I do not need Will Munroe’s help to build this police car. That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself with every tire I attach, made out of cardboard. With every window I paint, made out of cardboard. With every detachable hand radio, also made out of cardboard with a little plaster as well. I tell myself that running out on that asshole was the best decision I’ve made in a long time.

Another good decision is crying in the janitor’s closet every night after the kids go home. Then again, it’s not the janitor’s closet; it’s the holistic center of janitorial well being.

You know, even if I’m about to lose this job, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. This place is nuts.

Emery tried talking me down about Will. Amazing, considering she wasn’t so crazy about this match in the first place. But I listened to her. After all, what I saw was a marriage in its death throes. I saw a man who has to deal with a woman who’s raising his child in a commune. I saw a woman who feels very lost, and maybe unsupported. I should try giving both of them a break.

That would make sense, except that this is setting off all the alarm bells I installed after the Darren fiasco. Let’s face it, Will Munroe isn’t free. It’s not about his kid—I have zero problems with sharing emotional space with an adorable ten year old. Hell, I know that Amelia has to be Will’s top priority.

It’s that she wasn’t for the night when he decided that his top priority was to ingratiate himself with my family and get laid. If he can switch up his focus and the space in his heart that easily, who’s to say he won’t find his way back to Suzonne one day? Who’s to say there won’t be another situation where he’s got a second baby and I’ve got a drinking problem?

Plus, there’s the fact that he could’ve cleared up his situation with Suzonne. He could’ve told me they weren’t technically divorced yet. Well, he did: after the fact. As soon as I got back to my place, I found a couple of texts from him.

I’m sorry. Followed by, I should have told you I wasn’t fully divorced yet. Let’s talk. So I did what any rational adult woman should do and pretended I didn’t see the texts. I’m grown up.

Look, Will’s apologies are good, but I can’t help the feeling he didn’t tell me because he must have known instinctively how that would look. It’d look like he wasn’t totally free yet, and few women want to get emotionally entangled with a man who could drop off the market at any second. He didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. That and the Amelia thing were the two strikes that I needed to see this wasn’t going anywhere.

Even if I cried all the way home. Even if I cried so hard that I nearly got into a fender bender with a very nice Iranian tile salesman. Even if I cried so hard that the very nice Iranian tile salesman offered to help me redo my kitchen for fifty percent off.

So here I am, one week later and getting ready to start the last run through of the show. The lights have been set up, the sets are painted, the costumes are stitched, and now my urchins are putting on the most attractive smudged dirt face makeup they can find. Some of them are rubbing actual dirt onto their faces. Talk about verisimilitude, I guess.

What’ve I been doing since I took up stonewalling Will? Well, I’ve chosen to embark upon healthy and uplifting activities. For example, I found out that stress knitting is a thing. I’ve created two tiny caps for Chuckles, along with a sweater and a tail warmer. He’s going to need one of those if they spend the winter in Montana again. I’ve also made Archie a pillow, and earmuffs, and I’ve knitted a doggie dish for him. It doesn’t hold any water, so maybe that was a stupid idea. Well, no maybe about it.

I’ve also taken to ordering my comfort food every night. Some people have meatloaf or pot roast; I have corn dogs and cotton candy. The guy at the supermarket was at a loss when I asked him if he had just cotton candy mix. Apparently it’s weird for people to have their own miniature cotton candy makers. So I’m odd. Who would’ve guessed?

So yes, corn dogs and cotton candy and knitting are how I’m about to hit my twenty-ninth birthday. Since the principal and Willow over here at Bay of Dreams have said absolutely nothing to me about extending my stay, I have to assume this means I’m not being asked to come back. Which is fine. That means I’m off to live in the trailer with Mom and Dad and Chuckles and Jumbo and Erasmus and Todd. When they were in town, my parents told me that everyone needs a hobo clown for their parties now. I mean, it’s not politically correct to call it that, but if a woman plays the hobo it seems to be more socially acceptable. The things you find out about clowns.

So this is it. No Los Angeles, no love, no job, nada. Nothing. But honestly, I’d rather die as a clown than live waiting around on some jerk to suddenly decide to be an acceptable human being. You can write that on my tombstone. Though who am I kidding, I plan to be cremated and have my ashes scattered at Disney World. I’ve got it written into my will.

That took a dark turn.

As I adjust the steering wheel inside the cop car, I think about maybe getting out on the road again and looking for another town, another job opening. Maybe I can finally make this teaching gig work out full time. But at some point, you need to grow up. So it looks like Archie’s going to have to tango with the boa constrictor pretty soon.

Poor little guy.

