Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Even wildflowers split concrete
Lulu
The world feels different before sunrise. Quieter. Like it hasn’t decided who it wants to be yet.
My sneakers slap against pavement, my lungs burning in the way I secretly love, until I crest the hill at the end of Birch Street. The road curls around a patch of trees most people would jog straight past, but I always stop and zigzag through them into a grassy clearing.
From here, you can see the mountains shoulder up against the sky, pink bleeding into gold. My spot. My reminder that no matter how messy life gets, the sun still shows up.
I slow to a walk, hands braced on my hips as I breathe, air sharp in my chest. In the middle of the clearing, I spot a lone dandelion sprouting from the grass.
I pluck it, spin the stem between my fingers, and close my eyes to blow.
“I wish… my students don’t stage a coup today,” I murmur to the fuzz as it scatters on the wind. The lighter wish drifts away, but another mantra clings quieter, the kind I don’t say out loud.
Wildflowers still split concrete, even if no one’s paying attention.
I brush the empty stem against my palm, let it drop, and start jogging again, sweat cooling in the morning chill as the sky breaks wide with light.
My head’s not really on the run anymore—it drifts back to Saturday. The date that should’ve worked. He was nice, funny enough, told me about his cat, and even asked about my class. Perfect on paper.
But he hesitated for a beat when I joked about star signs, like he was deciding whether to laugh with me or at me. Snorted into his coffee when I said I like to write down my manifestations. Apparently, that’s just “goal setting.”
And when I lit up about my plans for the next few weeks—friends’ birthdays, Charlie’s bachelorette, even the little “just because” things I love to throw together—he cut in with, “I don’t really get spending money on frivolous stuff like that.”
Frivolous.
As if balloons and confetti and themed cakes don’t mean anything. As if celebrating your people, making them feel seen and loved and chosen, is some silly waste of time.
But that’s me. That’s the part of me I’ll never dial down. I’m a celebration girl. Always have been, always will be. Celebrating people isn’t frivolous, it’s memory-making. It’s love made visible.
Maybe that comes from growing up with a dad who ran into fires and a mom who spent nights in scrubs, both of them teaching me, without saying it, that the people we love can be gone in an instant.
If we don’t celebrate now, then when?
So I canceled Sunday. I didn’t have the energy to sit through another polite conversation. Instead, I ended up on Betty’s porch with a cocktail in a jelly jar, listening to her cautionary tale about her third husband. Better company, honestly. At least Betty doesn’t talk over me.
And now, with sweat cooling on my skin and a school day waiting, I can’t decide if I’m more tired of the dates themselves or of how little I care to try again.
Which is annoying, because I’d really, really like some decent sex. Not best-I’ve-got-is-a-sparkler, not someone fumbling their way through foreplay. Actual, good sex. But apparently, that’s too much to ask.
As I round the bend and my house comes into view, I see Logan coming down his driveway, duffel slung over his shoulder, keys in hand. He’s heading for his truck and blinks at me groggily, hair sticking up like he fought with his pillow and lost.
“You’ve got too much energy for six a.m., Parnell,” he grumbles, voice gravel-thick.
I grin, slowing to a jog-walk. “Says the guy whose entire career is late-night games and midnight travel. Don’t you live in hotel lobbies?”
“Yeah, and none of them involve me running uphill before breakfast.” He squints at me, the sight of someone choosing cardio this early clearly offending him. “Normal people are still in bed.”
“Normal people don’t get sunrise views like that.” I point my thumb over my shoulder, back toward the hill, still glowing with soft light.
I turn to look at the sunrise again, just to make sure it’s still there and still as pretty as I think it is. But when I glance back, Logan isn’t watching the sky. He’s watching me.
His eyes linger before they slide away, taking in the golden hues with a slight nod. “Worth being up for.”
My pulse stumbles, hard enough that I nearly trip over my own sneakers.
It’s just a crush, Lulu. Focus.
“Wow.” I clear my throat, aiming for sarcasm. “Miller compliments the sun? Alert the media.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he opens his truck. He pauses for a beat, then hops into his seat and tips his head toward me. “Never said I didn’t like the sun.”
I stand there for a beat, entirely thrown. He shuts the door, engine rumbling to life, and all I can manage is to toss him a lazy farewell salute.
It’s nothing. Just a scrap of morning banter. But as I walk across to my porch, I realize the glow in my chest has nothing to do with the sunrise.
***
By eight-thirty, I’ve traded the sun’s gold for fluorescent lights, and my view is thirty desks’ worth of eleven-year-olds trying to outsmart me.
“Ms. Parnell,” Marcus says, slouched so low in his chair he’s practically horizontal, “technically, I finished my math homework. I just didn’t… show my work.”
“Marcus,” I say, pretending to ponder my answer. “Technically, I could give you full marks. I just… won’t.”
The room erupts in laughter, and even Marcus grins, muttering as he drags his paper back out. Order restored.
This is my daily dance: algebra on the board, one eye on the chatter in the back row, and a running commentary sharp enough to keep them in line but kind enough that they know I’m on their side. Chaos, but the kind I thrive in.
“Ms. Parnell,” Dylan pipes up from the back row, tipping his chair back as far as it will go. “You forgot to mark my homework again.”
The kids around him snicker because everyone knows Dylan didn’t even hand anything in. That’s his thing—say it loud enough, make it sound true, and wait for people to laugh along.
