"She does it a lot," I said.
Elsie's mouth went tight. I could see her realize she'd said something she wasn't supposed to say. "Not a lot. Sometimes."
I didn't push. I didn't know how to push. So I said the stupidest, simplest thing, which was, "You want a hot dog?"
She thought about it. "With ketchup?"
"With whatever you want."
We walked up to the grills together. She held my hand, and halfway there she let go and walked a little ahead, and I saw her look over toward the kindergarten canopy and then look away. Carly still hadn't seen me. She was busy with the party favors, kneeling on the grass, handing out little mesh bags to kids. Finn was sitting on top of the cooler like it was a throne. One of the dads at the grill was a guy named Kou Vang whose daughter was in Elsie's class, and he looked at me with big eyebrows and said, "Look what washed up," and shook my hand and gave Elsie a hot dog, and she put so much ketchup on it that it ran down her wrist, and she licked it off and smiled, and for a second she was just a kid at a picnic.
We'd gone back down the slope and sat on the wall again, and she was halfway through the hot dog, when the music cut out and stayed out, and the speakers made that thump-squeal sound they make, and a man's voice said, "Okay, Lakeview, if I could have everybody's attention for just a few minutes."
It was the principal, Mr. Bergquist, a tall man with a gray beard and a whistle around his neck, standing on the little platform by the gym door. People started drifting over. Parents put down their plates. Kids got herded by teachers into clumps on the grass in front of the platform, class by class, kindergartners in front, fifth graders in back. Elsie stood up and looked at me.
"I have to go sit with my class," she said.