2019-11-12 - Maybe

“You’re late again.”

That’s the first thing out of Ashira’s mouth when Ciprian bursts into the office at her school. She hops up from the chair and shoots him the most scathing look an 8-year old can manage -- which, as anyone who has spent much time with 8-year olds know, is really quite scathing indeed.

“I think you’ll live,” Ciprian replies, though he does at least look apologetic. “Sorry, sweetheart. Blame your aunt.” He turns to the sign-out book with a murmured apology for the administrative assistant, who is more graceful about his lateness than his daughter, though not by much.

“Is Aunt Riya here?” Ashira exclaims at the mention, her annoyance forgotten as she cranes her neck past him to catch a glimpse, which makes her father laugh.

“No,” he says, “we just had lunch. But she said she’s going to come over before she leaves for Tel Aviv, so you’ll see her soon.”

Ashira’s face falls at the first part, though she manages to rally a little at the second, a progression of emotions that is somewhat comical to watch. “Tonight?” she asks hopefully, and Ciprian laughs again, starting out of the office with her.

“Probably not tonight,” he replies, “but soon.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Ashira does, at least, accept the answer, and they start out of the school toward the car.

“How was your day?” her father asks when they get there, the doors unlocking with the mere touch of a button and a little chirp.

Ashira opens the door to the car, hauling herself up into her seat and reaching for her seatbelt. “It was okay,” she replies with a shrug, before she seems to remember something, and her eyes widen. “Oh! At lunch, Grace got really mad because Hector and Joey took her Hatchimal that she brought from home and they wouldn’t give it back, and then she yelled at them to stop, and then Hector threw it to Joey again but he didn’t catch it, it hit him in the face. Then it flew back at Hector and hit him in the face. And then Grace threw up and had to go home.” She wrinkles her nose in delicate distaste, though there’s still the little thrill in her voice of relating what she clearly feels is very good gossip.

Ciprian does not find it quite as intriguing as his daughter. Luckily, he has a pretty good poker face. “Oh, yeah?” he replies. “Poor Grace. I hope she got her toy back.” It’s said a little bit absently, though -- he’s caught considering the implications of that story at the moment, and he almost misses what his daughter says next.

“It was like when you move things sometimes.”

Ciprian glances into the rearview mirror when she says this, his eyes meeting hers very briefly before he looks back to the road. “It does sound like that,” he has to concede after a moment, keeping his tone even, though also in what is probably an attempt to get her to stop talking about it.

Ashira is not to be deterred yet. “Will I move things like that one day?” she asks.

There are several seconds of silence before Ciprian replies to that. “We don’t know yet, sweetheart. Maybe.”

“Or maybe I’ll do other things,” Ashira adds hopefully.

“Maybe,” Ciprian concedes. After another second, he continues, “We can talk about it later.”

“But—…”

“Not right now, Ashira.”

This time, his daughter takes the hint. However, she can’t resist adding under her breath, “Aunt Riya would talk to me about it.” It’s said quietly enough, though, that Ciprian can pretend he hasn’t heard it, and that’s what he does.

They ride the rest of the way in silence.