“Love you, too, honey,” she replies, waving as I back out of the driveway, her eyes drifting to the U-Haul again.
Halfway to school, my stomach growls so loudly it startles me. That’s what happens when you eat three bites of pancakes and storm off like a moody Jane Austen character. I should have taken the toast. Pride: 1, Stomach: 0.
The increasing hunger pangs feel like tiny angry gremlins staging a protest in my belly. I make a mental note to swing by Granny Jo’s Diner on my way to work for a coffee and bagel—maybe one of those cinnamon ones with extra cream cheese.
I turn on the radio to drown out the mental reruns of the breakfast debacle and to keep myself distracted from growing hunger. My beat-up Volkswagen Golf’s stereo crackles to life.
“This is the Morning Buzz! We are your hosts, Billy and Nelly, with all the latest celebrity gossip!”
Billy’s voice booms through my car with the artificial energy of someone who’s either on their fifth cup of coffee or secretly contemplating a career change.
Great, more gossip. At least mindless chatter is better than the voice in my head, and honestly, the absurdity of celebrity problems sometimes makes me feel a little better about my own. While I’m dealing with an ex’s engagement, celebrities aredealing with accidentally wearing the same designer gown as their arch-nemesis to the Oscars. Perspective is everything.
Nelly’s voice—way too chipper for 7:42 a.m.—pipes through the speakers. “. . . and coming up after the break, we’ll be talking about the latest juicy scandal involving none other than our very own Logan Humphries!”
My mouth parts slightly. Logan is Maplewood Springs’ most infamous son. Even hearing his name makes me shudder a little.
A memory surfaces: third grade, art class. He’d always been the terror of the elementary school playground—stealing snacks, smearing mud all over dresses, and once, in a truly sociopathic move, dumping an entire bottle of Elmer’s glue into my hair during art class. I still remember that terrible pasty smell and the hours it took to get it all out. I cried so hard my eyes puffed up like marshmallows, and Mom had to cut a chunk of hair from the back of my head where the glue had hardened into what could only be described as DIY cement.
To think that a kid like that would become a pop star—a troubled one, but still. His songs playeverywhere. Even the kids in my class hum them during story time.
But I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I mean . . . Okay, fine—a few of his songs are catchy. They burrow into your brain and play on loop while you’re trying to pay attention during staff meetings or explain the concept of subtraction to a room full of six-year-olds.
Despite his notoriety, everyone treats him like a hometown legend, like he’s cured small-town boredom with good beats and a dash of controversy. Last summer, the mayor even tried to establish a “Logan Humphries Day,” which thankfully got shot down when someone pointed out Logan had once toilet-papered City Hall as a kid.
My eyes narrow as I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. What scandal could possibly top his childhood shenanigans?
When the commercials finally end, I turn up the volume.
Chapter 4
“Welcome back to Morning Buzz!“ Billy’s chipper voice saturates the cabin of my car as I pull into the road leading to Granny Jo’s Diner, the growls emitting from my abdomen having upgraded from quiet complaints to a full-scale rant.
“As promised,” Billy continues, his voice so peppy it borders on criminal for this early an hour, “we’ve got the scoop on the latest Logan Humphries scandal. And folks, this one’s a doozy.”
Ah, yes . . . the natural order of things. The sun rises in the east, the Earth rotates counterclockwise along its axis, and Logan Humphries does something outrageous. We can all sleep peacefully knowing the world is as it should be.
“That’s right,” adds Nelly, his equally spirited co-host whose tone of voice suggests she’s a morning person, unlike me. We wouldn’t get along. “Our bad boy of pop is at it again! This time, the drama involves his record label. Logan was reportedly displaying an outburst of anger after a meeting with hismanager. Witnesses say he was shouting about creative freedom and even accused the label of holding him back. Oh—and he even knocked over some flowerpots on his way out. Very mature, huh?”
Go figure. Seems like the elementary school menace has graduated from pouring glue in hair to assaulting innocent vegetation. He’s sure made progress.
Billy’s laugh is so obnoxious it draws a smile from my lips. I bet it was a contributing factor, if not the determinant one, in landing him the radio gig. “Classic Logan,” he says. “Always making a scene. Rumor has it all of it started because he refused to collaborate with Victoria Delacroix, the label’s golden girl. Sounds like someone’s got an ego the size of a hot air balloon.”
I scoff. So the animal-crackers-stealing Logan is as insufferable as ever. If I remember correctly, he even denied it with cookie crumbs still plastered on his face.
“Also,” Nelly says, her voice now dramatic enough for a soap opera, “for anyone still wondering whether Logan is in a relationship with Victoria Delacroix, this should put it to rest. The singers are not together, according to sources.”
Thank goodness for this crucial bit information. I’ve been losing sleep wondering about Logan Humphries’ relationship status—said absolutely no one in the history of ever.
“Sounds like someone’s still an attention-seeking jerk,” I mutter to myself, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“Right you are!” Billy echoes my sentiment. “The big question is whether Logan’s antics are going to cost him. How much longer can he pull stunts like this before the label drops him?”
I click my tongue as Granny Jo’s Diner comes into view, its red neon sign flickering cheerfully on the rooftop. So Maplewood Springs’ golden boy is still stirring up trouble everywhere he goes. Fame might’ve put him on a billboard, but it clearly hadn’t humbled him. Some people never change, which might explainwhy I still hold a grudge against him. But in my defense, I had to walk around with uneven hair for months.
After parking, I make my way toward the diner’s entrance. That’s when I notice a yellow Chevy Camaro taking up two parking spaces on the side of the building, gleaming like candy in the morning sun. Funny, I don’t remember anyone in town driving a car like this. Pickups are the norm around here, usually covered in mud and accompanied by at least one hunting bumper sticker. And who takes up two parking spots like that? Must be an inconsiderate tourist.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the air inside, thick with buttery pastries and freshly brewed coffee, envelops me like a warm blanket, and I breathe it in fully. Granny Jo’s is the town’s hot spot as evidenced by the lively chatter of its regulars. I’m so ready to join the fray and throw myself at the altar of sugary goodness. My stomach grumbles like a dog in anticipatory agreement, loud enough that I glance around to make sure no one heard it.
