Spark Into a Flame

Lin

"I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love," the principal said in a deadpan voice.  I winced from my chair as Alexandra swung her little legs around, too small for the chair.  She made a little spurting sound with her pursed lips, obviously not understanding the gravity of being sent to the principal's office.

"Alexandra?" I prompted her.  "Is it true?  Did you say that to Kelsey?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded, oblivious to why that would be a problem and why I might be mortified.  My child, repeating my own lyrics, in a completely inappropriate situation.  I'd gotten a call about an hour before.  Her kindergarten classmate, Kelsey, had burst into tears in the middle of center time because my five-year-old adopted daughter had been singing lines from King George's song of my musical, Hamilton.  As my kid, she'd heard it multiple times.  She thought the line was hilarious, which it was supposed to be, but when directed at a highly sensitive kindergartner, it had missed.  Big time.

I wasn't mad at her.  In fact, I had thought it was absolutely hilarious.  But right now, I needed to be a united front with the other adult in the room, the principal at Hunter College Elementary.

"Alex, it's okay to sing that at home," I told her, glancing at the displeased principal.  "But you can't say stuff like that at school.  It might upset people.  Do you understand?"

"Daddy, can we go to the park?" she asked me instead, her big brown eyes looking up at me.  The principal cleared his throat and moved around in his seat.

"Not now," I told her.  "Right now we need to make sure you understand that you can't sing about killing people's friends and family. Kelsey thought you were serious."

"Then Kelsey's stupid," she said, and I was completely mortified.  I looked at the principal.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Fisher," I apologized for my kid.  "My wife and I will have a talk with her at home about this.  Make sure she understands it's not appropriate at school."

"I would appreciate that," he said, then looked at Alex. "Alexandra, I think it would be a good idea for you to apologize to Kelsey tomorrow. Could you do that, please?"

"I guess," she said, swinging her legs.  Dr. Fisher and I finished up and I shook his hand, apologizing again for Alex.  We stood up and I took Alex's hand.  Her Moana backpack took up almost her entire body as we made our way out the front doors.  We began walking down the steps, hand-in-hand.

"Daddy, Kelsey is so melodramatic," she told me.  I glanced down at her and chuckled.  Like me, she had big words from a young age.  Alex wasn't my biological kid but she was smart as a whip, just like her parents had been.  They had been killed in a crash when she was three and her brother was about 18 months old.  They'd been living with Pippa, me, and our kids for two years now.  It was Alex's second month in kindergarten and sometimes her peers had trouble understanding her sense of humor.  She was a quirky little kid.

"Why do you say that?" I asked her as we walked towards the nearest subway station.

"She knew I was kidding," she explained.  "I was singing and she was even smiling at me.  But when I said that part she lost her marbles."

That was one of my dad's phrases.  Alex was like a sponge.  She picked up sayings and vocabulary words with ease.

"Well, nevertheless you need to be more careful," I explained gently.  "People don't like joking about killing their family."

She sighed dramatically as we walked.  "Where's Joey?"

"She has soccer practice after school," I reminded her.  My oldest daughter, Josephine, was now a junior at Hunter College High School.  The kids were in different buildings, but were both under the same school.