Volume 7, Entry 16: Trick Room

Mosey goes to the principal’s office

Although “Trick Room” will read very fast, this is obviously longer than anything I’ve shared before (or ever will again), so I’ve added section numbers and titles to help you navigate in case you choose to read it across multiple sittings. Although the email cannot include them, I will add links to the actual post on Substack soon after it publishes so you can quickly reach the sections.

The chapters of “Trick Room” are as follows:

1. New Kid
2. Strategy Games
3. Familiar Fabric
4. Budget Provocateur
5. First Attack
6. Battle Tactics
7. Official Communication
8. Blue Ribbons
9. Us Villagers
10. One Click

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ONE: NEW KID

I’m so sick of e-mails.

By my current count, I’m staring down 32,473 unread messages, but you and I both know that’s a lie: Gmail protects me from shame every few months by magically dropping tens of thousands without fanfare. They’re still in there—I pay to keep everything in there—but they just don’t count any longer.

My record was 127,000. Roughly. Or maybe it was 427,000? I’ll have to look for the screenshot.

The worst part is that maybe a hundred of those messages even matter. I mean, look at what I’ve got right now: an Apple credit card offer, a rewards rundown from Raley’s, another MLB daily preview, and a coupon to Black Bear Diner. We haven’t gone there in months. Oh, wait, there’s a poem, too, that’s cool…except it’s sandwiched between a hat drop from New Era and another email from the damned PTA.

I know I was complaining about email, but who am I to fault a business over clamoring for attention? That’s what sales teams do. That’s an entire department right there putting food on their table. But the PTA? You’d think they were getting paid by the hour with how much shit they send. Last week, they had two meetings—oh, whoops, my bad, one was a “Read-a-thon Task Force”, I’ve gotta get that right—and three separate dine-out days. How much money does the first grade team need to visit the county fair? Are they planning to take a private jet?

Clicking through today’s, I shake my head and let out the growl of a cat waiting on dinner.

“Another holiday hangout this week?” I mutter at my screen. “Since when did the PTA become a full-time job?” I scroll to the bottom of the email, gaze longingly at the UNSUBSCRIBE link helpfully underlined in blue, and feel my fingers getting itchy on the mouse. One click and I’m—

A key turns in the front door. I spin around automatically and watch as the handle turns and small hands appear, closely followed by the little girl they belong to.

“Hi Mosey,” I say, offering a wide grin. She drops her Pokémon backpack with a thunk on the tile and kicks off her shoes. Before they can land, she’s racing forward and wrapping her arms around my waist.

“Hi Dad,” she says, though the words come out garbled with her face smashed against my hip.

“Are you taller than you were this morning?” I make a fuss of pretending to measure her with my hand. “Do they put human growth hormone in the enchiladas at that school?”

Without letting go of me, Mosey pulls her head back.

“No.” She glares at me like I’ve just suggested we put mushrooms on her ice cream. “We had lasagna today.”

“Makes sense.” I nod. “More layers to hide the HGH.”

Mosey blinks twice and rolls her eyes. She has no idea what I’m talking about, but she’s knows it’s stupid.

Smart kid.

“So, how was school, kiddo?” I extricate myself from her hug and gesture her toward the sofa. Dropping into my recliner, I turn toward her and lean in. “Anything big? PTA stage a coup or anything?”

She thinks for a second, closing her eyes and wrinkling her nose. But they fly open just as soon as I’ve started to smile.

“Yes!” It’s only one syllable, but her gaze finds a celestial gleam in that second. “You’ll never believe what happened!”

“Perhaps I will. Try me.”

Mosey gets up on her knees and leans forward with such gusto that I think she’s going to tumble off. But she braces herself against the armrest and stares through me with the intensity of a time traveler recounting their journey.

“We got a new girl in our class.” You’d have thought the Louvre discovered a lost Picasso behind the vending machines.

“Another one?” I must sound less impressed than my daughter wants because there’s indignation in her cheeks.

“Yes.” She scowls at me. “We’ve only gotten three.”

“Excellent point,” I say, course correcting. And I can see it works because her smile returns. “What’s she like?”

“Oh, she’s amazing.” Mosey sighs like keeping that assessment to herself had been torture. “Jade’s so cool. She has these really neat braids and she can draw cartoon dogs and she knows how to do these cool dances and—oh! Dad! Dad! Do you know what? Do you know what?”

I stifle a snicker and channel my laughter into looking riveted.

“I don’t,” I whisper, giving her somewhere to take me. “What is it?”

Mosey’s mouth automatically starts to open with awe, but then she realizes her revelation’s still unspoken. She swallows to collect herself and then leans so far forward she could form a bridge between the furniture.

“Jade’s cousin is a rapper!”

“So he can help me get everything under the tree?” I shouldn’t joke in the face of sincere awe, but I can’t resist.

My question short circuits her announcement. I get a furrowed brow and a pair of eyes staring at my mouth as though waiting for a replay. When it finally hits her, she growls like she’s me sorting emails.

“Not a wrapper, Dad. A rapper.” She rubs her forehead with her free hand. “You’re not funny.”

“Agree to disagree.” I reach out and push her back onto her cushion. “But seriously, he’s a rapper, huh?”

“Yes, they are. Jade said they just released their first album and did a tour around California, so Jade and her little brother got a bunch of merch for free!”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, and—oh wait! I forgot the best part!” She looks at me. It’s my job to cue her in.

“Don’t make me wait, kid! What’s the best part?”

“Well…” Mosey’s excitement returns, but she’s milking it. “I helped Jade with the spelling words today—”

“That was kind of you.”

“—and so she said that she would bring me some merch tomorrow, too. Isn’t that awesome?”

She’s breathless as the question mark arrives, so enthusiastic about some sticker from a musician she’s known existed for five hours, that I half-believe I’ve stumbled across the cure for cynicism. Jade could bring her a pillow pet full of razor blades, and I’d have a hard time finding my way off her cloud nine.

“That’s super generous of her,” I note. “You’ll have to write her a thank you note.”

“And her cousin.” She sounds excited by the prospect.

“Them too. Yes. But after dinner.”

The mention of food pauses her glowing grin.

“What are we having?” she asks. “Can we have—”

“Wait! Don’t tell me.” I press my fingers to my temple and stare at her forehead.

“Were you going to say…” I reach over and press two fingers against her nose. “Waffles?”

Her jaw drops. “How did you know that?”

Because you asked for them at breakfast. “Because I’m psychic.”

“Like Cresselia?”

“Just like Cresselia¹,” I say. “But with many fewer colors.”

She giggles at this before sitting up bolt upright.

“Wait, can we play Pokémon Champions now?” she asks. “You said you’d wait for me to do the recruiting.”

I shake my head.

“Not now. Homework, then dinner. Then battling, if there’s time. Capeesh?”

“Okay,” she says, worming her way off the sofa. “Do you have homework, too?”

“Stories don’t write themselves.” I gesture toward the table. “Meet you there, kid.”

TWO: STRATEGY GAME

“Don’t replace JV!”

“Mosey, c’mon,” I say tapping the cursor over to the blue dolphin at the top corner of the screen. “I would never. JV the Palafin² is integral to our battle strategy.”

“Okay,” she says, relief dripping from both syllables. “I thought you were going to put her into the box.”

I shake my head, as much for my daughter’s benefit as my own patience’s. That Palafin’s been on our team for a while mostly by inertia, but Mosey’s obvious affection for aquatic mammals has kept me from entertaining stronger alternatives. There are so many great water types out there, but only one with the type advantage on her heart.

“Are we gonna lead with it?” she asks, tugging on my elbow. “If we do Jet Turn right away, JV will be in Hero form when we need her again.”

“That would be a great way to use Palafin.” I chuckle. Also the only competitively viable way, I think. But I keep that last bit to myself.

Honestly, the greatest way to use Palafin is probably the way I already do: as an adorable carrot to hook an eight-year-old on a wickedly-deep strategy game. Mosey didn’t inherit that “Gotta catch ‘em all” gene that drove me in the beginning, so I’d been planning to try one of the old Pokemon Ranger games to get her on board. But when I hooked Champions up to the TV one night, my enthusiasm caught her attention liked I’d planned the whole thing.

The game should be a hard sell. Gone are the story progression and—Palafin aside—deep bonds with digital critters; replacing them is cold hard math and bizarre-to-describe tactics. I get excited when I deploy Protect at the precise moment it’s needed; Mosey complains that I’m boring. But at least she’s watching, right?

“Oh, we didn’t recruit yet!”

And using we. I’ll take it.

