Page 59 of Troublemaker: The Big Picture Edition

“Thank you, Cheyenne and Tyler,” Alex says in a commanding Daddy Director voice. He starts clapping. “That was a really great improv, up until the end there. We got a good sense of who these characters are, and it was fun to watch. We got a lot done today. Good work, everyone.”

“Are you leaving?” Ryder asks, a little whiney.

“Yeah, I gotta go, and you guys have to learn about fractions or something now.” He grins at me.

“Reading, actually.” I stand up and start clapping again to keep my hands busy so I don’t use them to try to take Director Daddy’s shirt off in front of my students. “Let’s all thank Mr. Vega for helping us with our holiday show. He’ll be back again in two days so we can keep working on this wonderful play.”

There’s some applause, but mostly the kids jump up to hug and high-five him.

I finally realize that Ryder is watching me watch his dad.

Two Vega boys are grinning at me at the same time.

I can’t decide if I’m luckier or in more trouble than I ever have been, but both of my ovaries are melting.

CHAPTER 22

ALEX

One day until the dress rehearsal.

Two days until the holiday show and Winter Festival party.

And then twenty-one glorious days of winter break.

For the past seven years, I have dreaded the holidays because it meant weeks of shopping and wrapping and hiding presents and driving my kid to and from holiday parties and figuring out who would look after Ryder so Nova and I could go to the events that we had to go to, plus traveling across the country to spend time with both sets of Ryder’s grandparents, but this year…Fuck yeah, winter break.Nova’s in Asia, her parents can go fuck themselves, my parents will be looking after Ryder whenever possible, and I’m going to break the bed fucking Miss Stiles all the way into next year.

It’s around eight thirty on a school night, and I’m finally alone with Emilia here in the Silver Lake Elementary School auditorium. Franklin just left after helping us bring the scenery he designed and painted from his garage. This guy could have a great career as a theatre set designer if he ever decides he wants to make less money. The canvas he painted of a snow-coveredVictorian-era London street scene for a backdrop is stunning. Beautiful but simple enough to be appropriate for a kids’ show.

This may be a step down from the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre on Broadway by other people’s standards, but I’m really fucking proud of this production and what these kids have accomplished in just over a month. And as much as I can’t wait for all of this to be over so I can get to the good stuff with Emilia, I can’t wait to see them perform it in front of an audience. We decided to let the students use English accents, because little American kids with fake English accents are almost as awesome as Muppets with fake English accents.

For the past couple of weeks, Ryder has been strolling around the house in his Storyteller costume, saying things like, “Oi! So this ol’ chap Marley was already dead, right? Dead as a doornail, eh. Deader than a doornail, even. How dead is a doornail, you wanna know? Bloody dead. So what I’m sayin’ ’ere is—this Marley bloke was really, bloody dead. All right?”

I need to start turning down the volume when I watchPeaky Blinders.

He’s at my parents’ house, and I’ve called to say good night to him and told him I’ll pick him up later, when he’s asleep. Emilia is wearing her black-rimmed glasses, a Baby Yoda T-shirt, and baggy overalls. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and even though I’m quite certain that she’s trying to look as unsexy as possible, I know for a fact that it will only take me two seconds tops to unhook those overalls. And I plan to.

We’ve arranged the desk and the dining table and the canopy bed on stage. Now, Emilia and I are alone together in the building and taking our sweet time hanging the painted canvas from the curtain rod above the back of the small stage. She’s holding the very steady A-frame step ladder steady for me and fretting about my safety. I have never fallen off a ladder in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. But she’s got that nervousenergy. And I can’t tap into it in the way that I want to just yet. So I try to take her mind off the possibility that I might fall by asking her about something that I’ve been dying to ask for a while.

“So what’s the deal with your dick of an ex?”

She wrinkles her nose, still looking up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m assuming he lives in Paso Robles? You still in touch with him?”

“No. He sends me random texts every now and then. Occasionally I’ll send him a very brief, polite response. But mostly I try to ignore him.”

“How long were you together for? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Um. Years. I met him in college. We broke up a few months before I moved here. I mean, we were off and on for a while before that.”

“So it was serious?”

“I mean. We lived together.”

“Ah. So you were in love with him.”

She looks down, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and then immediately puts her hand back on the ladder frame. She is silent and reflective for a moment, and I like that. “I felt that I should be in love with him. I did love him. I was attracted to him. I know that’s true. But I think what I’ve learned from that whole experience is that at least half of what makes a relationship last is your decision to commit to it. And at least half of that decision to stay committed to it is a stubborn need to be right about your life choices. That was true for me with him, anyway.”