scribblechic

Yesterday, in a loud high school cafeteria (six hours into a rescheduled extracurricular competition) my daughter appeared in the periphery of my attention, accomplice in tow. Two eager faces on a mission I was happily unaware; any caution they endeavored to exercise made irrelevant by the unveiled delight they held recklessly in check.

The girl, a stranger to me, stood taller for the enthusiasm that threatened to buoy her from my daughter’s side. My daughter weighted them both with her aggressively polite certainty.

Fifteen dollars for a store-bought package of chocolate chip cookies priced unapologetically, and without any effort at deception, for $5. My daughter’s request was for $10, the balance of money needed (her own funds presently scattered in disheveled nooks of her bedroom).

My mouth and posture had already curled themselves, preemptively, around the shape of my no when instead my voice betrayed me with a whimsical, yes.

My daughter quickly drafted me a note of debt and I conceded curiosity to her obvious certainty. Watching her pick her way among the crowded tables, I lost sight of her momentarily.

It was the box I noted first. A large unremarkable cardboard rectangle, an almost institutional off-white shade that suggested mass-produced fare. My daughter walked with the box propped open, rounding the tables like a veteran waitress topping off half-finished beverages.

I marveled at the brazenness of her easy greetings as she navigated children from other schools with the familiar ease of one who has shared weekends in friendly competition. She returned to me, box almost empty, laughing over the pieces of humor and kindness that were volleyed between bites.

It was a completely irresponsible expense, a lavish gesture of goodwill that contradicted every ounce of good sense or frugality I possessed with an exponentially priceless return on a temporary investment.