My jaw locks so tight it could crack, and I freeze halfway through setting out the name tags.
The production. The very thingshepushed on me, smiling sweetly while knowing no one else would touch it. The reason I’ve spent every lunch break hot-gluing sequins to elf hats, running lines with kids whose parents can’t be bothered, and scrounging props from the dollar store because our budget doesn’t stretch past printer ink.
I grip the stack of scissors a little too tightly.
“The production I was asked to lead,” I remind her lightly, setting down the scissors with care in front of them. “Big difference.”
She blinks, caught off guard, but recovers quickly with a saccharine smile. “Of course, dear. Just don’t burn yourself out trying to play teacheranddrama club.”
My teeth flash, friendly as a shark. “I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, I’ll need everyone modeling their best classroom behavior today. No whispering, no disruptions. If you’d rather chit chat, the staffroom coffee is still hot.”
One of them coughs. Pamela’s lips pinch, eyes narrowing. “I’m sure we can act like adults during your…fun algebra lessons,Ms. Parnell. It will be great insight for the PTA to be up to speed on.”
I nod sweetly, ignoring the jab, and keep preparing my class, humming under my breath. Outwardly serene, inwardly on fire. Because I swear, if one more PTA mom treats me like I’m playing dress-up instead of teaching, I’m going to hot-glue their travel mugs to the table.
My eyes take in the kids’ artwork plastered across the walls—bright bursts of color, glitter smears, crooked letters. Maybe it looks like chaos to them. To me, it’s proof. Proof that spelling and writing and reading don’t have to be drills and dread. They can be messy, loud, creative, and still every bit as solid as the tests they’ll ace later.
God forbid education be engaging. Or creative. Or, heaven help us all, actuallyfun.
“Ms. Parnell.”
I jump to see Principal Delacourt in the doorway, then straighten. “Morning.”
Her eyes sweep the room, nodding warmly at the PTA moms before lingering on the glitter-scattered posters long enough to make my pulse skip. Then her gaze snaps back to me. “Your brother will be here this afternoon?”
“Actually, he can’t make it. But—”
She sighs, cutting me off. “Of course. Last-minute change, I suppose? That’s unfortunate.”
Pamela pipes up instantly. “It is. These children need stability, Ms. Parnell. Not excuses.”
Heat rages across my cheeks, my head snapping to her and back to Delacourt. “I wasn’t finished. Eli can’t make it, but Logan Miller and Reid Hutchison are coming in his place.”
The shift is instant. The PTA moms audibly gasp, and Delacourt’s lips, pursed like she just sucked a lemon, soften into something closer to awe.
“Miller and Hutchison?”
“The Colorado Storm’s number eighty-two and thirty-three, yes,” I confirm, trying not to roll my eyes.
“Well!” Delacourt’s tone tilts, falsely bright. “That is… far more than we could have hoped for. I’ll make sure the rest of the PTA is aware.”
“Oh, we heard!” One of the moms smiles, sweet and wide, as her thumbs fly across her mobile. “Number thirty-three is my favorite.”
“Who’s thirty-three?” asks the other mom.
“Thegoalie.” Pamela giggles, fanning herself like Reid Hutchison might walk in shirtless. “Though eighty-two… he’s cute.”
Delacourt nods at me and leaves, while the moms all chortle, swooning like schoolgirls.
Fantastic. The same women who think glitter is a sign of my incompetence are about to combust over men who can skate backwards. Truly, a model of academic rigor.
I stack the last pile of scissors with extra precision before the bell rings, because if I don’t, I might just hurl them across the room.
For now, I’ll smile sweetly and keep humming. But the second Logan and Reid arrive, this circus is mine to run.
Chapter twenty-two
I don’t pet things with retractable limbs
