Page 2 of Dirty Damage

A ding from the front door makes us both jump.

I nearly spill the nuclear-grade coffee down my shirt. Because that’s exactly what this morning needs: third-degree burns to match my emotional scarring.

And thus, the day begins.

Kids start arriving, and I slip into work mode, greeting parents and helping little ones get settled.

By snack time, sweat trickles down my spine, and my caffeine high has devolved into a headache that throbs behind my left eye.

I’m arranging juice boxes and crackers when Chloe Morris appears at my elbow, her brown eyes wide beneath a fringe of dark bangs.

“Miss Palmer, can we play dress-up princesses after snack? Please?”

I should say no. Every cell in my body is screaming for a nap, not princess playtime.

“Today’s not the best day, sweetie,” I begin, but then her face falls, and I remember what Mara told me yesterday over text—Chloe’s parents’ divorce was finalized this week, and her dad missed his visitation.

“It’s almost my birthday,” she adds softly, twisting the hem of her shirt. “I’m going to be four.”

My resolve crumbles like a sandcastle at high tide.

When I was Chloe’s age, fairytales were my escape hatch from reality.Beauty and the Beastwas my lifeline—I watched that VHS tape while Mom worked the late shift at Caesar’s Palace until it literally wore out.

The memory of finding it broken in the VCR still makes my chest ache.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. “But just for a little while.”

“Yay!” Her face lights up like someone flipped a switch. “You’re more beautiful than Princess Belle!”

Argh, this little emotional terrorist knows just what buttons to push. I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to.

Mara catches my eye across the room, dramatically wiping away an imaginary tear and mouthing “softie.”

I stick my tongue out at her, which sets Chloe off in a cascade of giggles that makes the whole thing worth it.

As I help her arrange the plastic tea set, the gurgling A/C ruckus fades into white noise. Just for a moment, I let myself believe in magic again.

In possibility.

In happy endings.

Chloe drags me to the dress-up corner. She retrieves her favorite yellow Belle dress, and I reluctantly pull out the adult version we keep for teachers.

It’s ridiculous—some polyester nightmare donated by a parent—and as I step into it, I’m reminded that whoever designed it clearly had a twelve-year-old in mind, not a woman with actual curves.

It’s a strapless, sizeEff You,with plastic beads that dig into my hipbones.

“You have to twirl,” Chloe instructs, demonstrating with her arms out. “Fancy princess twirls!”

I oblige, even as the cheap fabric strains across my chest. The sleeves don’t even reach my elbows.

But Chloe’s delight makes it worth it, her giggle like wind chimes as she spins alongside me.

“More! Bigger twirls!” she demands, and I comply, despite the warning bells in my head.

Faster we go.

Faster.

---