A slow, grateful breath escapes my lips. Crisis averted. If there’s one person scarier than Victoria Delacroix, it’s our no-nonsense principal with his aura of impending doom.
Then the excitement bubbles out in different ways—whispers, bouncing in chairs, and creeping ever closer to Logan like he’s Santa Claus.
“Are you dating?” Tommy asks, eyes darting between us like he’s cracked some kind of romantic mystery wide open.
How is gossip spreading this fast? It’s like Maplewood Springs runs on a rumor superhighway with no speed limits.
Logan looks at me with an amused sparkle in his eye. “You take this one.”
I blink at him, flustered. “We’re just . . . old friends. From school. Hanging out.”
It’s not a lie—just a fraction of the truth. But even with that technicality, my chest tightens with guilt.
Lucy raises her hand enthusiastically. “Can you play us a song?”
Logan’s expression softens. “Sure.”
He crosses the room to where my classroom guitar rests on its stand—the one we usually reserve for sing-alongs and birthday songs—and picks it up.
Next, he settles on the edge of a table and starts to strum, humming a melody I recognize.
It’s the same song I heard floating through my window the day I came home after getting ambushed by Lindsey and Andy at the diner—before the heavy metal, before the contract we signed.
Then the first words of a song I’ve never heard before come out.
My breath catches. I’ve never seen this side of him, performing live in front of an audience. Every inch of me erupts in goosebumps at the sound of his voice—it’s angelic. In thismoment, I could forgive any of his wrongdoings, any of his childish high jinks, whether recent or in the distant past.
But halfway through, Logan stops playing.
“It’s still a work in progress,” he says, looking around the room. “But you’re the only ones in the world who’ve heard it.”
The kids’ faces light up like someone handed them gold stars and cotton candy. One by one, they crowd around him, tugging at his hands and sleeves, guiding him to their desks and art projects.
“Look at my rocket ship!” Julie says, holding up her latest work of art.
“This is my dog, he’s wearing sunglasses!” Emily’s face lights up when Logan gives her two thumbs up.
To my surprise, Logan doesn’t pull away. He listens. He nods. He squats down to eye level and tells a seven-year-old with missing teeth that her macaroni penguin has strong main character energy.
I stare at what’s unfolding right in front of me, completely caught off guard. Would I have placed a bet on Logan Humphries, bad-boy pop star, becoming the Pied Piper of my first-grade classroom? Not in a million years.
This isnotthe kid who once got banned from the school library for hiding frogs in the reference section.
He’s patient. He’s kind. And—dare I say it?—he’s . . . great with kids, apparently.
And now I’m wondering if all those headlines and scandals didn’t tell the whole story.
Logan ends up spending the rest of the day hiding out in my classroom like some kind of reverse substitute teacher. He helps with math problems, listens to reading practice, and somehow turns our scheduled science lesson about clouds into an impromptu songwriting workshop. The kids think it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.
When the final bell rings, I tell Logan to stay put. “Hide behind the felt board if you hear anyone coming.”
“Got it,” he says, ducking behind the art easel like he’s in a spy movie.
I herd my students outside for pick up. Parents arrive one by one, collecting their sugar-fueled children. And across the street?
The press.
Ugh.
