Chapter 4 - The Playground Politics
The petition gained forty signatures in three days.
I found out through Dana, who had a network of informants that would impress the CIA. She texted me a screenshot of the online version, along with a message: They're trying to get you removed before the district can respond. Got any allies?
I looked at the names on the petition. Most were unfamiliar, but a few stood out—parents I'd met at pickup, people who had smiled at me and asked about my day. People who had voted to laugh at my expense.
I typed back: Working on it.
The truth was, I wasn't sure I had any allies. Sandra was one, but she was already outside the circle. Principal Chen supported me, but her support was quiet and carefully calibrated. Dr. Alvarez was my best hope, but she couldn't appear to favor one parent over another.
I needed someone on the inside.
The fall festival was scheduled for the last weekend of October. Despite the controversy surrounding my appointment, the event was going ahead, and I was expected to attend. Rachel offered to come with me, but I asked her to stay home with the kids.
"If I'm going to fight this battle," I said, "I need to do it on my own terms."
"Your terms being?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll figure it out when I get there."
The festival was held in the school's outdoor courtyard, transformed with hay bales, pumpkins, and strings of orange lights. Families milled around booths selling baked goods and handmade crafts, children ran between game stations, and the smell of caramel apples hung in the air.
It looked exactly like the kind of community event that should have felt welcoming. Instead, I felt like an intruder.
I walked through the crowd, nodding at people who acknowledged me and ignoring those who didn't. The petition had been online for days, and I could feel the whispers following me like a shadow.
Then I spotted a familiar face.
Karen was standing by the face-painting booth, looking deeply unhappy. I remembered her from the PTA meeting—the woman who had sighed theatrically when I mentioned my caregiving role.
But she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at her son.
The boy couldn't have been more than seven—small and pale, with dark circles under his eyes and a raw, unhappy expression. He was crying, his small hands balled into fists at his sides.
"I don't want to be a tiger," he said, his voice cracking. "I want to go home."
Karen's jaw tightened. "We are not leaving, Toby. We just got here."
"I don't feel good."
"You're fine. We're going to do the face painting, and then the pumpkin toss, and then—"
"I don't want to."
The scene was uncomfortably familiar. I'd been there with Eli dozens of times—the meltdowns that came from nowhere, the sensory overload that turned a happy activity into a nightmare, the desperate need to leave that couldn't be explained to anyone who hadn't lived it.
I hesitated. Karen was not my ally. She had signed the petition, or at least supported it. Helping her would gain me nothing except the chance to be rejected again.
But Toby was crying.
I walked over. "Hey," I said, keeping my voice low. "Everything okay?"
Karen's head snapped up, her expression hardening when she saw me. "We're fine. We don't need any help."
"I wasn't offering help. I was just noticing that your son seems overwhelmed. It might be the lights or the noise. Fall festivals can be a lot."
She looked at Toby, and I saw something crack in her careful facade. "He's been like this all week. I thought getting out would be good for him. Instead, he's—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.
"It's not a failure," I said. "It's just how some kids are wired. My son Eli is the same way. We can't do big events unless we plan for quiet breaks and an escape route."
Karen stared at me. "Eli's autistic."
"Yes."
"The email list said something about that. About how you were his primary caregiver." She flushed. "I thought it was just an excuse."
"An excuse for what?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she crouched down beside Toby, wiping his tears. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. We can go. I'm sorry I pushed you."
Toby's crying quieted. He sniffed, looking at me with suspicious eyes. "Who's that?"
"I'm Jake," I said. "I'm a friend of the festival. Do you want to know a secret?"
He nodded.
"If you tell your mom you need a break, she'll probably listen. And if she doesn't, you can come find me. I know all the quiet spots in this school."
Toby considered this. "Okay."
Karen stood up slowly, her expression complicated. She didn't thank me, but she didn't attack me either.
"Nice to meet you," I said, and walked away before she could respond.
The encounter gave me an idea.
I spent the next hour drifting through the festival, watching families interact, noting who looked comfortable and who looked lost. By the time the sun set, I had identified five parents who seemed to be struggling—a father with a toddler in meltdown, a mother with a stroller and three older kids pulling at her hands, a grandmother who sat alone on a bench while teenagers ran wild.
These were the people the PTA never saw. The ones who didn't have time to volunteer, whose families didn't fit the perfect mold, who were just trying to get through the day without falling apart.
I approached each one, not with a sales pitch, but with a simple question: What would make this event easier for you?
The answers varied. Quiet spaces. Shorter lines. Clear schedules posted in advance. Activities that didn't require perfect coordination or endless patience. By the end of the night, I had a list of suggestions that could make the fall festival genuinely accessible to every family—not just the ones who already fit in.
I found Principal Chen by the exit and showed her my notes.
"These are excellent," she said, scanning the list. "Where did they come from?"
"Parents. The ones who usually don't get asked."
She looked at me with something like approval. "The petition has forty-two signatures now."
"I know."
"But I also received an email from a parent named Karen Willoughby. She asked to withdraw her signature. Said she'd reconsidered."
I felt a small flicker of satisfaction. "Good."
"One signature won't defeat a petition."
"No. But it's a start."
When I got home, Rachel was waiting up with a glass of wine and a knowing smile.
"I heard you made a friend today," she said.
"Word travels fast."
"Dana texted me. She said you helped a woman who's been awful to you."
"I helped her son. She happened to be there."
Rachel handed me a glass. "That's the thing about you, Jake. You help people even when they don't deserve it. Especially when they don't deserve it."
"It's not about deserving. It's about doing what's right."
May you like
She clinked her glass against mine. "To doing what's right."
"To doing what's right."
