Page 13 of Clever Little Thing

“That was a good day, wasn’t it?” Pete said. Stella melted down because the aquarium was too crowded, but outside, we bought fries and ate them as we walked along the Thames, making plans for when parenting got easier. We’d heard that between five and ten were the golden years.

I couldn’t throw up. I flopped back against the tub, and Pete said, “Go back to bed. I’ll take Stella to school.” He paused. “You need to let me do more, when I’m around.”

I took his hand. “Will you check in with Mr. McNaughton? Make sure he’s ready for her.” I’d written Stella’s teacher several panicked emails over the summer, explaining that school was challenging for her. In year two, Stella showed kids how to fashion an ultrafast paper airplane called “the Hammer,” and one of them hit the teacher in the eye. In year three, Stella had told the other kids that when slugs mated, the male’s penis sometimes got stuck, and the female consumed it because it was high in protein. After that, the kids had follow-up questions for the teacher, and the teacher had a talk with me about how very bright children could turn to manipulation if they were bored.

I asked the teachers in years two and three to provide extra work for Stella, but they said they had to focus on the less-high-achievingstudents. Fair enough. Stella had to be content with reading furiously during breaks and when she got home. She would have been happier at home, but she needed social skills as well as academic ones, so she went to school with other eight-year-olds, normal kids who weren’t sure if the Earth circled the sun or the other way around.

I went back to bed, but I was too worried to sleep. I wished I could at least make Stella look like the other girls, but with her issues, it was impossible. By pickup time, her hair looked like a troll doll’s, and her nonchafing elastic-waist trousers were slipping down her narrow waist. Her school polo shirt was three sizes too big (she hated anything that clung around her neck). I had to pick my battles, and the battle I had to win was getting her to school. If she insisted on looking like an orphan fromAnnie, there was nothing I could do about it.

Finally, I dragged myself out of bed and, hand under my nose, went to another Muswell Hill boutique and bought a decorative crystal diffuser and some Diptyque Fleur D’Oranger room fragrance, an impersonal gift, but I didn’t care. I sat on a bench to write a proper apology note. But then I remembered how Cherie had told me to let Stella go into freak-out mode to “release tension,” like she knew what Stella needed better than me. In the end, I just scrawled,Sorry about yesterday.That would have to cover everything. I left the gold gift bag and card on her doorstep, along with her special scissors, and scuttled away.

•••

I thought I might get a quick text from Cherie before school pickup, but nothing. The year five classroom had a different entrance, so I didn’t have a chance to run into her and confirm she’d received thegift. Then, to my surprise, Stella emerged from the classroom talking to Lulu. That was a change. Even more surprising, Mr. McNaughton gave me a covert thumbs-up. I wanted to debrief with him, but Stella tugged on my hand, eager to get moving.

•••

Around six, Pete surprised us by coming home early again. “Look what I got for Stella.” He grinned and held up a child-sized boogie board designed to look like a blue fish with yellow stripes. “What’s a way to get rid of fear of the sea and for Stella and I to spend time together?”

“It’s a nice idea,” I said. “But Stella can barely swim.”

Pete looked crushed, and I felt bad. Pete’s dad had taken him backpacking in the wilderness from the age of six. His vision of fatherhood included lots of outdoor activity, and he was stuck with a child who couldn’t stand the feel of grass under her bare feet.

Pete’s phone dinged. “Sorry, baby,” he said. Nathan, the needy CEO, bombarded him with Slack messages. He’d said Pete didn’t have to answer them instantly, but it was easier to deal with them as they came in; otherwise Nathan spiraled. Pete tapped out a response and sighed. “I have to run back into work later,” he said. “I thought this boogie board would be a nice surprise.”

“I’m sorry. Just—one step at a time, OK? She had a good day at school.”

“That’s great news.” But Pete’s gaze went to the pale patch on the floor he’d made when cleaning up after Stella’s birthday party. I could have told him not to use bleach on the old wood, but he didn’t stop to consult me.

With a start I realized that Stella was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of Pete’s white button-down shirts, with only two buttons done up. How long had she been there? “Hey, Stella Bella,” Pete said. “Congratulations on getting through your first day of year four. Did you miss me? Is that why you’re wearing my shirt?”

“It’s my science outfit,” Stella said. She began pushing a chair to the freezer, legs scraping the floor. “I need my bird.”

“Um, sweetheart? I might have thrown it away,” said Pete. Stella froze. I glared at Pete, and he muttered, “I thought she’d forget about it.”

The color drained from Stella’s face. She looked small and helpless suddenly, swallowed up by Pete’s shirt. “But it wasmybird. I found it.” She turned to me. “Mommy, could you please get it out of the bin?” I jumped up, but Pete laid a hand on my arm.

“It’s in the green bin outside,” he said.

“I can get it back then,” I twittered. I went to the sink for my rubber gloves.

“It’s under two days’ worth of kitchen compost now. Leave it.”

I tried to take a deep breath, but felt like my lungs wouldn’t inflate. Pete had no idea what he was in for. I knelt down to get my rubber gloves from their hook. “Stella, stay calm, I’ll get your bird,” I panted.

“Sweetheart,” Pete said. I turned around. He was holding the gloves: I must have left them beside the sink. “This has got to stop.” He balled the gloves up and stuffed them in his pocket.

Stella began to scream.

Pete had once suggested I try a mantra on Stella: “Screaming doesn’t get you what you want.” That was the time she screamed so hard I took her to the emergency room. I’d seen other kids have tantrums: they jumped up and down, emitted high shrieks, then melted themselves onto the floor. Stella wrung her hands and keened like she was a mother whose only child had just been blown to bits.

Inside thirty seconds, I felt I’d do anything to make her stop. I’d comb the beach for another dead bird. I’d do it right now.

Pete said something, possibly, “Screaming doesn’t get what you want.” But her screaming was so loud I couldn’t hear. I stood on tiptoe and spoke directly into his ear: “She’s going to make herself ill. She’s going to damage her vocal cords. Give me the gloves. I’m going outside to the bin.”

Pete backed away from me. I had no chance of getting the gloves off him if he didn’t want me to have them. I grabbed my phone and started googling to see if I could get a dead bird online, but it was illegal to sell wild birds in the UK. I could drive to the beach, though. If necessary, I would catch a bird and wring its neck with my bare hands.

Pete kept repeating the mantra. When I tried the mantra, I maxed out around thirty or forty times. I swear Pete only got to about fifteen before he was on his knees, crooning her name and trying to take her in his arms. “Stella, honey, it’s OK, baby, it’s OK.”

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