Nearly everyone in town was dressed up, adults and children alike. Suzanne looked around for a familiar face. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t run into the elementary school principal, a slight, brittle woman who had been rabidly opposed to skipping Adam to first grade. As stubborn as the principal was, Suzanne was worse. Or better. She’d gotten Adam settled into his new grade on the first day of school, before the morning math block began. Now she had six and a half hours a day to work. Six and a half glorious hours.

Allison was near the café, taking a photo of a shaggy-haired boy holding up a black T-shirt. Nina Strauss, dressed as either a cat or a raccoon, kept trying to dab gel in his hair; the boy leaned away from her gelatinous hands.

“Okay, Nina. Thanks,” Allison said. “Let’s try again.”

The problem was clear. The boy kept flipping back his hair every time Allison tried to snap a photo.

Nina leaned in with the gel again. “It’s for the newspaper, honey.”

“Mom! No one cares about a T-shirt contest,” the boy said.

“Yes they do,” Nina said, nodding at Allison, then at Suzanne when she saw her. “Don’t they, Suzanne? Ask Suzanne. Isn’t winning a contest a fabulous résumé padder?”

“It is, actually,” Suzanne said.

“Don’t you want to be in the newspaper?” Nina said.

“Newspapers kill trees,” Mark said.

“Don’t bring up trees where Ted can hear you,” Allison said.

“You must get more light now, though . . . ?” Nina said.

“I suppose. But now we have to look at that awful house.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t start a trend. The trees make this town. Honestly. They’re half its charm. Take down the trees and I’m going to need to find a new place to hang my shingle.”

Allison turned her camera to Mark and got her shot. “Hurray! You’re dismissed,” she said, and the boy ran off, away from Nina, who went in the other direction, glistening hands aloft.

“Grant was in the fun run. Did you see him?” Allison said. “He won. Not that winning is the point in a fun run . . .”

“Fun run. Isn’t that an oxymoron?” Suzanne said. Yes, she was a runner, but no, she didn’t have “fun” doing it. Runner’s high was made up, as far as she could tell.

“Touché.”

“I just bought a hundred dollars’ worth of school supplies,” Suzanne said as they climbed the steps to Lucy’s. “Are they nuts? Six different colored notebooks. A three-inch-thick binder. Ten mechanical pencils. Colored pencils. A protractor and compass. A rolling knapsack—this is first grade we’re talking about. You didn’t tell me about the principal.”

“She’s new this year . . .”

“He had to bring toiletries too. Antibacterial soap and paper towels. What kind of doomsday scenario do they have in mind?”