I got a call at work from Carrie.

“You remember that Isabella has a show tonight?” she asked.

“Uh, yes. Of course!” I lied. Well, I did remember that she had a show with the rest of the kindergartners; I just didn’t remember that it was that night. So not an entire lie. Let’s call it an eggshell lie.

We arrived at the school a bit early; she was supposed to be in her classroom by 6:15 pm, and we got there around 6:05 pm. There was a mob of parents outside. The school had cleverly announced that although the kids had to be there by 6:15, the doors wouldn’t open until 6:10 – a 5 minute window. And mob or not, by golly they weren’t going to open those front doors until 6:10, and then some.

While we waited, several of the kids said hi to Isabella – she’s in regular ed and a lot of the kids know her because she stands out a bit – and she replied to most by looking at them and then turning away, greeting them warmly but on the inside so that it wouldn’t be too obvious.

Once the doors flew open, getting in the school was like getting into a store with half-price retro leg-warmers the day after Thanksgiving – it was chaos; every man, woman, and child for themselves. Our family held hands like we were crossing a river so that we wouldn’t be ripped apart and carried downstream separately, perhaps drowning in a sea of overanxious and overaggressive kindergarten show fanatics.

The show would be in the cafetorium, and the parents quickly rushed to fill the seats. Carrie took Isabella to her classroom while Madeline and I went to grab a seat. I saw a good bench and made a beeline for it. Off in my periphery, I saw a man moving toward the same bench but from the back of the cafeteria. He practically dove at the seat. I could have beat him there, but I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice my body (or my dignity) to do a Pete Rose slide onto the bench. He plopped himself down proudly, grinning but out of breath.

There were several open seats around him though. There were three two-seat benches on each side of the tables. I went up to one. “Is this seat taken?” I asked out of courtesy to a lady who sat near it but not directly next to it.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s taken.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said.

I went to one behind her. There was a man and a child on bench one of the table and I waved at benches two and three (I figured the three of us would take up one and a half benches). “How about these – are these taken?”

“Uh, yes. That’s taken. I’m saving those,” he said, waving his arm protectively over the benches like he was waxing them from a distance or perhaps casting a seat-saving spell over them.

I began to feel my teeth clenching. “Ok,” I said, pondering the fact that even though I had arrived in the cafeteria thirty seconds after the first person did, the people before me had somehow expanded themselves through gratuitous seat-saving to fill all of the good seats. I merely cast my eyes at the next table back. The only woman at the entire table caught my look and then threw herself bodily on top of the table like she was a soldier diving on a grenade, flailing her arms and legs like it had just gone off, all while shouting, “Saved! All saved. These are all saved! Mine!” Or something like that.

We finally found a seat that involved one of my cheeks hanging off of the edge of the bench while my full weight was focused on a small bony but apparently nerve-rich spot on the other cheek.

The kids filed in and I was initially happy to see that Isabella was on the top row where I could easily see her. I had forgotten about the problem that she had at the last show, and apparently so had her teacher. Off to the right, I couldn’t see any of the kids because an overzealous grandmother was standing up taking pictures, totally oblivious to the fact that there were other parents who might want to take pictures of their kids too. She stood there until the teacher/narrator finally made an announcement that should have been obvious: please don’t stand in the front because people behind you can’t see. Realizing that she was not, in fact, invisible, she slinked off to the side.

The show started. Isabella found us and waved a bit but didn’t sing. Carrie had briefed her to sing this time, but we just figured that it would take a few moments for her to get into the groove. Instead, she took a slight step backwards. In a masterstroke of genius, the show coordinator had not only placed her in the top row (with open stage behind her), she had also placed the most aggressive girl in the entire class – no, in the nation – right next to her. Well, as soon as Isabella took that step back, that lovely girl slid in front of her while doing “big arms” and singing at the top of her lungs. We could only see Isabella’s confused eyes and hair – with one hand pulling a strand – above the girl’s energetic gesticulations.

So there she was – the entire kindergarten population of the school singing their hearts out in front of her while she wandered confused behind them. She tried a couple of times to get back into the group but the kids ignored her or wouldn’t let her back in. I kept waiting for the teacher – anyone – to step in to help her.

