“Robert. Sure.” I peeled him out of his chair and settled him in her arms.

Marshall had made his way to the middle of the balcony’s front row. I went down to join him, but I sat on the end, still smarting from his insinuation.

The performance was a week away, so they were running full scenes. They were in the park now, and Anna-Claire was singing “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” It was cute, though in this junior version there was no mention of drinking, smoking, or swearing, much less sex. Instead Rizzo mocked Sandy for her good grades and being a “square.”

As Anna-Claire vamped across the stage, I realized the bit about not “coming across” had survived the edits. I don’t think Ms. Taft, who was in her twenties, knew it was sexual. And neither did our new young headmaster apparently, because he had approved the script. St. Alban’s was Episcopalian, quite liberal for a church-run school—but not that liberal.

I shot an amused smile at Marshall, but he was watching Cara dance with the other Pink Ladies.

Peyton came up and joined me. I glanced back at Robert’s carrier seat, still by the back row.

“Asleep?” I asked quietly.

“Dead to the world.”

“Did he burp?”

“Twice, Mom.” Peyton gave me her mild version of her elder sister’s eye roll. “I know how to do Bumper.”

“Robert.”

“She really is talented,” Marshall said in a gruff whisper. He was looking at Anna-Claire now, his face impassive.

If this was an apology, I’d take it. “Cara is, too. Her big number is in the sleepover scene. She kills it.”

The director called the kids in for a huddle. I glanced back over my shoulder. The car seat sat sideways to me, so all I saw was Robert’s feet in their puppy socks, but this was his biggest nap of the day. I could probably click the carrier into the car and drive home before he woke up.

I told Marshall, “I’m going to clean up the greenroom.” I knew from experience the kids would have stuffed fruit-snack wrappers all down in the couch cushions.

He was already rising. “I got it.”

“You did the setup,” I reminded him.

“Stay. That table’s heavy.” He turned toward the other aisle so he wouldn’t have to climb over my knees.

“Want to help?” I asked Peyton. No response until I put my hand in between her face and the page. “Hey. You coming down?”

“I’m going to read here until it’s really time to go. A-C takes forever to peel herself off Greer.”

“Anna-Claire,” I corrected. Honestly, “A-C” was as bad as “Bumper.” “Your sister is not a cooling system.”

“She kinda is.” Peyton shrugged, jealousy and admiration at war in her expression. “Greer says Anna-Claire makes any room she’s in feel cool. Now everyone calls her that.”