Page 59 of The Scars I Bare
“What now?” I asked, immediately sorry I had.
I caught Cora dishing up whatever was on the stove onto plates. I couldn’t help but notice the way her hips swayed back and forth as she hummed to herself.
“And I told her, communal crayons just didn’t make sense.”
“Huh?”
Clearly, I’d missed something while I was checking out Cora.
“They make us share crayons. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
I looked to Cora for guidance. Her eyes widened, and she made a nodding gesture. Apparently, I was to agree.
“Yes, totally absurd.”
“What if the kid next to me presses too hard or, for heaven’s sake, eats the crayons? That kind of improper use should not affect me, should it?”
“I should think not?” I said, almost phrasing it as a question because, really, I had no clue what the rules were when it came to Crayola rights.
My eyes drifted back to Cora and the short dress. Her legs seemed to go on forever.What I wouldn’t do to—
“So, you’ll speak to my teacher then?”
“Um, what?”
“About having my own crayons. We haven’t moved on to using colored pencils or markers, but I’m guessing it will involve the same kind of stuff. Better if you include them in your discussion.”
My face went blank as I found Cora’s.
She was taking her place next to me at the table. She shrugged. “She’s already tried asking me, Molly, and Terri. You were the next viable option.”
“Who knew kindergarten could be so complicated?”
Cora laughed. “When your name is Lizzie Ashcroft, everything is complicated.”
As with anything Molly cooked, dinner was amazing, and Lizzie spent the entire evening entertaining us. Although, somehow, I thought I’d been talked into going to her kindergarten class and pushing for crayon rights.
Or at least, starting a petition.
“She’s smart,” I said the moment Cora and I found ourselves alone for the first time that night.
Lizzie was in bed, and we’d settled ourselves in the parlor, enjoying the peace and quiet for a change.
“I know,” she replied.
“I mean, she’s, like, really smart. I’m not even sure there’s a word for it.”
“Savant,” she said. “Or so she told me.”
I couldn’t help but grin.
“Does it ever make you nervous? How gifted she seems to be?” I asked, turning to her on the couch.
Her hands were wrapped around a hot cup of tea, although she hadn’t taken a single sip.
“Always,” she said. “I wonder if I’m doing enough or too much. When she taught herself to read at three, I thought,Wow, what an amazing child I have, and of course, I still think that, but I often worry about the things she reads because it’s hard to block a child who can literally hack her way into any computer. I mean, the kid was teaching me about internet security just last week.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “I just want her to be a kid. She’s already gone through enough this year without having to read about all the other shit that goes on in the world.
