Logan
The halls smell like disinfectant and pencil shavings, and I swear, every time we pass a classroom with a door open, I hear a new gasp. A pair of wide eyes peeks around a doorway, then another. Whispering trails after us, high-pitched and frantic, the kind of noise that means this’ll be all over the playground grapevine before recess tomorrow.
Reid trails a step behind me like he’s headed to his own execution.
“Remind me why I’m here,” he mutters.
“Because you volunteered,” I shoot back.
His flat stare hits the side of my head. “No. Because you panicked about your secret girlfriend’s class finding out that Eli bailed.”“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“My mistake.” His voice doesn’t even falter. “She’s justthe sunyou recited a sonnet about the other day.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck, but I keep walking. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”
“Get in line.”
We’re close enough now to hear the principal through Lulu’s classroom door, projecting her voice as if she’s announcing a royal decree. “…and unfortunately, Mr. Parnell couldn’t be here today…”
A collective groan rises from the kids, high-pitched and disappointed.
But from the back, where perfume could choke a horse, comes a cluster of lower, sharper sounds. Must be the PTA brigade.
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Shouldn’t make promises to children if you can’t keep them.”
“Couldn’t even give an hour of his time?”
It’s not grief. It’s glee, dressed up as sympathy. And it hits me that these women must have a voice in Lulu’s ear most days, rooting for her to fail before she’s even started.
Reid slows as we approach, as if he’s considering a U-turn. I nudge him forward just as Delacourt finally notices us in the doorway. Her face does a whiplash flip. Gone is the funereal sighing, replaced with a beam so bright it nearly cracks her face.
“However,” she trills, syrupy-sweet, “thanks to some quick thinking, we areso fortunateto have not just one, but two Colorado Storm players with us today. What an upgrade, children, isn’t that marvelous?”
The PTA moms coo as if Delacourt herself has delivered them salvation, not the fact that Lulu has more connections to thisteam than just her brother. No thanks directed her way, not even a nod.
I grind my molars, forcing my mouth to curl into a polite smile as we enter the room.
The PTA moms sit lined up at the back, dressed as though they’re front row at fashion week instead of crammed into a fifth-grade classroom.
Short skirts, designer heels sinking into school carpet, diamond studs winking under the fluorescent lights. Every inch of them screamsI dressed for this.
Not for the kids, not even close.
One leans toward another, stage whisper cutting through the classroom buzz. “He’s even bigger in person.”
The other tilts her chin toward Reid, eyes gleaming. “That one’s the silent, mysterious type.”
I grit my teeth. These women are probably married, their kids are sitting right in front of them, and they’re still acting like it’s open bar at a charity gala.
And Lulu’s told me enough in passing. How they pick apart her outfits, her lesson plans, her laugh. They treat her like she’s disposable, just waiting for the day she cracks.
Beside me, Reid mutters without moving his lips, “If one of them winks at me, I’m out.”
I choke on a laugh, coughing into my fist hard as two kids in the front row elbow each other, clearly excited to be sitting right in front of us.
Principal Delacourt takes her leave, and Lulu claps her hands, pulling the kids’ attention back with ease. Her teacher voice slides into place. It’s warm, steady, commanding without being sharp. It’s the kind of voice that makes thirty eleven-year-olds sit up straighter without realizing they’ve done it.
