Karaoke Chemistry: A Witchy Small Town Romcom (Sacred River Book 2)

2. Riggs

RESERVED FOR PRINCIPAL.

The scrawny choir kid who got beat up in high school would be pretty stoked about that sign. He’d be more excited that the Marines blessed him with muscles in his twenties, but being a high school principal would be a close second.

After looking around to make sure no one is watching, I take a selfie with the sign and send it to my pops with a note I’ll call him later. He sends ten thumbs-up emojis in response, then a few pink hearts, and a laugh gusts out of me. I taught him about emojis a month ago, and he’s excited. That, or one of the residence’s nurses has stopped by and is goading him on.

I pocket the phone and jog up the steps to the school. It’s a fairly new build, something from the nineties, and I’m told everything inside is top-notch. Sacred River is a small town, though, which means I’m not holding my breath.

Not that I’d have turned the job down. At fifty years old, I was beginning to think I’d never land a principal gig and would forever be the gym teacher and occasional drama teacher, but the opportunity finally came along. It’s only two hours from Pops, and only an hour to Al’s for my Thursday night karaoke.

Yes. Karaoke. Listen, you can take the kid out of choir, but you can’t take choir out of the kid. I love karaoke. Do I have to listen to a lot of bad singing? Of course. But in return, I get to go on stage and sing, and there is nothing better than having a crowd’s attention wholly on you when you know you’re kicking ass. On top of that, I get to see Seven. And that woman is worth every second of out-of-tune, wrong-word singing I endure on a weekly basis. Not only does she have a killer voice, but she’s gorgeous and single. At least, I assume she is. She flirts like she is, and this week, I’m finally going to ask her out. I should have asked way before now, but I’ve had a lot on my plate with selling Pops’s house and convincing him to move into the assisted living community. Naturally, to hear him tell it, it was him convincing me, but if that’s what it takes to keep him happy, then so be it.

I’m about to buzz the doorbell at the entrance to be let in for a quick tour, but Mrs. Hayes is already there to open the door for me.

“Principal Finlay!” she smiles. “Come on in. We’ll get you some keys and a swipe card so you don’t have to wait going forward.”

I give her a broad smile in return. “Thank you, Mrs. Hayes. And please, call me Riggs.”

She makes a face. “Absolutely not. I may be old enough to be your mother, but the day I call my principal by his first name is the day I’m on my deathbed.”

I hold my hands up. “In that case, Principal Finlay will be just fine.”

She sniffs contentedly, settling the matter, then gives me an approving once-over. “Glad to see you’re dressed for the job. Good-looking, too. That won’t hurt. Follow me and I’ll get you settled in.”

I smother a laugh and follow her as she toddles to the front office. I’m fairly certain the septuagenarian committed at least two HR violations with that speech, but honestly, I’m glad she approves of the button-down and dress slacks. Pops always taught me to abide by ZZ Top’s rule—every girl’s crazy about a sharp-dressed man—and it’s never steered me wrong. Granted, I’ve not dressed to chase anyone in a long time, but I pay attention to my clothing. I dress casually only when I’m outside of school, and even then, I take care with what I’m wearing. Thank you, military, for instilling that in me.

We spend the next hour in my new office, then another hour walking the halls while she gives me the background and history of the teachers and students. Which is a nice way of saying she gossips about everyone, seems to know everything, and doesn’t hesitate to tell me what she thinks of all of it. By the time we’re done, I know that Mr. Dander, the band director, hasn’t shaved his mustache since the mid-nineties and it’s never been a good look; that Miss Bird the English teacher has been mooning over Mr. Edwin the History teacher for the past two years and she wishes Miss Bird would realize it’s never going to happen and move on; and that the new algebra and trig teacher looks too young to be teaching.

Through it all, I nod and hum in all the right places. I make note of the things that actually need my attention, like faculty meeting dates and announcing the new Spanish teacher, and try to forget the things that a principal really doesn’t need to know.

“The annual teacher summer party is tonight,” Mrs. Hayes reminds me as we round back to the office.

I bite back a groan. I’d forgotten all about it.

“It’ll be at my house, as always, and the theme this year is Tiki Teriyaki,” she finishes with a flourish. “So you’ll need the proper attire. I assume it’s in your car?”

“Um,” I stall, grimacing at the way her thin eyebrows scrunch and her lips tilt into a dissatisfied frown. How has this old woman already managed to make me feel bad? I thought I was going to be the one in charge, but clearly, that is not what’s happening. She’s a miniature version of my boot camp drill sergeants. “I didn’t. I’ll go home and change, and see you there.”

She looks at the wall clock. “I suppose that’ll be what you have to do,” she sighs. “Don’t be late.”

I’m late.Of course I’m late. Because even though I’ve moved into town, I just got here yesterday and most of my stuff is still in boxes. And despite consulting the spreadsheet that lists the contents of all said boxes, the ones that I needed were not easy to get to.

I look at the flyer on my phone one last time to confirm that it does, indeed, say “beach chic.” No idea what that is. Add on that this is the first time I’m meeting the staff, and the pressure is on. I FaceTimed Pops to help me choose my outfit—the man has style, what can I say?—and I’m in simple canvas sneakers, red shorts with blue lobsters on them (because you can never go wrong with conversation shorts), and the show-stopper: a white guayabera button-down. Which, of course, required ironing. Which meant I was looking at my spreadsheet and unpacking a different box. After a moment of deliberation, I throw on a straw fedora and put a pair of Wayfarers in my breast pocket. Here goes nothing.

Twenty minutes later I’m trying not to gape at the massive two-story brick house in front of me as I follow the tiki torch-lined pathway to the backyard. A beautiful kidney-shaped pool dominates the front half of the yard, and lush grass kicks out in the back half. There’s a bar to the side decked out with grass streamers, The Beach Boys stream out of the speakers, and dozens of people are milling about. I force my nervousness down and throw my shoulders back. This is just like stepping onto the karaoke stage. All eyes on you, and you’ve got this.

I spot Mrs. Hayes and meander that way, dipping my chin with a smile at anyone who manages to look at me. “Ah, you made it.” Mrs. Hayes gestures to the younger woman next to her. “This is Miss Bird.”

“English, right?” I extend my hand.

She smiles back politely, and I’m struck by how bird-like her face truly is. “Sarah, and it’s American Literature and AP Lit, actually—Mrs. Hayes likes to lump me and Miss Green into the same boat.”

“And I’m Miss Green,” says the woman beside her. “Ava. English Literature and thank god no AP.” She laughs and grips my hand with a firm shake.

Introductions continue for the next half hour, and I thankfully get a beer from Mr. Dander, whose mustache is actually pretty perfect for the man, despite Mrs. Hayes’ strong opinion of it. He’s on his second or third beer and getting really wound up about the status of the marching band uniforms when Mrs. Hayes interrupts us.

“Someone else got here later than you,” Mrs. Hayes tsks.

I turn to the person she indicates and nearly drop my beer. Wide, caramel eyes blink back at me in shock. It’s her. My throat immediately thickens, but I manage to choke her name out. “Seven?”