Page 137 of Bad Love

"It is, isn’tit?”

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"Well done,Timothy. Thank you for that rousing rendition of ‘Old MacDonald.’" The crowd applauds as Nadine beams from the podium. "These are not only our children—they’releaders oftomorrow."

The school gym is decorated to the teeth. Murals of famous doctors, politicians, and scientists cover the walls in honor of the theme. In between hang medals, which are supposed to represent knowledge. Or victory. Orsomething.

"When's Rory's turn?" my mom asks, leaningover.

"He's next." I smooth down my dress. "I'm glad you guys came. I know it wasn'teasy."

My fathersmiles.

I glance at the empty seat next to him. In the end, the tickets sold out, but there were a few no-shows. Meaning Rory’s dad had a place to rest his behind. "Where'sBlake?"

"He left to take a call. He missed work to be here," my momsays.

"That's too bad," I say deadpan as I shift back toward thestage.

"What's Rory'sperformance?"

"You'llsee."

We brought over all the props this morning and set themup.

"Next up is Rory Sullivan. Performing"—Nadine’s smile wanes a few degrees—"magic."

Rory takes the stage, stepping in front of a long table. He scans the room as if realizing how many people are here, and I let out a little whoop of applause. His gaze meets mine, and he nods. I nodback.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” My heart squeezes at his small voice filling the room. “Today, I'm going to reveal amazing things toyou."

He pulls something white from his pocket and shakes it out with a flick of his wrist. The crowdjumps.

"What is that?" my motherasks.

I bite my cheek. “Showmanship.”

He dons the apron with a flourish. "Today we'll be making magic. Culinary magic." He bends in front of the table and pulls out a cookie sheet. "It will start with this very ordinarytray."

My mom makes a startled sound as we watch him produce a bowl, small bags, boxes, and mixing things, all the while talking about what he’s doing. "He's… making scones onstage?”

I beam. "Technically he's doing the prep on stage. We couldn’t get an oven for obvious reasons. So, he baked this morning." Got up at five to make three dozen fresh so there were enough to pass out to at least the first fewrows.

We watch for a few minutes as Rory describes the ingredients. My heart is so big it hurts right now, but it’s a different hurt than the one that’s kept me company these pastweeks.

"Surely a little boy should be spending time doing other things instead of in the kitchen. What about the bike Blake boughthim?"

Her whisper is audible, but I focus on my kid on stage, informing the room of the pitfalls of incorrect whiskingtechnique.

"He's not interested in the bike, Mom. He likes to cook. I think I'll buy him a sous vide cooker for Christmas," Idecide.

I realize the room's gone silent amidst a smattering of applause. Rory's done, and he's standing on the stage, his smile wavering as he holds a plate of finished scones in front of him. The tray of prepared unbaked ones sits on the table at hisside.

It takes me a minute to process what'shappening.

He’s finished, and the crowd isn’t sure what to make of it. My kid’s expression of achievement is slipping with each passingsecond.

Before I can stand, a shrill whistle from behind us splits the room. The entire gym turns inalarm.

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