“Hi there.” That sweet voice can only belong to one person. I get out of the car to find Amelia looking down at me, scuffing the toes of her sneakers on the stage floor. She’s got her little mouse-eared hoodie back, so that’s good. That makes me happy. I pat the ground next to me, and she sits.

“Those ears look good on you,” I say, making her smile a little. Still, she keeps her eyes turned down. Amelia’s a good kid, and she’s smart. Will and I did our best to keep her from seeing the extent of our relationship, but some people are just intuitive. She knew who left the bacon donuts behind in the auditorium. Heck, she even shared one with me. We had to keep it on the down low, but I’ve never seen a child almost cry over how wonderful bacon tastes. Then again, knowing how things are with her mother, I’m not surprised she doesn’t get her healthy share of nitrates.

That’s not the point. The point is that Amelia knew what was going on, even if she didn’t know. She was used to waiting with me for her dad to come pick her up, catching Pokémon, watching YouTube videos of people playing video games. I swear, the things kids like these days. But it was fun, and now it can’t be that easy between us.

“It’s my favorite hoodie,” she says, patting her mouse ears.

“Did your dad buy you another one?” Crap, I just sort of let it slip that I know the whos and whys and hows of losing that hoodie in the first place.

But she only shrugs. “It was kind of neat. He drove up to the canyon and threatened the guy who stole it!” Her eyes brighten as she tells the story.

Aw. The man who threatens creeps for his daughter is…a man I should not be involved with because reasons.

“Who was the guy?” I give her a stick of my strawberry chewing gum, which she loves. She blows a bubble while she considers.

“He had, like, really long hair that he kept tied in pink ribbons. Then he claimed my mom was his spirit guide in another life, and he took my hoodie to feel the spiritual essence of her passing along to me. But I think he just liked the colors,” she says sagely.

I swear to god, I hope Will manages to get her out of that yurt.

“So are you staying with your dad for a while?” I ask with absolutely no interest, why would you say that I had any interest? Lies.

Amelia blows another bubble, one so big her eyes widen with amazement. When it pops, and she manages to pick it off her cheeks, she says, “He’s really stressed out. That’s what he says. There’s a lot going on with work. And other stuff.” She gives me the biggest, most mournful eyes ever.

God, I feel like such a jerk now. Must stay strong, Chelle.

“Well, grown ups get stressed a lot, but then they always get better.” I smile at the little make up case she’s got in her hands. It’s covered in pink and purple daisies, because of course it is. This is Amelia Munroe we’re talking about. “Are you ready for your star-making debut?”

Amelia gives me this smile that’s both kind and a little bit sad. “Ms. Chelle, it’s okay that I’m not going to be the star of the show. My dad tried telling me I was the star, but everyone thinks I’ll be hurt if I’m not. You know? It’s okay. One day, if I practice, maybe I actually will be.”

“Oh.” Man, talk about not knowing what to say after that. “That’s…such a grown up thing to say, Amelia.”

She shakes her head, bouncing her curls back and forth. “People always say that like it’s a weird thing. You know, acting grown up. Okay, I’d better get changed.” Impulsively, she leans over and gives me a hug. The lights blur around me because I’ve got something in my eye, not because I’m on the verge of tears. It’s dusty in here, you know.

The kids all get settled, made up, and costumed. Then, after running a few exercises, like stretching all the way up on our toes or singing scales, it’s time to run the show. I sit at the back of the theater on one of the metal folding chairs and watch the thing unfold. Despite all the shenanigans that’ve been going on, for a little while I get lost in the moment. The lights are bright, the sets are freshly painted, and the kids are (mostly) singing in tune. When Oliver asks for more kombucha at the sweatshop, I admit it’s kind of not what Mr. Dickens may have had in mind. But when he runs into the Artful Dodger, now a fast-rapping kid from South Central, I feel like it got a pretty good update.

This is the moment that all the stress and the lack of money make worth it: when you see everyone feeding off each other’s energy, having a good time.

If adults could get along for ten minutes as well as a group of hyperactive kids get along for two hours on stage—while singing, mind you—the world might not be such an utter disaster. Of course, part of the reason it works on stage is everything’s scripted and everyone knows what they’re supposed to do. Which could work in real life, if you were willing to go for a sort of Truman Show thing, but anyway—

“Looking good.” Emery plops down next to me, swiping her hair out of her eyes and giving an appreciative nod at the stage. “I don’t know how you make it all work. I also don’t know how you worked a save the whales song into Oliver, but you did it.”

It’s true, the kids are currently involved in a, shall we say, original number about helping an orca whale in captivity escape to freedom on the open seas. I’ll admit I stole the plot line from Free Willy, but it’s all going to be worth it. At the end of the show, two kids dressed in an orca costume swim across the stage, Oliver on the whale’s back, heading toward Catalina Island and freedom.

