The reporters gravitate toward Victoria like iron filings to a magnet. The frenzy shifts, microphones now thrust in her direction with renewed enthusiasm.
“Victoria! Are you here because of Logan Humphries?” one shouts.
“Is the breakup final?” another yells, pushing forward.
“Are you staying in Maplewood Springs?” someone calls from the back.
One by one, they bombard her with questions, but Victoria doesn’t answer a single query; it’s as if the reporters aren’t even there. Her eyes, hidden behind oversized designer sunglasses, seem laser-focused on me.
Oh no. No, no, no. The hairs on my neck stand on end from a cold shiver running the length of my back.
My teacher instincts kick in, and I try to take advantage of the momentary distraction. I begin herding my wide-eyed students toward the school entrance, whispering, “Line up, sweethearts, just like we practiced. Quick as bunnies now.”
But then I hear it—the distinctive click of stiletto heels against concrete getting louder and louder, until she stands inches from my face.
Her perfume is sweet, straight blonde hair falling like a curtain of glass past her collarbones, framing her rosy cheekbones, her bright red lipstick a jarring contrast to her otherwise pale complexion. She looks like a doll, and I suddenly feel inadequate in her presence. Next to her, I’m the most forgettable thing on the school grounds, a beige wall next to a Renaissance painting.
“So you’re the one,” Victoria says, arms crossed over her pristine white blouse. I can’t see her eyes, but judging by her tone, she must be glaring at me.
My throat constricts. “Umm . . .”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” she snaps, removing her sunglasses to reveal gray eyes. I was right—there is poison in them.
Her voice drops to a near-whisper, but it’s still sharp enough to slice through my rapidly fraying nerves. “Are you dating Logan or not?”
The way she says his name drips with possessiveness. If words could mark territory, she’d have just planted a flag right in front of me.
I blink rapidly, struggling to keep my expression neutral while my mind races through possible responses. I can’t exactly blurt out that it’s all fake, that there’s a ridiculous contract sitting in Logan’s drawer. If she finds out, it’ll ruin everything—and probably trigger an actual publicist meltdown somewhere in L.A.
“Classes are about to start. Excuse me.” I turn toward the entrance. Did I just dismiss the biggest pop idol in the country? Why couldn’t I think of anything better to say? Where’s my snappy comeback when I need it?
She huffs, clearly offended by my lack of star-struck groveling, but before she can slice me to ribbons with a reply, a reporter comes to my rescue.
“What brings you to Maplewood Springs, Victoria?” he shouts.
“Are you and Logan still a thing?” another calls out, thrusting a microphone forward.
“Are you collaborating on a new album?” a woman in a blazer asks, pushing to the front.
I seize the opportunity and scurry away, funneling my students inside as quickly as possible.
“Let’s go, everyone, inside now,” I murmur, guiding small shoulders.
“No, Liam, we do not high-five the cameraman,” I intercept a tiny hand mid-air.
Once we’re safely in our classroom, I drop into my chair behind the desk, my legs shaking.
The kids are abuzz, of course, whispering excitedly and casting glances toward the window every three seconds.
Lucy, her dark pigtails bouncing with excitement, leans forward. “Was that Victoria Delacroix?” she says, her eyes huge. “I love her! My big sister has all her songs!”
“Are you friends with her?” Aiden asks, already halfway out of his seat, trying to peer through the window for another glimpse of a celebrity.
I smooth my trembling hands on my skirt, channeling every ounce of calm-adult-in-charge energy I can muster. “No, I’m not friends with her. She’s just . . . passing through town.” The half-truth tastes bitter on my tongue.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Victoria strutting back toward her limousine. A moment later, the sleek car drives away, leaving nothing behind but tire tracks and scrambling reporters. Several of them jump into their vans, no doubt to chase after her.
“Show’s over, kiddos,” I say, clapping my hands once with forced cheerfulness. “Let’s focus. We’ve got a big day ahead, and addition isn’t going to solve itself.”