“You’re right. Let’s go see who’s available.”

Every 22 hours, players can see a new lineup of creatures available to add to their stable. The game still hasn’t made every Pokémon available, but there are enough to engage an eight-year-old. I’m not trying to win a Regional—I let Mosey pick every time we play. So long as she’s having something resembling fun, I can stomach the hurt when she ignores a Tail Wind Whimsicott to take yet another stuffie-in-waiting.

While the cut scene plays, Mosey furrows her brow.

“Can we replace Mimikyu³ this time?” She squints at the lineup populating the bottom of the screen.

“Honey.” I look at her until she meets my gaze. “We need Mimikyu to set up Trick Room.”

Mosey frowns. “Do we really?”

I nod.

“Why do we have to use Trick Room?”

“Because our Snorlax is too slow.”

“Cena isn’t slow,” she says, pouting. “He’s just…big.”

“Cena is big, and he’s also slow. And that’s okay. Trick Room inverts speeds and makes him fast so that the sleek fighting types can’t kill him”

Her eyebrows raise with alarm.

“Knock us out,” I correct myself. This satisfies her, but only temporarily.

“But Mimikyu is creepy. He pretends to be someone else.”

I start to object, but I can’t really argue that. Mimikyu is canonically a ghost who pirates players’ affection for Pikachu. That is, to quote a third grader, creepy.

“Yes, and that’s wrong of Mimikyu,” I say. “Identity theft is bad—in this or any economy. But Disguise is an awesome ability for a Trick Room setter. You know this.”

Mosey grumbles, but she accepts defeat graciously. She averts her gaze and looks at the screen. “Is any one of these better than him?”

I join her in scrutinizing the randomized roster made available. My eyes light up when they land on the second-to-last slot.

“Hell yes!” I point. “We can recruit Gothitelle⁴! They must have added her this week!”

I point to a humanoid creature with a purple face. Like a cross between a Japanese pagoda and a Lady Gaga music video starring The Count on Sesame Street, Gothitelle has been on my wish list since the game dropped. Mimikyu is a Trick Room setter with nothing else to offer; Gothitelle offers more.

“No.” Mosey says.

“What? Why? You said you hated Mimikyu. Gothitelle is way better!”

“No.” She shakes her head against my arm. “That one’s creepier than Mimikyu.”

My thumb yearns to tap the button, but I remember the fortune of having a little girl willing to play competitive Pokémon with her dad.

“Okay. That’s fine, Mosey. Which one do you want, then?”

Rotating her head back, Mosey inspects the others visible and immediately points.

“That one.”

I trace her finger and race the cursor over to meet it. I can’t help but snort when I see her target.

“You want Sneasler?”

“Yes. We’re recruiting him.”

Instead of the too-creepy Gothitelle, my daughter wants the nightmare fuel lovechild of Bigfoot and Freddy Krueger.

“Isn’t he scary?” I ask. “He scares me more than Gothitelle.”

“He’s fluffy,” she says. “Let’s nickname him Fluffy.”

After one last longing stare at the perfect Pokémon on the right, I double click and add Sneasler to our squad.

“There you go,” I say, masking my disappointment. “Should we open with him and JV?”

She nods, perking up. “Yes. And then we’ll do Jet Turn and whatever Fluffy does best.”

“You’re the boss, kid.”

“I know,” she says with more smugness than I would have liked. “I’m good at this game.”

THREE: FAMILIAR FABRIC

With nothing on the after-school itinerary for the first time in forever, I walk over to the school to wait for Mosey. I wave to Bee in her green van, and thank her for dropping Mosey off after the music program yesterday, but our conversation ends when a wave of children of all shapes and sizes race through the front gate toward me.

That diversity shouldn’t shock me—there’s a world of difference between five and twelve—but it does alway disarms me. I can remember the mini-Mosey who ambled out of the kindergarten gates three years ago; I can too-easily imagine a taller version with sharper features striding out and towering over the peers she’s outgrown. I’m warmed by the thought, but also, I shudder.

I spot Mosey in the distance, as much for the bounce in her step as any features. She’s walking next to a tiny little girl with huge glasses, intricate braids, and a comically large backpack. This must be Jade. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but Mosey seems to be doing all the talking. Jade seems pleased, though. She doesn’t take her eyes off of her loquacious friend until they reach me.

“Dad!” Mosey calls out. She waves, even though we’re maybe ten feet apart.

“Hi Mosey.” My smile is instinctual. “Is this Jade?”

The little girl next to her averts her eyes for a moment, but there’s an arm around her bashful shoulder too quickly to escape.

“Yeah! This is Jade. She’s new here, but we get along really great. Today we played soccer and then climbed on the monkey bars and then she beat me in Connect Four!”

“You must be pretty good,” I say to Jade. “Mosey always beats me.”

“I guess.” Jade’s voice comes out a delicate flower, except somehow even gentler. I know it’s her stature talking, but you might’ve convinced me she was in first grade. The polar opposite of my daughter.

“Jade’s super good, Dad. She’s just being humble.”

Jade looks down again, but she inches ever so slightly closer to Mosey.

“Say, Jade.” I try to sound casual rather than condescending. “Did I hear right that your cousin is a musician?”

The little girl perks up at this and lifts her chin to meet my gaze. With Mosey beaming my way, Jade nods with vigor I wasn’t certain she had in her.

“They’re a rapper,” she says, correcting me with emphasis only pride can deliver. “Gigi just got back from touring the Bay Area.”

“Whoa! So their name is Gigi?”

Jade nods, but then stops and shakes her head. “We call them Gigi, but that’s not their name at the shows.”

“Oh yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “What is it?”

“Guh-Nasty Ganache.”

“Guh-Nasty?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Mosey chimes in. “It’s like nasty but with a G at the front. You say the G, too, right Jade?”

The little girl adjusts her backpack strap and nods.

“Well, that’s awesome. Like Gnasty Gnorc on Spyro,” I note, but this does nothing for Jade. She looks to Mosey for support, but my daughter shrugs.

“My dad likes weird things.”

Our conversation has bought enough time that the crossing guards have abandoned their posts. It crosses my mind that we might be delaying Jade’s pick-up.

“Jade, is your ride here? Once you get us talking, we talk. I don’t want to make you late.”

Jade shakes her head. “I walk home,” she says, her words ethereal once again. She points down the street. “To the apartments.”

I frown. Those apartments are a short jaunt for me, but the thought of Jade toting that duffel bag of hers for six blocks clenches my stomach. Before I can brainstorm a solution, Mosey interjects.

“Can we walk her home?” she asks, hints of pleading coating her voice.

“Yes!” I clap my hands. “Let’s do that.”

Jade smiles at Mosey, and then at me. She shuffles her step and the backpack causes her to momentarily lose her balance.

“And how about I carry both your backpacks, huh?” I say reaching out my hands. “Make sure two spines survive this afternoon.”

Mosey looks at me funny, but then glances at Jade and catches a grin on her face.

“Thank you,” Jade says, and she starts to hand me her bag. But before it reaches my fingers, she drops it to the ground.

“Wait,” she says. “I almost forgot.” In one motion, she tears the thing open and rummages around. After dumping an obnoxiously large textbook and a half eaten sandwich on the sidewalk, she pulls out a crumpled black mop of fabric. While peeling her book of the ground with one hand, she passes the bundle to her friend.

“I got this for you,” she says quietly. “It’s from Gigi’s tour.”

The two of them are facing away from me, so I can’t see much. As Mosey unfurls it, I notice only a blank back side, but just above, I see Mosey’s eyes go wide.

“This is so cool.” She says it like it’s a secret, like she can’t believe she’s witnessed it. Her eyes move up and down the shirt like a jeweler inspecting a gem. She points at something, looks at a beaming Jade, and then pulls it closer. It’s so generous that you’d think it was an act, except Mosey doesn’t have that gear. She’s genuinely excited, and every moment she fixes her sights on the t-shirt makes Jade stand a little taller. Before you know it, all three of us are beaming for entirely different reasons.

“Dad!” Mosey says, waving me to her side. “Look at this cool design!”

Taking a few steps forward, I spin to examine the merch in question. There’s nothing shocking about the shirt, which features a large logo and an Instagram handle. In fact, that logo’s image is simple enough to have been made on Microsoft Paint. But it’s not the quality of the design that catches my eye but its content…because I recognize the image staring back at me.

“It’s…Gothitelle.”

