A girl from her class waved enthusiastically. “Hi, Anna!”
Her father spun her around in a clumsy twirl, both of them laughing.
Anna waved back, but she didn’t move toward them.
We found a spot near the folded gym mats. I sat down while Anna curled up beside me, her knees pulled close to her chest. Colored lights flickered across her face as she watched the dance floor.
When a slow song began, something in her seemed to shrink.
“Mom,” she whispered, “maybe we should go home.”
The words nearly broke me.
I took her hand and held it tightly. “Let’s just sit for a minute,” I said. “We don’t have to decide yet.”
Before she could respond, a group of mothers passed by. Their voices were low, but not quite quiet enough.
At the front was Hannah, the ever-polished PTA organizer who always seemed to know exactly what to say, and how to say it so it lingered.
She paused when she saw us.
