One of the moms opens her mouth to fire back, but a quiet cough cuts her off.
“Is there a problem?”
Principal Delacourt steps out from the shadows, her expression as crisp as her blazer.
Pamela startles. “Oh—no, of course not. We were just—”
“Commenting loudly in front of our staff, students, guests and parents during a school event,” Delacourt finishes coolly. “Undermining faculty decisions. Casting judgment where none was requested.”
Another PTA mom flushes. “We just think—”
“I’m aware of what you think.” Her smile is pleasant, her eyes are not. “The Board and I have been observing closely all evening.”
Only then do they notice Mr. Dawson beside her, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression utterly unimpressed by what he’s witnessed.
Delacourt continues, smooth as ice. “Ms. Parnell’s showcase is a success. The students are engaged, the audience is delighted, and I can assure you—” her gaze narrows “—your attempt to hijack the evening with gossip and interference has been noted. Formally.”
Pamela pales.
“And as for the curtain stunt,” Delacourt pauses, looking between the PTA members. “You’ll be pleased to know that the Board is reviewing backstage access protocols.”
Mr. Dawson speaks at last, his voice dry. “And disciplinary recommendations, if needed.”
The PTA moms’ eyes widen, and Pamela manages a thin smile. “Well. I uh, suppose that’s all settled then.”
“Not quite,” Delacourt says. “I imagine we’ll be following up.” She lifts her chin. “I suggest you take your seats, ladies. You’re disrupting Ms. Parnell—and the talent.”
Logan watches the PTA moms retreat to their seats like wet cats, followed by Principal Delacourt and Mr Dawson. Then he cranes his neck toward the front row, visibly bracing.
“I should probably go sit,” he murmurs. “Before your brother starts sharpening things.”
“Front row, far left,” I say sweetly.
His head snaps toward me. “That’s right next to Eli.”
“Mhmm. Saved you a seat and everything.”
“Great. Love that for me.” Logan winces, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Please tell Dusty I love him.”
I chuckle, watching him take a step, then hesitating. He lingers there at the edge of the curtain, eyes catching on me.
“Lu?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant what I said… You—this—it’s all worth it.”
Heat blooms under my skin, but I don’t look away. “Even if Eli murders you with his eyes for the next hour?”
Logan cracks a crooked grin. “Bury me under the flamingo.”
He finally steps back into the shadows, and a moment later I see him slide into the aisle seat beside Eli—who does, in fact, look like he’s imagining at least five different ways to commit a very slow homicide.
Logan just leans back in his chair like he has no regrets and every intention of pretending my brother’s eyes aren’t boring into the side of his head. And somehow, that’s all I need to see.
I turn my attention back to the kids' performance. They’re off-beat and their dance moves are out of sync. One is enthusiastically three steps ahead of the others, and another’s mouthing the wrong words entirely.
But every face is lit up, their smiles stretched the widest I’ve ever seen. Every set of eyes in the auditorium is taking it in, enthralled with the kids trying their best and being brave.
