Page 35 of Clever Little Thing

As I was finishing the Thanksgiving table decorations ten days later, tying the napkins with rustic twine, Stella clattered down the stairs with Irina behind her.

“What do you think?” Irina said proudly. “She look nice for dinner.” I stared, stunned: her hair was in two plaits. Stella had never let anyone touch her hair but me, and she’d never even allowed me to do a ponytail. But Irina had somehow subdued that abundant hair into two skimpy plaits, finished with elastic holders decorated with pink plastic bobbles.

Surely not the same ones that had belonged to Blanka?

“Beautiful, darling,” I said stiffly.

We had eight guests, including five from Mycoship: Nathan, the CEO; Kia, who did biz dev—she was American like Pete; and three younger employees. Pete had also invited Nick and Emmy to stop everyone from talking shop all evening (they were leaving their kids with a babysitter). And of course, there was Irina, who bustled around heating up the various things people had brought, even though Pete kept telling her to relax. The collective odor was almost too much. It smelled like a year’s worth of leftover school dinners, scraped off plates and boiled down to a concentrate.

Kia’s cranberry sauce was the one dish that tempted me, with its waft of orange zest—her mother’s recipe, she said. She was muscular from her triathlon training, and her long blond hair was greying naturally. “Your hair is lovely,” I said.

Kia tossed her head. “Who has time to get their hair colored, right? I’d rather go for a bike ride.” She smelled of magnesium muscle soak and sports deodorant, not unpleasant. “You must be so excited about the baby.”

I smiled. “Please. You think we should be paying a carbon tax.” Kia had once confided in me that she couldn’t have kids because of premature ovarian failure, but at the same time, she’d realized shedidn’t want them for environmental reasons. “I’m not judging if other people have kids, but for me, the climate crisis is a reason to feel good about not having them,” she’d said.

Kia turned to Stella, who was standing at the edge of the kitchen. “Do you remember me? We met a couple of years ago, you were five or six. Are you still interested in disasters? You told me all about theTitanic.”

“I don’t remember,” Stella said. How could she not remember? She remembered how many people survived and how many dogs, even the breeds (two Pomeranians and a Pekinese).

Kia smiled. “Are you excited about your little brother or sister?”

“Oh yes,” Stella said. I flinched. Was there any way I could reasonably ask her to stop saying two of the most common words in the English language? Pete joined us, putting his arm around me. He wore a crisp shirt instead of his usual California-casual T-shirt. His beard looked more neatly shaped. He’d put some stuff on it, beard balm. I could smell it, fresh and clean like a snowy morning.

“Any names picked out?” Kia asked Pete.

“Whatever it is, it’s got to be something I can make into a tattoo. I already have a star for Stella.” He rolled up his sleeve and showed the black-and-white nautical star, in the style of a compass rose, adorning his bicep. “I apologize for how cheesy this sounds, but she guides me home. My true north.”

My heart squeezed. He hadn’t shown anyone that tattoo since the birthday party. Pete picked Stella up, but instead of clinging to him, she just hung there, a deadweight, and he put her down again. “Stella Bella Banana. You’re getting bigger. I’m so proud of howwell you’ve been doing at school. Want to go swimming together on Saturday?” She nodded.

I stared. Really? She was suddenly OK with splashing and jostling? What if she found a Band-Aid floating in the water?

Then Emmy came up to us and twirled one of Stella’s plaits. “Gorgeous hairdo!”

“Doesn’t she look cute?” Pete agreed.

Emmy’s gaze flicked to the pristine floor for a moment, and I wondered if she was remembering. She’d been right there when it happened.

At Stella’s birthday party, when she’d finally had enough of the animal entertainer tormenting small creatures and the noisy strangers crowding her house, she went into her bedroom and removed her underwear. Then she walked into the kitchen, where the biggest concentration of guests could be found, squatted down, and she—she—well, right in the middle of the floor.

I was in the powder room at the time, splashing cold water on my face. I heard the gasps and rushed into the kitchen. The area emptied in a flash. I took Stella upstairs while Pete pretended to be jolly. He whisked the mess away and cleaned up. But the guests left without singing “Happy Birthday.” As they shuffled out the door, Pete told everyone she had an upset tummy. Everyone kept saying they totally understood, it was normal for kids to have accidents, who hadn’t been there?

But this wasn’t a three-year-old who was poorly potty-trained. This was a child of eight. And this wasn’t loss of control of her bodily functions. Stella had shown consummate command of her body,and this was the most disturbing part of it. She wasn’t the least bit upset or embarrassed. Her bearing was regal as she stood in the center of the kitchen after this very deliberate act.

Pete knew and I knew that Stella would become the story other parents told themselves to make themselves feel better: “Cyrus might be terrified of movie trailers and have a rash because of his compulsive chin-licking—but he would never take a dump in the middle of his own birthday party.” The same people probably got a kick out of saying that she was—literally—a party pooper.

But now Pete was beaming. We were having people over again, and Stella was behaving beautifully, sitting at the table and eating everything on her plate, instead of guzzling the meal in her room. But only because Irina was here. Was this why Pete invited her?

Nathan turned his focus on me. “Pete says you used to write an etiquette column. What is that, like what fork to use?”

“Not at all,” Pete said. “It wasn’t stuffy. Charlotte was very funny.”

I offered, “Thank-you notes shouldn’t begin with the wordsthank youbecause—”

“Thank-you notes?” One of the younger employees, the one with a tongue stud, spoke. “We’re way too lazy for those nowadays. I send a text. Or, you know, just say thank you at the time.”

“The world is falling apart,” Nathan pronounced gloomily. “Eventually all politeness will vanish and we’ll all be shooting each other over the last patch of inhabitable earth.” He paused. “So, what are you passionate about, Charlotte?”

“I never said Iwasn’tpassionate about etiquette,” I said. “Won’t we need it even more when we’re all fighting disaster?”

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