The more I think this through, the more I realize we probably shouldn’t have credited Charles Dickens, since he has almost nothing to do with this. But you know what? That’s why I sneak a hip flask into opening night.

While the kids dance and the accompanist pounds the ivories, Emery leans closer. “Promise you can keep a secret?” she whispers in my ear.

“Nope.”

“Good.” She grins. “I kinda want this one spreading around the school.” Clearing her throat for dramatic emphasis, she says, “Guess who got engaged, spur of the moment, on Zuma beach yesterday?”

Every muscle in my body freezes. Every hair follicle turns a little bit gray at the root. It’s Will. How can it be Will? Why would Emery be such a sadist that she’d be smiling while telling me it was Will? For a moment I have an out of body experience and wonder if somehow the biggest surprise of all happened and I got engaged to Will at Zuma. I mean, even if I don’t remember it, a lot stranger things have happened. I think. Probably.

“Who?” My voice comes out as the softest, hoarsest whisper. I sound like an owl wracked with emphysema.

“Suzonne Munroe. Or should I say, Suzonne D’Andrei. At least, she will be.” Emery wiggles her eyebrows. I’m pretty sure that out of body experience has turned into me leaving my body utterly, turning it into an AirBnB and moving out of state.

Blinking, I manage to articulately ask, “Whuhum?”

“So I only know this ’cause Danielle in reception talked to Tomi who’s the kindergarten assistant, and she talks to the cafeteria lady, Gerald. Point is, you know how that lady’s been living up in, like, a yurt commune in Topanga or something? Like, even for how kale friendly things are around here, that’s super messed up? So there’s some surfer bro who lives up there with them, but he’s not, you know, into the culture the way the others are. His name’s Jason D’Andrei, he’s twenty, so over a decade younger, and Gerald told Tomi that apparently he and Suzonne hit it up big at the community bonfire. It’s where they burn all the remnants of their old life. Probably illegal given the fire season, but hey, stupid people gotta keep their stupidity going.”

My head’s spinning. Not literally, in an Exorcist way, although it feels like that’s not out of the realm of possibility. “How the hell does Gerald know all of this?”

“Her dad, Jennifer, lives up in the commune.”

Stop asking questions. Life keeps getting weirder. “So. They’re. That is, Will’s. Well. He’s not.” Find a sentence, Chelle, and marry it together.

“Gerald also told me that Suzonne’s been the one dragging her feet about signing the final divorce papers. Apparently, Will’s lawyer keeps going up to the commune but gets told she’s, like, talking to a goat or something. The goat spirit, I mean, not an actual goat.” Emery frowns. “Damn, I hope that’s what it means.”

I have to think about this. Holy shit, is it possible I’ve had this completely wrong? Will wasn’t the one hiding anything about the divorce—Suzonne wouldn’t let him go until she was ready, so he didn’t want to mention that. Because who wants to tell someone you’re dating, “Listen, my ex lives in a tent and she won’t let go of the fact that it’s over. Do you still want to have sex tonight?” Hard sell, that.

“Suzonne finally has her new boy toy, so now that she’s got him?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she signs those papers tonight. She doesn’t strike me as the hurry up and wait type, you know?” Emery’s taken out a bag of dried wasabi peas, and holds it out to me. I take a few, though I can hardly taste anything.

Suzonne signs the papers, and gets remarried. Will’s not still pining for her, or trying to jerk her around.

I think I made an enormous goddamn mistake. Muttering some kind of explanation and asking Emery to make sure no one falls off the stage, I leave the auditorium and walk outside. The night blooming jasmine’s sweet on the air, and the wind’s cool. Thank god, no more hot Santa Ana nights.

I walk up and down the path leading toward the administration building, trying to wrap my head around this. Maybe I could call Will and ask to talk. Maybe I could explain the Darren thing and tell him how I need to stop seeing all potentially divorced men as potential assholes. Maybe there’s a way forward for us.

But I stop right by the pond of tranquility and feel my shoulders slump. My brain’s already shutting this possibility down, because who am I kidding? Will’s going to be a completely free man with a kid to take care of. And me? I get to head back to the badlands of Montana to perform birthday parties for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll meet a nice rodeo clown and we can have five clown babies. Maybe TLC will start a reality show about my life. Maybe I’ll learn to be happy with that.

I could’ve talked with him instead of running out that day. I didn’t, and after the run around the last woman in his life gave him, I get the feeling Will’s not going to be excited to revisit crazy town.

While the kids are still singing and dancing inside the auditorium, I sit at the edge of the pond and want nothing more than to be quiet for a good long time.