“Of course not,” Pamela says sweetly, loud enough for the parents lingering in the doorway to hear. “Though if things aren’t ready in time, it’ll be such a disappointment for the children.”
The chorus picks up again.Such a disappointment.Shame about the order.She means well.
I force my smile back on. “They’ll be ready.”
The door opens, heels clicking against linoleum. Principal Delacourt enters, all crisp blazer and clipped efficiency. The room hushes, like even the paint drying knows better than to move under her gaze.
She surveys the stage, the crooked backdrop, the PTA lined up like judges. Then her eyes land on me.
“Miss Parnell.” Her voice is smooth as glass, but it cuts all the same. “I can see you’ve put… enthusiasm into this. But enthusiasm alone won’t carry a production.”
The PTA practically hums with smug approval as one of them steps forward.“If the paperwork was misplaced, that’s sloppy. If the wrong order was submitted, that’s inexperience. Either way, the outcome reflects on your preparedness.”
A dozen eyes swivel toward me. Parents. Kids. PTA. My students’ smiles wobble as though they’re absorbing every word.
My chest caves. Not in front of the kids. Please, not in front of them.
I make myself stand straighter. “With respect, the order was submitted correctly. I double-checked it myself.” My voice stays even, but my hands are tight on the clipboard. “What happened after it left my desk… I can’t control.”
One of the moms makes a pitying noise. “That’s why some schools have parents co-sign everything. Less room for…” Her smile sharpens. “…mistakes.”
I sigh. This production was supposed to be for the kids. Their chance to shine, my chance to show I could lead something that mattered. Instead, every step feels like a trap door waiting to open, and I can feel them tugging the levers. But I refuse to let the kids pay the price for their game.
Delacourt’s lips thin and her eyes dart toward the mom, just long enough to make the woman hesitate. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins,” she says evenly. “I’m aware of the procedures.”
Then she turns back to me. “Excuses don’t matter to an audience, Miss Parnell. Only results. But…” Her gaze narrows slightly, assessing, not unkind. “I’m not blind to the effort you’ve put in, just make sure it shows.For you.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until it hurts. “ The kids will be ready. The costumes will be ready. Everything will be ready.”
Delacourt studies me for a long beat. “Good. Because if the program falters, it’s not the PTA’s name on it. It’s yours.” Then, after the smallest pause, she lowers her voice so only I can hear. “And mine… And that’s exactly what they want.”
From the stage, a little voice pipes up. “Miss Parnell, is our show gonna get canceled?”
The question slices through the hall, and Pamela’s smile spreads like oil.
My stomach turns to stone because a kid asked that.A kid. Who’s been pouring their heart into this.
“No,” I say immediately, forcing brightness into my voice even as my throat closes. “Absolutely not. We are putting on this show, and it’s going to be amazing. That’s a promise.”
The kids cheer, bless them. But behind their clapping, I can still hear the whispers, the PTA’s not-so-quiet smirks. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Delacourt watching me. Not disapproving now, but thoughtful. And maybe even a little impressed.
***
After I lock up, I shove my clipboard under my arm and make it to my car before my knees give out.
It’s been a week since the bachelorette, a week since the stupid karaoke dares, and Logan’s been in and out with back-to-back away games. He was home for a blink earlier this week. Gone again, but back tonight. Long enough to leave me with his hoodie, not long enough to soak him up.
And between then and now, the PTA have been sharpening their knives. Rehearsals that should’ve been joyful feel like battlegrounds, and I’m running out of armor.
I drop into the driver’s seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, throat aching. I can’t call Logan. Not for this. He’danswer, sure, but he’d try to fix it, and what I need right now isn’t fixing. I need to scream into the void with someone who won’t look at me like I’m breaking.
I dig out my phone and type.
Me:Emergency. Girl talk.
It takes about six seconds for my screen to light up.
Zoe:Emergency likeout of coffee, or emergency as in I should sharpen my manicure?
