No. He. Didn’t.
I bring it to my room, tear it open, and there it is—the navy blue dress with one slit, the shimmer, and the price tag that belongs at a store somewhere in Manhattan.
Despite my attempt to be mad at Logan for leaving such an expensive gift at my doorstep, my chest is light with elation as Itrace my fingers along the silky fabric. He even remembered the size.
I fold the dress carefully and toss it on my bed, promising myself I’ll scold and thank him later. Right now, I’m ten minutes behind.
After parking in the back of the school, I round the corner ready for another day full of sticky fingers and adorable laughs—only to find a crowd of people swarming the sidewalk out front as I approach.
And not just any crowd.Reporters.
The whole schtick—cameras, boom mics, tripods. Faces I’ve never seen holding microphones and shouting like I’m walking into a courtroom instead of an elementary school.
“Are you Maisie Lang?” someone calls.
The insides of my stomach coil.
“What’s your relationship with Logan Humphries?” another reporter yells, almost stabbing me in the face with that microphone.
“Are you dating him?” a woman shouts. “Are the rumors true?”
My mouth opens, but I’m at a loss for coherent sentences. I’m caught in a whirlwind of flashbulbs and questions coming at me from every direction. My heart stutters, palms turning clammy.
Who talked? Did someone recognize Logan? I told him his disguises were a joke.
Behind me, cars are pulling into the drop-off loop—parents honking, kids staring wide-eyed through car windows. The chaos doubles as tiny voices start shouting, “Ms. Lang! Ms. Lang!”
A microphone is suddenly in my face again, and someone asks, “Is this a publicity stunt for his new album?”
I stutter, overwhelmed, my bag slipping off my shoulder as I stand there frozen as if my blood has turned to cement and hardened.
Then a voice cuts through the noise like a gavel slamming down.
“Enough of this!”
Principal Hargrove, all five-foot-ten of scowling authority, strides out of the building with his clipboard in hand and his signature khaki pants riding high. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitches with rage.
“This is a place of learning, not a press conference,” he says, pointing a firm finger at the closest camera crew. “You’re interfering with student drop-off and disrupting our educational environment.”
One reporter tries to interject, but one stern look from our fearless principal and he thinks better of it.
“I don’t carewhoyou’re here to see,“ Principal Hargrove continues. “I want this sidewalk cleared in this instance.”
As the reporters retreat like startled ducks, the parents begin to murmur in agreement with the principal. Several of them grip their children’s hands tighter, shooting daggers from their eyes at the reporters who moments ago had turned an ordinary school day into a tabloid ambush.
I retreat against the cool brick wall near the entrance, trying to calm my nerves with deep breaths. The air feels thin, inadequate for the oxygen my panicking body demands.
Logan is probably still drooling into his pillow right now, blissfully unaware that I’m being swarmed by reporters outside of a school. If I survive this, I’m going to kill him. Slowly. With his own guitar.
Just when I think the situation can’t possibly get any worse, a sleek black limousine glides up to the curb, practically screaming wealth.
Everyone—students, parents, teachers, reporters, possibly even the squirrels in the nearby maple—turn to see who it might be.
The gleaming door swings open, and the person who emerges makes me want to flee as fast as I can.
Victoria Delacroix—Billboard chart-topping, Grammy-winning, magazine-cover-gracing Victoria Delacroix. Logan’s very famous, and very recent ex-girlfriend.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to no one in particular, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms as I swallow the nausea rising to my throat.