Mosey doesn’t hear me, but that’s fine because I know I’m right. The very psychic Pokémon she turned her nose toward last night stares back at me from Gnasty Ganache’s merch. It’s been simplified, to be sure, with basic geometric shapes replacing artful anime pen strokes and Gs replacing the bows and eyes, but I’d recognize that Pokémon anywhere. I’m staring at Gothitelle.

I want to inquire so badly, but instead I join the marveling. I assure them both it’s amazing, offer to wash it when we get home, and then I hoist both girls’ bags over my shoulder. I fade into the background, following them a few feet behind, overhearing nothing but the warm buzz of new friendship.

A part of me wants to point out the hypocrisy. That same shape was “scary” last night. But how could I interrupt these two little girls delighting in a walk down the street to be petty about a Pokémon?

I carry their bags and relish every minute of it.

FOUR: BUDGET PROVOCATEUR

I wait until Mosey’s asleep to throw her new favorite shirt in the washer. Were I tired, I’d start the load of darks and go to bed, throwing them in the dryer when I got up, but staying awake for a while sounded good. The house is peaceful when I know she’s sound asleep. Sometimes I get inspired.

For the first twenty minutes, I play Champions, something our extended walk home with Jade kept us from earlier, but I lose both matches and don’t dare recruit a new critter without Mosey. I clear a few emails and pick at a piece I’ve been working on, but there’s no urgency at night. I’m scrolling on Reddit when I hear the washing machine still itself.

When I move over the clothes, I eventually come to the shirt. I’d washed it inside out, but the jostling has the bottom of the not-Gothitelle peeking out. My fingers squeeze the fabric, and I’m struck by how thin the material is. It’s a glorified undershirt, like the one I bought at the gas station in Albuquerque.

“Awfully humble for a star rapper,” I say to a pair of jogging shorts. “Looks like it was made in a garage.”

After getting the dryer started, I head back into the living room and curl up on the recliner. Closing Reddit, I pull up a search engine and type in Gnasty Ganache.

To my surprise, nothing much comes up. No album purchase links, no press releases, not even a personal website. I hadn’t misspelled it—an Instragram profile showed up, plus a YouTube channel—but nothing else of note did. There were more hits for Spyro the Dragon speed runs than any rapper.

I click on the Instagram link. What greets me first is a familiar deconstructed Pokémon—kudos for establishing a brand identity—but then I scroll down to the photos and an intense heat finds my cheeks.

Gigi is…provocative. To say the least. In one photo, they’re shirtless and doing a yoga pose in colorful makeup, the next they’re sandwiched between the lips of a man and a woman looking defiantly unimpressed. The artwork is all poorly lit, though. Amateur photography to be sure.

Returning to the top of their page, I note a follower count of less than 1000, and that their visible tagline is “I dare you to lick my spoon” which sounds like a kid trying to sound racy.

I shake my head and click on the Apple Music link just above a Patreon one. There’s only one album with seven tracks, so I pop on my headphones. Half the time I can’t quite understand Gigi’s words because they go so fast; the other half, I’m grimacing as the artist describes doing things with I’d rather not have considered the possibility of. On the sixth track, they mention doing something with a candle that—

You know what? I’d rather not say.

When the album ends, I click over to their YouTube channel. I’m ready to nope out, but the videos are almost endearing. The intense imagery loses something when it’s just a twenty-something in a dress lip syncing into a camera. Honestly, the jerry-rigged costumes—Gigi’s got a thrift shop artist on their team for sure—in their latest video earn a Like from me, but I’m still uncomfortable. Gnasty Ganache is decidedly not my speed.

To this point, Mosey hasn’t asked about the music itself, and I’d be perfectly content if she never did. I’m no prude, but I’m likewise confident that few third graders would be ready for the full Gnasty Ganache experience. But there’s something admirable in what they’re doing, and something endearing about a tiny cousin being so proud to share in those “successes”.

When the dryer stops, I leave everything inside except the t-shirt. Unfurling it, I stare at the design and ask myself whether my daughter should be wearing the merch of an artist far outside her frame of reference.

Climbing the stairs, I grab a hanger from my closet and slide on the t-shirt. A hint of dampness remains, but in six hours, it will be dry for her, and she’ll delight in slipping it on—not to support Gnasty Ganache but their little cousin who’s alone at a new school.

With my gentlest touch, I turn the doorhandle and enter Mosey’s room. I step forward to see beyond the canyon of stuffies and confirm she’s breathing, and when I see she is, I exhale automatically. I hang the shirt on her closet door so she’ll see it first thing when she wakes up.

I look back in once more as I reach the door. She looks so small in her bed, even though hours earlier, Jade’s stature had made her seem anything but. I take a deep breath and start to close the door.

“Sleep tight, my love,” I say quietly. The words melt into the creaking walls. Mosey hears nothing. She doesn’t stir.

As it should be.

FIVE: FIRST ATTACK

I’m sitting in the car across the street from the school. Mosey was supposed to take the carpool today, but I didn’t want Jade to be stuck walking alone. Another stroll would’ve been fine, but it drizzled all morning. Better to play it safe.

When I hear the bell’s timbre vibrate through the window, I pop outside the car to make sure Mosey sees me. Amid the sea of small bodies draining past the brick columns, I spot her.

“Mosey!” I yell out. “Over here!”

It takes her a second to register my voice. When she does and we make eye contact, I immediately know something’s wrong

There’s a scowl on her face, and Mosey does not leave school scowling. Not ever.

Traffic abates and the crossing guard directs her through, so I move forward to meet her. There must be concern in my eyes, too, but she doesn’t so much as greet me, marching straight past to our car. After flinging her bag into the back seat, she climbs in after it and slams the door shut behind her. My eyes widen, but not as much as they do when a muffled scream emanates from the vehicle.

Nothing about this makes sense, but that doesn’t stop my pulse from quickening. Trying to project the calm she needs, I slip into the car discreetly and eye my daughter in the rearview mirror.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask. I keep my tone even despite my thumping heart. “What happened?”

She meets my eyes in the polished glass, and I note the molten lava churning behind them. But there’s also moisture in their corners not yet turned to steam.

Mosey opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it without a word. A quiver of rage shudders through her. She averts her gaze, but returns to the mirror quickly.

“The principal…” she says through gritted teeth. The corner of her lip literally curls up into a growl. “The principal is a…is a…she’s a fucking bitch!”

“Whoa!” If my eyes could widen more, they’d tumble out. It takes a second for the shock to wear off. Mosey’s prone to profanity now and then, but this is a new one.

“We do not use that word, Mosey.” I scold.

“Fine! Then she’s just a bitch!”

I wince. “You cut the wrong word, kid.”

Mosey leaps forward and grabs onto the center console. “But she is, Dad! She is! She’s rude and mean and…she’s a bitch! She is!”

She’s pulled herself up so her knees are all but on the gear shift, so I yank her the rest of the way forward until she’s on the passenger seat. She’s exasperated, but I refuse to yield.

“Mosey,” I say, with the sternness only a disapproving parent can channel, “I want to hear you out, but you need stop calling her a bitch right now. That’s a mean word. It’s harder to believe she’s mean when you’re the one using it. Does that make sense?”

Her nostrils flare, and for a second, I think she’s going to scream again. But she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens them.

“Okay. Can I call her an asshole then?”

I weigh this. “No. Name-calling feels good, but it’s false relief.”

“But what if she really is?”

“Perhaps the shoe will fit, honey, but now’s not the time. You still haven’t told me what happened.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Can you just tell me what happened?”

Mosey wants to argue, but her shoulders relax. She flops into the chair and crosses her arms.

“The principal came in to watch Miss Leake today.”

“Okay,” I say. “Principals are known to do that.”

“Yeah.” Mosey nods automatically. “She sat right next to Jade because Lenny wasn’t here today.”

“Fair enough. What were you learning?”

Mosey pauses. “Geography. Kinds of land.”

“So like…peninsulas?”

“Mhmm. And isthmuses. Like Panama.”

“Got it. Isthmus is a fun word.”

“Yeah.”

“But go on. You said she was behind Jade?”

“No. She was next to her. Mrs. Urocker⁵—that’s the principal—”

“I know.” Not well, at all—it’s her first year—but nuance can wait.

“Okay. So Mrs. Urocker is sitting next to Jade, and she’s not even listening to Miss Leake.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she…she was at first. She was watching and writing stuff down on this big paper.”

“Gotcha.”

“But then she just stopped. When I looked over again, she had her phone out and was typing into it. And scrolling. And a few times I saw her look at Jade and then back at her phone. Then back at Jade.”

“Okay.” Weird for sure, but nothing scream-worthy yet.

