“Normalpeople don’t get sunrise views like that.” I point my thumb over my shoulder, back toward the hill, still glowing with soft light.
I turn to look at the sunrise again, just to make sure it’s still there and still as pretty as I think it is. But when I glance back, Logan isn’t watching the sky. He’s watching me.
His eyes linger before they slide away, taking in the golden hues with a slight nod. “Worth being up for.”
My pulse stumbles, hard enough that I nearly trip over my own sneakers.
It’s just a crush, Lulu. Focus.
“Wow.” I clear my throat, aiming for sarcasm. “Miller compliments the sun? Alert the media.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he opens his truck. He pauses for a beat, then hops into his seat and tips his head toward me. “Never said I didn’t like the sun.”
I stand there for a beat, entirely thrown. He shuts the door, engine rumbling to life, and all I can manage is to toss him a lazy farewell salute.
It’s nothing. Just a scrap of morning banter. But as I walk across to my porch, I realize the glow in my chest has nothing to do with the sunrise.
***
By eight-thirty, I’ve traded the sun’s gold for fluorescent lights, and my view is thirty desks’ worth of eleven-year-olds trying to outsmart me.
“Ms. Parnell,” Marcus says, slouched so low in his chair he’s practically horizontal, “technically, I finished my math homework. I just didn’t… show my work.”
“Marcus,” I say, pretending to ponder my answer. “Technically, I could give you full marks. I just… won’t.”
The room erupts in laughter, and even Marcus grins, muttering as he drags his paper back out. Order restored.
This is my daily dance: algebra on the board, one eye on the chatter in the back row, and a running commentary sharp enough to keep them in line but kind enough that they know I’m on their side. Chaos, but the kind I thrive in.
“Ms. Parnell,” Dylan pipes up from the back row, tipping his chair back as far as it will go. “You forgot to mark my homework again.”
The kids around him snicker because everyone knows Dylan didn’t even hand anything in. That’s his thing—say it loud enough, make it sound true, and wait for people to laugh along.
I cross my arms, tilt my head. “That’s interesting, Dylan, because I also forgot toreceiveyour homework again. Funny how that works.”
A chorus ofoooohsripples through the room.
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens. “Maybe it’s buried under all yourglitter pens.”
The class gasps, half-shocked, half-entertained. He wants an audience.
I smile, sharp and sweet. “Betterglitter pensthan invisible homework. At least mine exist.”
The room erupts. Dylan’s chair thumps back onto four legs. He mutters something about how I’m “barely a real teacher anyway,” low enough that only the kids near him hear, but I catch it. So do they.
I don’t rise to it. That’s the real punishment.
“Alright, team,” I say, tapping the marker against the board. “If we finish these equations without anyone starting a coup, I’ve got a prize.”
“Candy?” someone yells.
“Knowledge,” I shoot back, clutching my chest and looking off into the distance dramatically. “The sweetest prize of all.”
Immediate groans all around, but at least I know that means they’re listening.
“Now, who’s going to tell me what happens when we add these two stars together?”
A dozen hands shoot up. It’s why I use stars instead of Xs and Ys to start with—letters make half the class panic, but stars? They lean in, eager to try. It’s lighthearted and a bit silly, but it’s also strategy.
