“Any parent with a kid in the show can,” I assured him. I wasn’t sure if this was technically true, but a lot of moms did it. “If we sit up in the balcony, Ms. Taft won’t even notice.”

Marshall’s eyebrows came together. “There’s a balcony?”

“Yes. You haven’t gone in to see the performance space?” The new PAC had been open for only eight weeks. Grease, Junior would be the first middle-school show on the big stage. “It seats five hundred.”

“Practically Broadway. That’ll be fun for the kids,” Marshall said. “And I bet Anna-Claire will be front and center every show.”

It sounded like a compliment, but Marshall knew that Trey’s family had paid for a good bit of the construction. Trey and his sister were both alumni, and our nieces attended high school here. Was Marshall implying that the Cabbats were buying roles for Anna-Claire?

I felt my cheeks go pink, indignant. Marshall had been at work during auditions, but I’d watched. After Anna-Claire sang “There Are Worse Things I Could Do,” I’d heard a mom behind me whisper to her friend, “Wow. Guess we know who’ll be Rizzo.”

I’d agreed. I was biased, sure, but I’d also majored in Theatre. I’d had lead parts in a ton of shows, starting in middle school myself. I still loved theatre, and Trey got the whole family season tickets to the Fox and the Alliance for my birthday every year. I’d taken the girls up to New York for Broadway weekends ever since they were old enough to sit through a show. I’d done and seen enough to know that my talented daughter had beaten out every other kid, including his, that day. By a mile.

I stopped myself before I said any of this to Marshall, though. Anna-Claire had polished her audition for weeks with her vocal coach, Mr. Reggie, who’d been on Broadway himself. He cost a hundred and fifty bucks an hour.

Cara was as naturally gifted as my kid, but her talent was raw. Early in college I’d lost parts to girls who’d grown up with money for drama camp, acting classes, vocal training. I remembered being eighteen years old and already feeling so behind.

So I only said, “Well, I’m going to watch,” and picked up Robert’s carrier seat. He made a pah noise. “Almost suppertime,” I promised him.

To my surprise, Marshall asked, “So where are the stairs?”

I was still smarting, but I gave him the warmest smile I could. “This way.”

In the balcony Peyton was already sitting in the back row, reading. I set Robert’s carrier down beside her. If he started squalling, I wanted a straight shot out into the stairwell, so we wouldn’t disturb rehearsal.

I’d brought his bottle in a warming sleeve, and as I got it out, Peyton asked, “Can I feed Bumper?”