Mosey swallows hard. “And then, when Miss Leake started to pass out our assignment, Mrs. Urocker stood up, tapped Jade on the arm, and pointed to the door. She made Jade go outside with her.”

“Okay.” I’m still neutral, but I feel a frown tugging at my mouth.

“And she’s out there for a few minutes. And I just keep working because I don’t know what happened.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah! But then, while I’m working, she—Mrs. Urocker—comes back in, and I look because the door’s super creaky, and she looks right at me and says ‘Get over here’ really loud and mean.”

“Why?” I raise an eyebrow. “What was the issue with you and Jade?”

Mosey uncrosses her arms. She points to her shirt. With them crossed, I hadn’t paid any attention to what she was wearing, but given the cue, I realize that it’s not what Mosey left home in.

“What happened to your t-shirt?”

The scowl returns. She leans forward and twists her neck. An obtrusive tag is clearly visible. On the outside.

“Mrs. Urocker got mad about my shirt. Our shirts. She said they were inappropriate and gross.” The scowl lingers, accompanied by fresh moisture from above. “She made us turn them inside-out in the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

“Dad, she was so mean! Jade started to cry, so I tried to explain that the shirt was from

Jade’s cousin and really important to her, and Mrs. Urocker didn’t even care! She said so much mean stuff about Gigi, and she made Jade feel small. And that’s evil because Jade’s at a new school and doesn’t know anybody and not very good at spelling or math and her mom has to work so she can’t help her and none of that mattered to Mrs. Urocker! She said ‘You should be ashamed of yourself’, but she said it just to Jade and then Jade started to cry even harder and I was so mad but then I started to cry and and and…”

Those tears that were threatening before start plummet down her face now, all landing at the spot where the bottom of not-Gothitelle’s dress should be.

I twist my torso, and Mosey jumps into my arms. Heaving sobs wail against my shoulder. I feel the dampness spread on my collar.

Well, shit. It’s not hard to fill in the blanks as to what happened. The principal must have checked the Instagram handle and discovered Gnasty Ganache’s provocative art. If she saw what I did last night, it’d be tough to argue with her concern. Was that enough to go after a tiny third-grader who’s just excited about her relative’s nascent music career? Is that enough to belittle a child who doesn’t know any better? A little child who can barely carry the weight of her textbooks?

“Honey: where’s Jade right now?” I ask suddenly. It only just hit me that the entire point of bringing the car is nowhere to be found. I crane my neck in the direction of her apartments. “I brought the car so we could drive her home.”

Mosey sucks in air through her nose with a snort.

“She couldn’t stop crying, so I took her to the office. Her mom left work to take her home. I stayed with her until she did.”

“That was good of you, Mosey.”

“I guess. But I’m glad I did because Jade started crying really really hard after Mrs. Urocker talked to her again.”

I brush Mosey’s now-matted hair out of her eyes and wipe her wet cheeks with my hand.

“What did she say then?”

My daughter seethes.

“She said Jade better grow up or she’ll never make it at her school.” Mosey sniffles in.

Picturing the tiny Jade I met yesterday getting talked down to doesn’t sit right with me. Whether the principal had a point about the shirt or not seems irrelevant. Her handling was shitty.

“See, Dad? See how mean she is? Can I call her an asshole now?”

Swallowing my own feelings, I shake my head.

“No.”

But I can definitely think it.

SIX: BATTLE TACTICS

Mosey and I are sitting in the living room. I’m in the recliner, and she’s on the couch. The Switch is connected to the TV, and we’ve just finished our daily recruiting. We added Rhyperior, which Mosey said looked really strong. I wasn’t looking for a ground/rock type, but I didn’t have the heart to lobby otherwise. After her trying day at school, whatever she says goes.

At first, Mosey’s super quiet. She answers direct questions, but she’s otherwise silent. Without her objections, I fail to include her prized Palafin in our initial quartet, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I peek over several times to see if she’s lost in thought, but her eyes trace the cursor. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was absorbed in the game.

“Mosey?”

“Yeah?” Her voice is flat, and her eyes stay glued to the screen.

“I didn’t mean to leave JV behind.” I adjust the controller in my hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

The other player’s dragging things out, so I’m left to my own idle thinking. Normally, I have a good handle on where my daughter’s head’s at emotionally, but I’ve seen a full gamut since she entered the car. Because she’s so quiet, I don’t expect there to be white-hot rage underneath, but I can’t know—anger like what I saw is new to her. I’ll just have to wait and see.

When the battle finally begins, I try to involve her in my decisions.

“What move should I use here?”

“Do you think the Gyrados will use Protect?”

“Should I Mega Evolve now or wait until they bring out a Fire type?”

All I get are shrugs. Her gaze remains fixed, but she gives me nothing to work off of. Granted, I also give her nothing to get excited about: our opponent creams us, knocking out all four of our Pokémon before we get one of theirs under 50%. Whoops.

While I contemplate another match, I finally address the elephant in the room.

“Mosey?” I cancel the ranked battle and rotate to face her.

After a few seconds of glum staring at an unchanging menu, she moves her eyes to meet mine.

“Are we going to play?” There’s still no inflection.

“No. Not yet.” I move off the recliner and hop onto the sofa next to her. “I’m worried about you.”

“Just play, Dad,” she says, her eyes returning to the screen. But there’s no interest in them—she plans to evade mine.

“What are you thinking about, kiddo?”

Her blank expression droops into a frown.

“C’mon, Mosey. It feels better to talk, right? You know that. Empty your balloon. That’s what I’m here for.”

She wrinkles her nose and then sighs.

“Do you think we can get Mrs. Urocker fired?” As she finishes the sentence, her eyes meet mine, and I see an innocent hopefulness glowing in them.

It’s my turn to sigh. “No, honey. I don’t think we can.”

“But she was mean to us!”

“Yes, she was. But being mean isn’t a fireable offense.”

“Well, she shouldn’t treat Jade like that when she’s brand new.”

“Agreed. A principal shouldn’t act like that toward any student, but especially a new one. ” I nod reassuringly. “But again: they don’t let administrators go for being short-sighted.”

“But Dad: she just made it all up! There’s nothing wrong with Gigi’s shirt! It’s just a drawing! There’s nothing inappropriate about Gigi!”

I open my mouth to respond but catch myself. Mosey doesn’t know what I found on Gnasty Ganache’s Instagram; I’m not keen to explain it, either. How do I explain that her rude principal might actually have a point?

I try to collect my thoughts and organize them to convince my child I’m not a traitor, but Mosey susses out my hesitation. Her eyes narrow. I haven’t said a word but her look says they’ve pasted my passport photo over Benedict Arnold’s. I gulp.

“What? Gigi’s just a rapper! Who cares?”

“Well…”

“What? Mrs. Urocker is wrong!” A bolt of uncertainty strikes her. “Isn’t she, Dad?”

I sigh. “Not…exactly.”

“What? But why?”

“Well, honey, I mean…” I try to charter a course through a desert of landmines. “I looked at their website, and I listened to some of their stuff.”

“So?”

“There’s nothing wrong with what they do. Not at all. But it’s pretty…adult, .”

“What? Like they swear? But you swear all the time! That’s not fair if—”

I put up my hand. “Not swearing. It’s…well, it isn’t swearing that makes me think that. I just wouldn’t call it elementary school-appropriate.”

Mosey slumps back on the couch. She has the same dazed look she had when her soccer team lost their tournament last month.

“I’m sorry, Mosey.”

She hangs her head and takes a deep breath. I keep my eyes on her, certain she isn’t finished.

“But Dad: even if Gigi’s stuff isn’t good for school, that stuff isn’t on the t-shirt.” She shakes her head and then looks at me, pleading. “Why is it wrong for us to wear the t-shirt? It’s just a drawing.”

I nod. “You’re not wrong, there. Honestly, if not for that Instagram handle, you’d have probably been okay. But: it’s on there.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Even if you and I don’t agree, there’s nothing we can do. We aren’t enough to take down the principal for one bad—even if it was a really bad one. You’ll have to find another way to support Jade, okay?”

She takes in my words and doesn’t pout, but her shoulders do slump. She leans back into the couch cushion and stares at the TV.

“Let’s just play,” she says.

I pat her leg and head back over to my recliner. While I wait for the selection screen, I steal glances at her. Other than her fingers fiddling with the bottom of her shirt, only the occasional blink betrays that she’s alive.

She remains silent until I’ve got my four Pokémon chosen. I navigate down to start the battle, but it’s then she speaks.

“You can’t lead with Mimikyu.”

“Why not?”

She adjusts on the cushion. “Because the other team is all super strong and fast.”