I looked at the sea of bodies between me and the stage; several families had grown so frustrated with the lack of seats that they had decided to sit on the floor. I looked up at Isabella again, all alone up there, completely separated. I put my camera down and started plowing through the families, feeling at least one lady’s toenail get snagged by the treads of my running shoes as I slid them over her sandaled feet. “Sorry,” I said, not looking back and not, to be honest, all that sorry at the moment. (Upon reflection I am a bit sorry, though probably not as sorry as I should be.) Several parents gave me strange looks as I shoved a door open to the right of the stage.

There was no one back there. It was so dark that I had to let my eyes adjust for a second. I then worked my way through the obstacle course of tables and chairs piled haphazardly behind the curtain. I finally made my way to the gap in the curtain, ducked, then pushed through, not pausing enough to think about what the heck I was doing. I was going onstage with a bunch of kindergartners!

Hunched low, I grabbed Isabella’s elbow. “Get back up in line, honey,” I whispered, pushing her toward her spot. Several kids turned. I wanted to do a judo throw on the aggressive kid to clear out some space, but I thought that that might be considered a bit excessive. Instead, I just tried to wedge Isabella back in without physically moving the other girl out of the way. I assumed (incorrectly as it turned out) that if the girl saw an adult putting Isabella back in line that she wouldn’t just squeeze her right back out.

Isabella looked back at me in confusion as I backed back through the curtain. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be back here,” she said. As it turned out, those were the only words she said during the entire show.

I left backstage and stood again in the cafetorium by the door. The crowd had tended to their wounded where I had gouged out a path and had filled it back in. I mouthed to Carrie that I couldn’t get back and she mouthed that the show was almost over anyway. At least I think that’s what she said because I’m not too good at reading “mouth.” So I stood off to the side along the wall, unable to see Isabella at all. Instead, I watched Madeline and Carrie to try to read their expressions to see if Isabella was now singing. I found out later that she had moved her mouth a little but really didn’t sing, then got pushed back out behind the others again.

After the show was over, the narrator said that the kids would remain for a few seconds for pictures then could be picked up back in their rooms. The room exploded as though someone had dropped Bradgelina (is that how they spell it?) into a paparazzi conference as Angelina was in the process of giving birth (don’t ask me how dilated she was -- I don’t think that’s too relevant to the analogy). I thought a riot was breaking out and I looked around for a TV that I could heave. As it turned out, it was just the parents going absolutely berserk trying to get pictures. I had never seen the end of a show from this angle, and I was shocked that the kids didn’t immediately pee themselves with terror and run off of the stage. In front of them all was the view-blocking grandmother smiling at the camera in her outstretched arms, completely blocking everyone behind her as before. I wished that I had an Indiana Jones whip (the ad blitz having invaded my psyche) so that I could pop that camera right out of her hands. I looked back at the other parents again. None of them had faces. They all were bodies topped by black Sonys or Canons. It was creepy.

Back in the classroom, the teacher gave out awards. Surprisingly, the one girl who blocked out Isabella didn’t get the most aggressively obnoxious award, but instead got something else that I can’t remember. I mentally awarded her one of my own but thought it best not to announce it. I watched as another parent held up a camera and snarled at her child to “Smile! Just stop that whining and smile!” The mom was most definitely not smiling, and I suspect that the little girl’s “smile” that the mom snapped was a bit less than genuine, but “genuine” was not what the mom was looking for. She was looking for happy, gall-darnit – get happy or I’ll cold-cock you!

The teacher mentioned how Isabella always wandered away during the show practices, and I was incredulous as to why they would allow that and not just put her in the middle of the group. I didn’t care if she sang with the others; I just want her to be part of the show – part of the group.

It really struck me how the show could represent her life. She’s different, and when she steps back from the group – even just a bit – the group immediately squeezes her out. She’s left alone, even though there are others close by. But, as a parent, I must climb over others (sometimes stepping on some toes) and push her back in.

And so we keep pushing. Someday our girl will sing.