“Rain check?” I’m in no mood to celebrate. My fingers fidget with my car keys, desperate for a quick exit as anxiety crawls up my spine.
“Sure.” He studies my face a moment too long, like he’s trying to read my exact thoughts. I turn on my heel and don’t give him the chance.
But I don’t go back to the festival. Instead, I go straight home and collapse on my bed. Exhaustion from running into not one but two people I never wanted to see again has drained me completely. I bury my face in my pillow and try not to think about the mess waiting for me tomorrow, my mind spinning with worst-case scenarios. My eyes feel heavy, and I drift into uneasy sleep . . .
The next morning, after tugging on my favorite navy dress—the one with tiny songbirds that always makes difficult days more bearable—I trudge downstairs only to stop dead in the kitchen doorway.
Three solemn faces stare back at me from the dining table. Mom, Dad, and Chrissy sit arranged like a tribunal, complete with coffee mugs and concerned expressions. A box of donuts sits strategically placed in the center—the universal Lang family bribe. I know exactly the meaning of this: an intervention.
I laugh awkwardly, moving toward the coffee pot. Maybe if I act normal, they’ll forget whatever family meeting they’ve planned.
“Honey, we’re concerned.” Mom’s forehead creases with worry lines. “These rumors about you and Logan and Victoria—they’re everywhere.”
Dad raises his coffee mug in a half-salute. “Personally, I think dating a celebrity sounds like a great midlife crisis alternative. Much cheaper than the convertible I’ve been eyeing.”
Mom shoots him a not-the-time-for-jokes look and Dad’s smile fades in a heartbeat.
“I’m fine,” I insist, pouring coffee with slightly shaky hands. “Everything’s under control.”
Chrissy raises her hand, flinging her phone in the air. “You closed all your social media accounts!”
“Temporarily.” I shrug, reaching for a chocolate-glazed donut. Stress eating before 7 AM seems entirely reasonable when your life is spiraling into chaos.
“You’re trending, Maisie.” Chrissy thrusts her phone at me. “#LoganLovesTeacher is literally everywhere.”
My chewing speed increases with each hashtag my sister names. “It’ll blow over. Everything does.”
“Are you sure about that?” Mom pushes her tablet toward me, displaying a gossip site headline: “LOGAN HUMPHRIES’ SMALL-TOWN FLING: WHO IS SHE?”
I stuff the rest of the donut in my mouth like a chipmunk. This is worse than I thought.
“Well,” I begin with a mouth full of sugary dough, “as much as I’d like to stay and chat with my lovely family, I have lessons to teach. Those first graders won’t educate themselves on the magic of subtraction.”
Mom catches my hand on my way out, her touch gentle but firm. “What are you going to do about Logan?”
I take a deep breath and force a smile. “I’m working on it.”
Then I escape to my car before they can ask what that actually means, because the truth is, I have absolutely no idea. Not a single, solitary clue.
I creep past Colton Hayes Elementary in my car like I’m on a covert mission. Hoodie up. Sunglasses on. Windows rolled halfway down for a peek. Great, I’ve turned into Logan—hiding from the world behind discount disguises and paranoia. My first-grade teacher would never recognize this sneaky creature I’ve become.
Sure enough, the media circus remains camped out at the gates, a hungry cluster of cameras and microphones. Victoria’s dramatic appearance at the Spring Festival really stirred theminto a feeding frenzy. And I didn’t even get a chance to tell Logan how I felt about it all—how the public spectacle is becoming too much for me, how the unwanted attention uprooted my life. It’s bad enough that I fell for him against every rational thought my neurons produced—the heart really does what it wants—but now I have to muster the courage to break it off before I become another forgotten name on his list of flings.
Principal Hargrove, in all his rigid glory, stands at the front entrance like a lone sentry guarding sacred ground, keeping the thick huddle of reporters at bay, his face pinched into that expression that makes even the bravest of us—teachers and students alike—quake in our pants.
I sink lower in my seat until only my eyeballs are level with the dashboard. My stomach lurches with that same sensation I get when a parent asks why their perfect angel got a B+ instead of an A.
Nope. There’s no way I’m getting out of this car. Not today. I make a slow U-turn at the next stop sign and head back toward the edge of town, fingers drumming the steering wheel to match my heart’s rhythm.
Pulling into a spot near the old hardware store, I grab my phone and call the school.
“Principal Hargrove’s office,” comes the voice of his no-nonsense secretary, Darlene, who I’m convinced moonlights as a drill sergeant somewhere.
“Hi Darlene, it’s Maisie Lang. I’m not feeling well today.” Not technically a lie—I am a little nauseous.
There is a rustling sound, then Hargrove’s gravelly voice takes over the line. “That’s probably for the best.”
I blink twice, my brain needing a moment to process his words. “I’m sorry?”