“So? I’m setting Trick Room.”

“But they’ll kill Mimikyu first.”

“Nope.”

“Why not? He’s so small and crappy.”

“Yeah,” I say with concessional nod, “but you’re forgetting that our Mimikyu has Disguise. It can only lose 1/8 of its HP on the first hit. It’ll always get Trick Room off. Always It’s the perfect Pokémon for our team.”

“Really?”

“You bet. It’s this tiny thing that isn’t very strong on its own, but it’s also powerful when you use it the right way.” I look at her and find her watching me. “And we know the right way. So the opponent that doesn’t respect it has to suffer its wrath.”

I smile, but she looks back at the screen.

“Even though it’s not strong.” She mumbles the words and bites her lip. I give her a moment to elaborate, but when she doesn’t, I ask her if we can start. She nods, but I can tell she’s barely present.

But that feels right. It’s been a long day. After two battles—both wins, for the record—she asks to be excused, and I let her. When I turn off the game thirty minutes later, I peek in her bedroom and find her fast asleep on top of the covers. I pick up some markers on the floor and cover her with a blanket before turning out the lights.

“Sleep tight, my love,” I whisper. “We live to fight another day.”

SEVEN: OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION

It’s just after lunch. I’m pacing around the living room while catching up on some reading. I love my daughter, but I also love that each day has room for a few hours to myself.

Mosey woke up with pep in her step, no ill effects from yesterday’s dramatic whirlwind. There were a few moments during breakfast when I had to repeat a question, so I know she had things on her mind, but she’s eight. I chose not to pry and risk rekindling a fire that had already snuffed out.

You want your kids to be moved by right and wrong, and I think Mosey is. In the case of a provocative bisexual rapper’s merch, perhaps she hasn’t fully grasped all the nuance, but her heart’s in the right place: after all, it’s Jade’s hurt that motivates her, not the artist. Our collective instinct should always be protecting vulnerable people.

Besides, what was the cost? The principal asked her to invert her shirt. Jade was sad, but neither of them got in any real trouble. It’s just a blip. I’ll hang the shirt in her closet, she and Jade will play run around at recess, and everything will be forgotten.

Famous last words.

The Gmail notification pops up while I’m pasting a quote into the notes app. For all the emails I get, rare is the message that appears as a banner. It’s like the app understands how little most of what I receive matters. It’s only messages from friends and readers that get the royal treatment. Those and any official emails from Mosey’s school.

Because I’m in the middle of something, I don’t inspect it closely until it’s racing off-screen. But that’s enough time to catch the subject line:

JS⁶ Re: THE DRESS CODE

I audibly gulp. As quickly as my thumb can move, I open Gmail and find the sender: D Urocker at Matthews Elementary. I gulp again.

Then I read:

To Whom It May Concern:

For the second time in two days, your daughter has worn grossly inappropriate attire to school. I maintain a strict dress code on my campus, and I expect students to follow it. All students, including her.

Making matters worse, when I confronted her about her violation, she loudly and rudely argued with me in front of a full classroom. Wanton disrespect like hers has no place in my school. None.

She will be spending the remainder of the day in the office thinking about her willful defiance until I can address her actions. Please work harder at home to remind her of her obligations at my school or she’ll be spending a few days with you.

Dawn Urocker
Principal
Matthews Elementary

I finish the message somewhat stunned. It’s so…aggressive. While I’m certainly not thrilled Mosey smuggled out the shirt and so blatantly ignored the principal’s direct instructions, there’s no reason a kid wearing a t-shirt with MS Paint artwork merits this kind of vitriol. It’s like she’s taken it all personally.

I reread the message several times, and each time I get a little more perturbed. All this over a t-shirt with a crudely drawn knock-off Pokémon! It’s ridiculous! I understand lecturing a kid for wearing it, but to remove her from class—and then threaten to suspend her? That’s overreach, plain and simple.

But in the midst of all that griping, my thoughts turn to my daughter. Other than a few dust-ups during recess soccer game, Mosey’s never been in trouble before. Justifiable or not, her sitting alone in the office, waiting to be chewed out, has to be agony. It’s not a stretch to imagine her hugging her knees and sobbing.

I don’t like it.

After reading the email a sixth time, I have to do something. I decide to go over to the school and talk to Mrs. Urocker. There’s still an hour or so left before the bell, which should give me time to sit down with the woman. At the very least, I can offer my daughter some company and help her find her composure. As much as I’d love to argue with the principal, both members of our family ought to be on our best behaviors there.

When I’m finally calm and collected, I head out to the garage, planning to drive to save an extra ten minutes. But before I can insert the key, my phone buzzes. I check the caller, presuming it’s spam. It usually is at this time of day.

MATTHEWS ELEM.

I gulp as I answer.

“Hello?” I hope mediocre service masks my nervousness.

“Yes, is this Mosey’s father?” It’s a younger woman’s voice. I recognize her as one of the secretaries.

“Yes! What happened?” Forgetting all context, my brain immediately imagines all manner of potential tragedies. “Is she okay?”

The voice hesitates. “No, she’s not hurt. But we do have a problem.”

Half-relieved, half-intrigued, I sigh. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, your daughter had a dress code violation today, but she refuses to change her shirt or talk to Mrs. Urocker.”

My stomach twists around the yogurt I downed earlier. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” the voice says with patronizing performed patience. “Can you come in right now to help?”

I nod, but then remember I’m on the phone. Adjusting the rearview mirror and turning the key, I fire the engine.

“I’ll be right there.”

EIGHT: BLUE RIBBONS

I always forget the shrunk-down scale at an elementary school.

Obviously, the children are smaller, so you understand that the desks and lunch tables will be proportionately sized, but you don’t expect the counters and ceilings in buildings to be lower. I swear they are. The chairs in the office are, too, which is funny because they’re mostly sat in by waiting adults. It’s like the furnishing people don’t realize that little students don’t beget little parents.

Planted in the shockingly narrow chair next to my daughter, I survey the room. I haven’t yet figured out what to say, to her or anyone else, which explains why I’m contemplating the building. I expected to find either an angry child or a distraught child, but to my surprise, Mosey lit up when I entered the room, and her demeanor didn’t change when I sat down. She doesn’t look worried. Not at al.

That has me worried instead.

After a minute of silence, I can’t withstand her eyes on me any further. I turn to look at her.

“This is kind of a mess, honey. This isn’t like you.”

“But Dad—”

“Why did you wear the shirt again?” I ask. I’m not angry, but I know the question sounds accusatory. I let it. “You knew it would get you in trouble.”

Mosey raises her eyebrow. “But I covered up the Instagram name like you said!” She unfolds her arms and points to a strip of electrical tape at the bottom of the Not-Gothitelle. “See?”

Whoops. I grimace.

“Where did you get that?”

“The garage.”

“When?”

“Today. While you showered.” She blinks.

I sigh. The logic in her head is right there: that strip of tape was an eight-year-old’s problem-solving triumph. From years in schools and the world, I know how aggressive a move like hers would be perceived; whether taped-over or not, her wearing that shirt at all would ruffle feathers. But damn: she doesn’t get it.

“What?” she asks, no longer confident in her cleverness,

“Mosey, I didn’t…” I rub my head. “Kiddo, when I said that about the handle, I didn’t mean you should wear the shirt again.”

“Why not?” She furrows her brow. “You said that was the problem. It’s just a picture now.”

“But Mrs. Urocker told you not to wear the shirt.”

“But it doesn’t even break the dress code anyway! I asked Miss Leake to print me a copy.” She stands up and digs into her back pocket. She fishes out a piece of paper and starts to unfold it. “See? I can win this battle.”

“Battle? No. Honey, you’re at school. You’re all on the same team here. This isn’t a battle.”

“Yes it is! And I’m gonna be like Mimikyu and set-up Trick Room on Mrs—”

She stops when the secretary calls my name and leans over the tiny counter.

“Mrs. Urocker will see you both now.” She points toward a room down the hall.

“Thank you,” I reply. We both stand up.

Whatever elaborate strat Mosey has in mind goes unsaid as my daughter walks two paces ahead of me, moving with the purpose of a master criminal. She looks at nothing and no one except the door at the end of the hall.

What am I walking into?

The door to Mrs. Urocker’s office is open. Mosey continues to march in, but I gently grab her shoulder and reel her back. When she objects, I shake my head and mouth “Manners”. She glares at me while I knock.

“Enter,” a sharp voice directs. “I don’t have all day.” I’ve only heard six words, but I can believe this person authored the email I read.

