan catching the overhead lights in shifting shades of blue. I wonder if it will ever come home, or if it will wind up on some forgotten shelf in the school, an artifact of this day.
Finally, the judges step up to the microphone, their faces composed into neutral optimism.
The science teacher, a man with a mustache so assertive it could anchor a bridge, does the introductions.
First, there are the Honorable Mentions, which go to a potato battery and a surprisingly accurate model of a tornado alley trailer park.
Then, the ribbons, which are distributed with fairness.
Everyone gets one, color-coded to soften the blow.
When they announce the Grand Prize, I feel my heart stutter.
They say her name, full and clear: “Cassandra Jade Montgomery.” Cassie doesn’t react at first. Maybe she’s waiting for the universe to correct itself, but then she looks at me, wild-eyed, and for a second I see her as she was at five, legs too short, teeth too new, the entire world a miracle waiting to happen.
She walks up to the front, the gym floor echoing her footsteps, and the teacher hands her a shiny trophy. She holds it above her head, not in triumph but as if testing whether it might float away.
From the bleachers, I want to scream, to embarrass her with a howl of pride, but all I manage is a sharp intake of breath that leaves me lightheaded. Next to me, Nathan claps, steady and deliberate, and I realize I’m gripping his arm so tightly he may have bruises tomorrow.
When Cassie comes back to us, she sets the trophy on the table, then pulls me down to her level and hugs me, hard. She smells like donut glaze and dry-erase marker.
“You did it,” I say, voice thick.
She nods, a single solemn bob, then, before I can even process, she throws her arms around Nathan. For a second he freezes, as if uncertain of the rules, then hugs her back, gentle but real.
Cassie is the first to break away. She sits, cradling the trophy in her lap, then looks up with the gravity of a Nobel laureate. “Can we get pizza?”
I laugh, the sound more relief than amusement. “Of course. You can have whatever you want tonight.”
“Even soda?”
“Even soda.”
“What about Nathan?” she asks, her gaze darting between us. “Can he come too?”
Nathan raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. “You think I can be bought with pizza?”
Cassie’s lips curl. “Maybe.”
“Well,” he says, looking at me, “I do know a place, right on the boardwalk. They have the best pepperoni in town. Arcade games, too.”
Cassie’s face is a sunbeam.
I glance at Nathan and our eyes meet, a silent exchange that binds us to this new reality of ours. At his nod, I turn back to Cassie. “All right then. Pizza it is.”
Her cheer bounces off the gym walls and confirms our victory as more than just a trophy on a table.
As we walk out, the other parents stare, some with envy, some with that soft-eyed look reserved for families who seem to have everything under control.
I know better, but I let myself pretend, let the feeling settle in my chest like the aftermath of a storm, fragile and dazzling and improbably whole.
Nathan holds the door, and for once I don’t hurry to step through. I stand in the gym doorway, watching Cassie parade ahead, trophy in hand, her silhouette sharp against the parking lot sun.
“Thank you,” I say, low, to Nathan.
He shrugs. “Wasn’t much.”
“No,” I say, and I hear the tremble in my voice, the reverb of everything he’d managed to salvage. Not just the cardboard ocean but the morning itself. “It was everything.”