They groan collectively but settle into their seats. For a fleeting second, I almost believe things might return to normal. “Let’s start with some music to get our brains working.”
My mind refuses to quiet down. How did the reporters find out about Logan and me? Did someone recognize him despite those ridiculous disguises? Did a neighbor see something? Did my mom let something slip at her book club? No—she promised.
I try to shake off the worry, distributing rhythm sticks and prepping the kids to tap out the beat to our “Welcome Spring” song.
“Let’s keep a steady beat, just like this,” I say, tapping gently on the small cymbals, trying to ignore the tension headache blooming in my skull.
We’re barely two measures into our rhythm exercise when the classroom door swings open. Principal Hargrove stands in the doorway, frown lines etched so deep into his forehead they could qualify as canyons. He doesn’t even blink at the sight of nearly two dozen first-graders frozen mid-tap with rhythm sticks poised in the air like tiny conductors.
His eyes snap to mine, and I know I’m in trouble. “Miss Lang,” he says through his teeth, his voice laced with restrained fury, “a word, please.”
Chapter 12
Ifeel like a scared puppy cowering under a couch as I follow Principal Hargrove out into the hallway. The school corridor—normally a cheerful parade of primary colors and children’s artwork—suddenly feels more like the green mile.
The thud of his polished loafers hitting the linoleum floor echoes around us. He’s tall and wiry, with salt and pepper hair that never dares fall out of place, and cheekbones so sharp they could slice through policy violations. There’s an aura about him—everything from his posture to his equally spaced strides exudes military discipline.
Reluctantly, I lift my chin and meet his eyes, which bore into mine with an inquisitive glare.
“Care to explain what happened out there?” He says it like I’m a student on the receiving end of a reprimand.
“I don’t know,” I stammer, because technically that part is true. “The reporters just . . . showed up. I wasn’t expecting them.”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Celebrities don’t typically arrive at elementary schools out of the blue, Miss Lang.”
He’s not wrong. What happened between Logan and Victoria for her to react this strongly? “I was as surprised as you were.”
He crosses his arms behind his back with the discipline of a retired colonel and says, “It seemed as though she was looking for you.”
Glaring down at me like that, I realize just how scary Principal Hargrove can be. No wonder kids fall in line the moment they see him.
“Like everyone else, I’ve only seen Victoria Delacroix on TV,” I say, feigning innocence to the best of my ability. “She almost gave me a heart attack out there.”
Principal Hargrove’s eyes don’t move. He stands in front of me like a robot scanning for truth. Is he even breathing?
“Just make sure this doesn’t happen again,” he finally says. “This is a place of learning, and parading around with your famous friends will not be tolerated.”
Before I can defend myself, he turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway, leaving me standing there as though I’ve just survived an intense cross-examination with my career hanging by a thread.
I wasn’t even this nervous when he interviewed me for the job two years ago. At least back then I had a résumé to hide behind and wasn’t harboring a pop singer next door.
My legs wobble as I head back into the classroom. The curious stares of my adorable students greet me, along with half-whispered “is she in trouble” theories that aren’t nearly as quiet as they think.
“All right,” I say, clapping my hands cheerfully, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. “Back to music. Let’s learn some notes.”
I turn to the small upright piano in the corner and start demonstrating quarter notes and half notes with its yellowedkeys. The kids giggle at the word “crotchet” as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
Would explaining how close I just came to unemployment be funnier? Probably not.
“Miss Lang?” Lucy pipes up from the front row, her dark pigtails bouncing with each syllable. “Is the Spring Festival still happening?”
I blink, momentarily disoriented by the question. How did I forget the town’s most cherished annual event? Between Logan, fake dates, and real paparazzi, the Spring Festival got booted to the dusty corners of my mind like last season’s fashion trends.
“Of course it’s still happening.”
A chorus of “Yay!” erupts from the class, and Tommy, the boy with the cutest puffy cheeks, proudly proclaims that he’s going to eat twelve corn dogs and not throw up, which earns him a ripple of impressed chuckles.
Mom’s probably drowning in committee meetings and handmade decorations for the festival, and here I am—dodging celebrities in the school grounds and lying to my boss. Welcome to my new normal.