Unlike the previous principal, I don’t know Mrs. Urocker at all. She got hired at Matthews this past summer, and we missed her welcome celebration in July while on vacation. Bee’s never mentioned her, and I didn’t run into her at Back to School Night, so she’s a total stranger to me. Until yesterday, I might’ve taken a bet that Mosey would never give me cause to so much as wave to the woman before promotion. Good thing I’m not a gambler.

Although I should be sizing up the administrator, I’m immediately overwhelmed by her office. The walls glimmer with matching golden frames; they can’t be real gold, but they’re quality enough to make me wonder. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere, and every carpet fiber looks either brand new or meticulously maintained by some poor custodian. There’s a small Christmas tree in the corner on an end table complete with ornately-wrapped presents, but they’re clearly fake—you couldn’t fit so much as a can of cat food in any of them. It looks like something out of a magazine spread of lavish office decor, which is to say, its sparkle is hollow and corporate. There’s not a single sheet of paper anywhere, either—not one. I’ve visited plenty of admin offices in my life, and this is the first I’ve seen without folders, legal pads, and referrals blanketing every surface like fresh snow. That’s just the job.

Seated in a large-backed chair, Mrs. Urocker continues typing on her laptop as we move toward her. She strikes the keys with such force that it has to be theatre—I’m busy, those angry fingers say. Mosey and I stop at her desk and wait awkwardly to be acknowledged.

I start, my voice full of forced geniality. “Would you like us to—”

Eyes still locked on the screen, Mrs. Urocker puts up her hand. When I cut myself off, she goes right back to typing. For at least a minute, she strikes those keys with no sign of stopping. I steal a glance at Mosey and notice she’s staring daggers at the woman. Returning my eyes to the typist demonstrating her power over us, I do my best not to follow my daughter’s lead. I aim to stay neutral.

After several minutes, she at last drops her hands from the keyboard and rotates toward us. Without making eye contact, she waves toward two small seats in front of her desk.

Mrs. Urocker’s defining feature is her hair: she’s got these huge poofed-out curls in every direction, but they’re expertly cut. Her round face centers on a small nose, but angular glasses lend her automatic authority. Smartly dressed with a navy blue blazer that matches her frames, she has a clear eye for fashion, although there’s something that strikes me as old-fashioned about it, too.

“Sit.” She orders. Initially, Mosey doesn’t move, but as my butt hits my seat, I tap her and then her chair. After a pause, she joins me. We both look up at the principal.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” I say with as little emotion as possible. “I’m M—”

“No pleasantries. I’m not going to waste any more of my time on your daughter’s misbehavior than I have already.” When she speaks, she’s definitely looking at me, but also somehow through me. I’m beneath her. “I have a school to run.”

“I understand.” I maintain my tone, but frown. “Why am I here, Mrs. Urocker?”

“Because your daughter refused to talk with me. That tells me I need to address something with the both of you.”

I swear I can feel steam from Mosey’s ear scalding my arm, but Mrs. Urocker speaks as though it’s only me present.

“What you both need to understand is that I am not going to tolerate flagrant disrespect on my campus. Matthews Elementary School used to be the crown jewel of this district, a place our community could be proud of. Well, open enrollment has flooded this place with transfer students who don’t know how to behave. Mark my words: This is going to be a Blue Ribbon School again because I am going to make it one.”

While Mrs. Urocker talks, it’s easy to forget about the situation at hand being Mosey’s fault. Every sentence out of her mouth rubs me the wrong way. All this talk about crown jewels and blue ribbons hasn’t mentioned education yet; she’s too busy ranting to mention learning. But I listen dutifully all the same.

“I’ve already made incredible progress these last few months. Just incredible. The district is talking about it. The PTA is talking about it. Everybody is talking about how successful I’ve been at restoring order here. And that’s because I stamp out problems the minute I see them. And when I saw that shirt in Miss Leake’s class yesterday, I acted swiftly. Her little friend is brand new to Matthews, and she needs to figure out how things work at my school.” She pauses to adjust her glasses. “We have a strict dress code at Matthews, a dress code I wrote myself. A shirt like that is so offensive that—”

“It’s not offensive.” Mosey says. Her voice doesn’t come out angry. It’s more like an observation, if perhaps an urgent one. Mid-sentence interjection aside, it sounds almost polite.

Her level tone doesn’t affect Mrs. Urocker. The eyes that had been staring through me whip onto my daughter.

“You are not talking right now. How dare you—”

“But my shirt isn’t offensive!” She unfolds her arms and points to the image. “It’s just a picture Jade’s cousin made.” She moves her fingers from its top to its bottom. “See?”

“Well, I looked at the Instagram account that deplorable shirt references,” Mrs. Urocker snaps. “That is a man in a dress. A man who does all manner of grotesque things in photographs.” She turns back to me. “What kind of parent lets his daughter leave the house wearing filth like that? Children here come from good Christian families. Your inattention enables that little girl to expose good families to vile pornography.”

“It’s not pornography,” I say, all too quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s racy, but not…” I start to rebut but then stop. “Nevermind.”

“Exactly.” While looking at me, she points at Mosey. “That is a grossly offensive—”

“But the shirt isn’t offensive!” Mosey’s voice cuts through again. We both look at her.

Mrs. Urocker’s huffs. “You are eight. That is not for you—”

“But it’s not! It’s just a Pokémon. And we can wear Pokémon shirts to school. Aiden wore a Charizard shirt last week, and you gave him an award at the assembly. Ang had a Garchomp shirt on today. And Olive has like three Pikachu shirts. I sit right next to her during science. She never gets in trouble!”

Mosey reaches into her pocket and pulls out the paper. I notice this time that she actually has two sheets. She hastily unfolds them and sets both pieces on the desk.

“This one is a message from Jade’s cousin. Gigi says they were inspired by the Pokémon Gothitelle. They did a show in a costume like that, so they drew it and put it on the shirts. Gigi says it’s supposed be Gothitelle, but not to tell the Pokémon Company because then might get in trouble. It’s supposed to be a Pokémon. We can wear Pokémon clothes.”

“And this one.” She picks up the other paper. “This one is the Matthews Elementary School dress code you made. It doesn’t say anything about not wearing specific kinds of shirts at all. This isn’t spaghetti straps or short shorts or a backward hat. It’s a Pokémon t-shirt. And kids wear Pokémon t-shirts all the time, and they don’t get in trouble.”

As she speaks, I feel a grin growing on my face. Whether Mosey realizes it or not, she’s doing a pretty good lawyer impression. Neither Mrs. Urocker nor I have said a word—and that says everything. Mosey catches my eye and smiles. Then she goes right back on the offensive.

“And I think you should treat new kids better instead of blaming them for everything. Jade’s super nice, and she’s gonna go here now. If we’re really a Blue Ribbon school or whatever, shouldn’t we be nice to all the kids? Maybe the new kids wouldn’t misbehave if they felt welcome here instead of you yelling at them and making them change their shirts their cousins gave them. It’s already hard to go to new school. You don’t know anybody or how things work or when recess is. You should be nicer to them, and you can start by being nicer about the dress code!”

Mosey slams her hands on the principal’s desk for emphasis as she finishes. The sound startles Mrs. Urocker, who jumps a little in her chair.

My daughter turns to me and mouths two words: “Trick room”. She nods and then turns back toward the administrator.

There’s a moment when my pride for my daughter overwhelms my senses. I imagine a near-future when Mrs. Urocker beams through her glasses, giving a little nod and applauding the little girl channeling Matlock. How could she not? She just said: my kid is eight—she’s eight! Who in their right mind would be unmoved by such a display of passion?

Two words: Mrs. Urocker.

It takes a moment, but after glare at Mosey, the principal removes her glasses and polishes them on her blazer. She returns them to her face and takes a deep breath, looking momentarily serene.

And then she explodes.

“Do you honestly think that you can walk into this room, berate me, and wave some silly printouts at me? You think that is going to sway me? You think I should hold an ice cream social for every little brat who walks through that gate? You are a child. You have no power here. This is my office, and this is my school. You do not make the rules, little girl.”

“But I’m not making rules!” Mosey chimes in. The surprise response leaves her voice shrill. “They’re your rules and—”

“That is enough. I will not listen to you ramble anymore. You have violated our dress code twice in two days, the second time in gross defiance of explicit instructions from me. From the principal. You cannot wear offensive clothes in—”

“But it’s not offensive! It’s just a Po—”

Mrs. Urocker stands up. She’s not a tall woman, but upright, she towers over an eight-year-old.

“Look, you little spoiled brat: it is offensive if I say it’s offensive. Not you. Not your daddy. Not your little friend. Not anyone except me. Me. I am in charge here. I have all the power. If I decide tomorrow to ban Poke-pet shirts, then I will do it. Because I can. Because this is my school. I can do or say or treat any student in any way I deem necessary. The district loves me. The PTA loves me. Everyone wants what I want. Everyone except you. You alone are against me. And you are powerless. You do not dictate terms to me. Have I made myself clear?”

The two glower at one another across the desk. A part of me worries my daughter is about to leap the furniture and tackle her principal, but to my relief, she lifts up her papers and holds them out.

“But it’s not…” There’s pleading in her voice now. “I just wanted Jade to be happy! And it’s not against the ru—”

Before she can finish, Mrs. Urocker sneers. Her hand darts forward and seizes the papers. She yanks them from my daughter’s small fingers with ease, but then extends them back forward so they’re inches from Mosey’s face. And then she tears them apart.

“That’s how much I care for your opinion. You are fortunate to be at this school, but if you say one more word to me, you will be suspended for your reprehensible behavior during this meeting.”

Mosey opens her mouth and then quickly shuts it. The word suspended gives her pause. Bullies and cheaters get suspended; not her. Not my Mosey. I’m not sure she’s ever before been more than scolded here. Shit’s gotten real.

“Oh, well look at that.” There’s sick glee in Mrs. Urocker’s voice. “Do we not want to get suspended? This is exactly what I thought: brimstone conviction with your daddy here, but nothing to say when real discipline gets threatened. You truly are—“

“You’re an asshole.”

She doesn’t say it loudly or angrily, but the words are clear. And she doesn’t look away or at me. She stares right into her principal with volcanic calm.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Urocker’s eyes widen. “I meant what I said, little girl. Say it again and you can say goodbye to three days. Do you—”

“You’re. An. Asshole.”

“Perfect.” Mrs. Urocker’s laughs. “Three days without you at my school is a gift.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she strides toward the door. “Let me just grab the paperwork.”

When the principal’s out of earshot, Mosey’s adrenaline seems to run out. After a dazed second when righteous indignation still owns her expression, she slumps back into the chair. A look of terror crosses her face, and she turns to me.

“I’m…suspended?” Her words are a gasp. She holds my gaze while tears well up in her eyes.

I nod my head as I reach over and wipe her eyes. But then I guide her head back with my hands so she can see my face as I smile and whisper.

“Fuck yeah you are.”

NINE: US VILLAGERS

Mosey sobs the entire way home. I try to console her at first, to urge her to understand I couldn’t be more proud of her, but the shock of being banished from school overwhelms everything else. I keep my hand on her shoulder while I drive, but I decide to hold my words. When we pull into the garage, I carry her into the house and up to her bedroom.

And then she sleeps. At 6:00, I bring her some Goldfish crackers in case I can’t coax her down to eat, but she groans and waves me away. She’s got her teddy bear squeezed against her chest and her hair splayed out on a still-damp pillow; I lean down to kiss the top of her head, whisper that she should come down when she’s ready, and then close the door.

It’s two hours later when she emerges, her teddy bear in one hand and an empty bowl of orange crumbs in the other. Shuffling down the stairs, she’s greeted by a smile on my face when she finds me.

Mosey opens her mouth to speak, but tears start to well in her eyes. I save her from herself.

“Are you hungry, honey?”

She nods through a quivering chin.

“Would a tuna fish sandwich work? With spicy mayo?”

More nodding. “And olives?” Her voice has the sturdiness of a ghost.

“Absolutely. Go sit down.” I pop out of the recliner. “I’ll get it ready for you.”

Another round of nods precedes her shuffling into the kitchen. Once there, I spring into action, doing my best NASCAR driver-turned-line cook impression. Her plate is full within five minutes. Her tremors quiet the moment she puts food in her mouth.

Midway through the sandwich, she tries to say something, but I wave her off.

“Eat,” I urge her, smoothing her matted hair with my hand. “We’ll talk after you finish.”

It takes her ten minutes to scarf down everything, including a brownie square from our baking last weekend. Although my eyes never leave her, hers remain locked on the plate. Even when she asks for more juice or a fork to eat the leftover tuna fish, she still won’t meet my gaze.

When she’s finished, I wash and dry her plate before turning around to say something, but I find her seat vacated. Craning my neck, I glimpse the living room and see her already curled up on the sofa.

“Gimme one more minute,” I call out while drying my hands. “I’m coming.”

I slide back into the recliner but twist my body to face her. A minute passes with only silence between us, but finally she speaks.

“I’m…” She stops, clears her throat of its frogginess, and starts again only to hesitate.

“Go ahead,” I say.

“Can we play Pokémon Champions while we talk?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “I—”

“Of course.” No need for justification. I know she wants something to look at to avoid my eyes, and that’s perfectly fine with me. Everything’s still connected from last night, so the Switch is up in no time.

We go through our normal routine, with Mosey choosing a Floette that we then grab a Mega Stone for. Soon we’re selecting a team with a clock counting down.

“Do you want to choose?” I ask her. “Should we bring JV on this one?”

She nods but then immediately shakes her head.

“You pick.” Her words are deflated, but she does sound like herself again. That’s a start.

A few turns into the battle, with her eyes watching the screen, Mosey’s voice cuts through the soundtrack. “Dad?”

“Yes, Mosey?” I grab the remote and lower the volume automatically, but I keep playing.

“I’m so sorry I got suspended,” she says before taking a big breath. “I know I’m not supposed to be a bad kid, but—”

“Stop.” I say it right as our Fluffy the Sneasler loses its final point of health.

“What?” She leans back against the couch, bracing for a harsh rebuke.

“You are not a bad kid, Mosey.”

“But I got suspended.” She sits up. “And I swore at the principal.”

“Yes, you did,” I say while Palafin takes the full wrath of Rotom’s Thunderbolt. “And you wore that shirt when you knew you weren’t supposed to.”

I see her shoulders slump out of the corner of my eye.

“I’m sorry I was bad. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really, really, really sorry.”

Her words hang in the air while I manage the game. There’s little for me to do, though: the opposing Armourage unleashes a Heat Wave attack that wipes out my Froslass right after I Mega’d her. I shake my head at the screen.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”

While our avatar pouts on the TV, I turn my neutral expression to my daughter. At last, she moves her eyes up to meet mine.

“Well,” I say. “Don’t be.”

Mosey’s eyes go big. “Why not? I got suspended. I called Mrs. Urocker an asshole.”

“Twice. Yes. That wasn’t perfect process, kiddo.” I grimace for added effect. “Please refrain from swearing at any other administrators until you’re thirty, okay?”

She nods.

I continue. “But I am proud of you. I’m so proud of you.”

“Why?” She pulls her knees to her chin. “I got suspended.”

“Yeah, but look at what you did first. You tried to compromise with the electrical tape. You did research by asking Gigi for info—”

“Jade gave me that.”

“—sure, so that means you asked for help from her and Miss Leake. And then you stood up and defended your position with justification. And when that person acted petulant and flaunted their power over you, threatening to punish you, you refused to yield and called her out. I mean, fuck.” I pause to shake my head. “Maybe you didn’t do it the perfect way, but you tried to do the right thing. That whole time, I said almost nothing. Nothing! But you, Mosey, you spoke up. You defended Jade, you appealed to the rules, and you called Mrs. Urocker out for how she was acting.”

“Yeah?” There’s still an apprehensiveness to her voice, like she’s waiting for me to pull the rug out from under her. “So you’re not mad?”

“Only at myself. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.“ I set down the controller. “Again, please don’t swear at anyone else at school. But I really am proud to call you my daughter. Truly.”

A single tear races down Mosey’s cheek. Before it can fall to the floor, she leaps off her cushion and jumps into my arms. I sit up and hold her to my chest, squeezing her shoulder.

“I love you, kiddo.”

“I love you, too.” With her cheek pressed against my sternum, the words come out lumpy, and I chuckle.

When she finally wriggles around, I gesture to the controller.

“Another battle?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She nods. “One more.”

I scoot over in the recliner to grant her space. We sit side-by-side while waiting for a match. At the team selection screen, I start to assemble a team automatically. After selecting my quartet, I seek Mosey’s approval.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

As you might expect, I lead with Mimikyu, pairing him the big oaf Snorlax. Mosey recognizes my strategy right away.

“Trick Room,” she says under her breath. I nod but leave it unaddressed.

The strategy works perfectly: Mimikyu’s Disguise ability weathers a hit, allowing him to set-up the Trick Room. Against a speedy pair of opponents, it works to perfection: Snorlax barrels through our opponent without being slowed. I can’t help but grin: as a novice at the game myself, every time I execute an advanced maneuver, I feel giddy.

Mosey smiles when our avatar celebrates, but then ambivalence taps in. She looks up at me.

“Trick Room worked for Mimikyu,” she says.

“Mhmm. It’s a solid strat.”

“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose. “But why didn’t it work for me?”

“Because you’re not a lonely spirit wearing a Pikachu costume?” I smile down at her but she shakes her head.

“Seriously, Dad. I thought I could win the battle. What did I do wrong?”

I let her question breathe for a minute. The music emanating from the TV sounds congratulatory, but her question is drenched with doubt. What can I say? I stare at the screen and try to put myself in her small shoes. I think about Mimikyu as Mosey sees him on our team. It’s a team that—

Suddenly, I know what to say.

“Mosey.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s because Mimikyu isn’t alone. He’s one tiny part of a team of Pokémon working alongside him. He can’t one-shot opponents. He’s a frail ghost in cheap cosplay: he’s not strong enough to work by himself. Trick Room isn’t about the Pokémon setting it but the ones he sets it up for. Trick Room doesn’t work without the right teammates on his side.” I extend my arm around her shoulder. “Mimikyu can’t win by himself.”

“But that means Mrs. Urocker won today. So I lost. I got suspended for no reason.” She starts to turn inward.

“That’s not true, honey.”

“But it is. I’m too small to stop her from being mean to Jade.”

“Yes, but Mosey, you’re not hearing me. It takes a team to win a Pokémon battle. The individual Pokémon are all too weak to defeat an opponent, but they’re each integral parts of a unit that works together to engineer a win. The best you can do is try to counter your opponents as they come. Use your specific skills to make battles easier for your teammates, damage opponents when they overlook you, hang around making your three turns productive and valuable. That’s all you can do, my love.”

Glancing at the television, Mosey sighs.

“So I’m not going to get Mrs. Urocker to let Jade wear her shirt?”

After several seconds of pondering, I say “No” and shake my head. “Probably not.”

“But—”

“But that’s okay. You don’t have to. You did your part.” I give her arm a squeeze. “You don’t have to fix everything to have made a difference. Now it’s just someone else’s turn to help out.”

“But what do I need to do then?” She tilts her head and looks up at me. “What do I do now?”

“You,” I say, using a finger on my free hand to tap her nose. “You keep supporting Jade in every way possible. You become the greatest friend and classmate you can be. And then you hold onto faith that other people are trying to do the same thing with the Jades in their lives. If not; you need to believe you can inspire them to do it. Okay?”

After a few seconds of thinking, Mosey nods.

“Okay,” she says. “I can do it. I can do that, Dad.”

“I know.” I say. “I know you can.”

TEN: ONE CLICK

Because the day’s been so disjointed, I haven’t gotten to do any writing. After putting Mosey to bed, I head back into our study to get something done.

It doesn’t take me more than a paragraph to realize I’m far too spent to get anywhere, so I turn to other tasks. I pay the credit cards and read the latest pieces from a few friends, but nothing clears my feeling.

After a few minutes of idle clicking around the screen, I realize I’m not burned out so much as antsy. It’s 1:48 am, and everyone I care about is surely asleep, yet I feel like I should be doing something.

Without forethought, I navigate to Instagram and find Gigi’s account. I tap on a link in their bio that leads me to a humble Patreon with only 27 members. Without examining any of their posts, I find the subscription tab and pay for a year on the highest tier available. No, it won’t directly achieve anything, but supporting a small artist feels like a meaningful gesture under any circumstances. I can pay them to make more shirts at the very least,

As soon as I’ve exited Patreon, I hit a wall. I can’t think of anything else that I can do at 2:00 am. Somewhat defeated, I head back to Gmail and start deleting some of my now 32,544 messages.

I start at the top. My confirmation and receipt from Patreon greet me there, but the inbox devolves into random ads, polls, and scams in quick fashion. There’s satisfaction in cleaving without discretion, but a part of me knows I’m not making a dent in even just this week’s new arrivals. But the illusion of productivity is better than idle agitation, so I keep going.

Fifty or so deletions later, my fingers hover over the delete button as I examine a message from the Matthews PTA. I sigh with a huff, delete the email, and then proceed to clear a run of offers for custom jerseys until something stops me.

Opening my trash folder, I find the PTA message and open it. Inside is an invitation for a general meeting next Tuesday from 6:30 to 8:00. They promise to discuss an upcoming Fun Run, a new bike rack by the playground, and any new business.

“How are they gonna fill ninety minutes with that?” I mutter to myself. “They just met last week.”

I leave the email open and climb the stairs. Mosey’s door is closed, but a silent crack lets me peek inside at my daughter. She’s tucked neatly under the covers, so her every breath raises and lowers them in a steady rhythm. Surrounded by stuffed animals and blankets, only her face is visible to me, and it looks tiny in the shadows. She’s getting bigger every month, but right now, you wouldn’t know it. She’s small now. Too small to stare down a planet of Mrs. Urockers alone.

Closing the door with my lightest touch, I tiptoe down the stairs and back to my computer. Scrolling down in the email, I find what I’m looking for.

Will you attend this event? the PTA email asks me. It offers me two clear options: ACCEPT and DECLINE.

Picturing my little girl, I shake my head and take a deep breath.

“Fuck it,” I whisper into the night.

I click ACCEPT.

---

As with “Juanita Verde” last year, I write these pieces to answer personal questions. I find it helpful to recast tricky situations grown-up me faces as obstacles for a precocious little kid. It opens things up a bit more.

This piece is dedicated to two men of conviction I admire very much: R’lyeh Schanning and Will Leitch. The message Mosey receives in chapter nine tries to honor words both of them put into the world in very different forums that helped me articulate something I’ve been working on.

There are ten thousand things I would and could say here, but this piece already eclipses 13,000 words. I don’t anticipate many will read it because of that length, which I understand and accept. I also know that it pales in comparison to the vision that I originally had months ago, that the involvement of Pokémon Champions undercuts its reach and power, and that the message is a pale approximation of what many better writers and leaders have written. I just don’t care. I can’t.

If there’s anything I ought to say, it’s that this isn’t meant to target any one person with power, and the narrow story of a little girl angry about a questionably-applied dress code is meant to examine something broader about how we confront power structures far greater than ourselves. If you want more of that, I recorded a debrief tonight which you can listen to here, but I doubt you’re looking for more from me after 13,100 words.

I began this on Sunday morning. I quit on it Wednesday morning, but then found new determination. I’ve never brushed closer against a deadline than on this one—and hopefully never will again. This is more than a quarter of a reasonable-length novel all written across a handful of hours. I’ve never put more into a piece than this. But if you really knew me, you’d know that this piece and “Juanita Verde” mean something very special to me that doesn’t appear on the page and has nothing to do with the question I’m asking, so do with it what you want. I get from this what I need.

Special thanks to Cheryl for the daily encouragement. I would’ve dropped it except I really, really, really wanted to share it with you. For the umpteenth time, thank you for caring about the shit I make.

1. For those who don’t know Pokémon, you can read through most of the names you see here (including Cresselia). When a Pokémon matters from now on, I will add a quick footnote. Those three (plus Pikachu) are visible in the artwork, in case that helps.

2. Palafin is a dolphin-like water monster from Generation IX. It has a unique ability “Zero to Hero” which lets it leave the field and return in a new, much-stronger form. Its name “JV” refers to Juanita Verde, the marine biology YouTuber in last year’s “Juanita Verde”.

3. Mimikyu is a Generation VII monster who is a Ghost/Fairy-type. Mimikyu is a tiny, but ferocious, spirit who seeks love from people by dressing up like Pikachu. Competitively, he is useful here (and on Pokemon Champions) as a Trick Room setter. He will be referenced many times in this piece.

4. Gothitelle is a Psychic-type from Generation V. It has a distinctive design that resembles the Gothic Lolita fashion-subculture in Japan (according to many, many sources). Gothitelle, like Mimikyu, can setup Trick Room, but its presence in this piece will be mostly aesthetic.

5. The first two syllables of “Urocker” are pronounced like the Swiss city of “Zurich”. It might help to think of it as Yurich-ur, in fact.

6. This is way too inside baseball, but JS represents Mosey’s initials. That element of the story did not make it to the final draft, which sucks because it was a key inspiration for the initial vision. I’m happy with the decision not to include it, but I did want some strand of that initial idea’s DNA present in the final version.