I cross my arms, tilt my head. “That’s interesting, Dylan, because I also forgot to receive your homework again. Funny how that works.”
A chorus of oooohs ripples through the room.
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens. “Maybe it’s buried under all your glitter pens.”
The class gasps, half-shocked, half-entertained. He wants an audience.
I smile, sharp and sweet. “Better glitter pens than invisible homework. At least mine exist.”
The room erupts. Dylan’s chair thumps back onto four legs. He mutters something about how I’m “barely a real teacher anyway,” low enough that only the kids near him hear, but I catch it. So do they.
I don’t rise to it. That’s the real punishment.
“Alright, team,” I say, tapping the marker against the board. “If we finish these equations without anyone starting a coup, I’ve got a prize.”
“Candy?” someone yells.
“Knowledge,” I shoot back, clutching my chest and looking off into the distance dramatically. “The sweetest prize of all.”
Immediate groans all around, but at least I know that means they’re listening.
“Now, who’s going to tell me what happens when we add these two stars together?”
A dozen hands shoot up. It’s why I use stars instead of Xs and Ys to start with—letters make half the class panic, but stars? They lean in, eager to try. It’s lighthearted and a bit silly, but it’s also strategy.
I call on Aanya, who works through the problem carefully, the whole class following along.
I love this part—the spark in their eyes when they get it, the way even the mouthiest kid forgets to posture when the answer clicks. It’s proof I’m good at what I do. But I also know what the parents see: the pink shoes, the glitter pens, the jokes. Not serious enough. Not the real teacher type.
Then the room goes still when the door swings open without a knock. Heels click against linoleum, and every spine straightens. Even Dylan snaps upright, eyes wide.
Principal Delacourt.
“Backs straight,” she barks, surveying the room. “Eyes on the board.”
“Morning, Principal Delacourt,” I say, turning with a smile I refuse to let waver.
“Good morning, Ms. Parnell.” Mrs. Delacourt glides up to me with perfect hair and a perfect smile—the kind that never quite reaches her eyes. “I just thought I’d check how you’re coping.”
Coping. Like corralling a room of preteens is surviving a natural disaster.
“We’re doing great, thanks,” I say brightly, motioning to the class, who are instantly on their best behavior.
Her gaze lands on the board, narrowing at my constellation of equations. “Stars?”
“They’re placeholders for X and Y,” I explain easily. “The kids are learning to translate between symbols and numbers for algebra, so we’re starting with stars before moving on to letters.”
Delacourt’s eyes sweep the room. “And this is effective?”
I nod, gesturing at some of the recent test results I’ve marked, filled with As and Bs.
“Well. Just be sure they’re ready for standardized testing,” she says coolly. “Creativity is all very well, but results matter.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, before turning to the class, sensing there’s more she’d like to talk to me about. “Please take out your algebra textbooks and work through page thirty-two.”
Principal Delacourt lingers near my desk, softening her voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial.
“Career Day is next month. We’d love to see some familiar faces.
” She pauses. “I already checked the Storm schedule, and there are no away games, so your brother should be free. Wouldn’t that be fun for the children? ”
There it is. The smile that says I’ve done the hard work for you, when really, she’s just pressuring me to dangle Eli like a party trick.
“I can… ask him,” I say, forcing a polite smile.
Instantly, her whole demeanor shifts—warm, approving, almost maternal. “Wonderful. I knew you’d be on top of it.”
The door clicks shut as she makes a hasty retreat, and the class exhales in unison.
“Dragon,” Marcus whispers.
I clap my hands. “Survived another sighting. Now, back to the stars—what’s two plus three?”
With a tap of a marker against the board, I watch the kids lean back in, their chatter bubbling up again.
By three o’clock, backpacks are zipped, sneakers squeak, and the room empties in a chorus of “Bye, Ms. Parnell!”
I crouch to tie a shoelace, high-five Marcus, and remind Dylan about his detention happening tomorrow. He groans like I’ve sentenced him to life, but perks up when his mother arrives at the door.
Pamela.
Head of the PTA, sunglasses perched on her head, lips already pursed. Dylan straightens instantly, his “innocent son” act snapping into place.
“Ms. Parnell,” Pamela says, sweeping into my classroom. “We need to talk about this so-called detention tomorrow. Dylan tells me you’ve assigned one?”
“Yes,” I say, meeting Dylan’s eyes first. “Because Dylan thought throwing paper airplanes during a test was a good idea.”
Pamela cuts in before he can answer, voice smooth and patronizing. “He was expressing his creativity. Surely that doesn’t warrant keeping him after school. He has soccer.”
“Soccer will survive,” I say lightly.
Pamela’s smile sharpens. “I spoke to Principal Delacourt first, of course. She suggested I come directly to you. I just don’t think detention is the best use of Dylan’s time.”
“Then maybe Dylan should rethink how he uses class time,” I reply, tone still sunny.
Pamela takes a step closer. “He’s a bright boy. Advanced, really. I worry this sort of punishment stifles that potential.”
I keep my voice calm. “I’m not worried about Dylan’s potential. I’m worried about him disrupting twenty-nine other students who are trying to reach theirs.”
Dylan’s cheeks flush, his smirk sliding right off his face as his mother pauses.
Pamela’s smile tightens. “Mm. Well. Perhaps if he’s disrupting, it’s because the material isn’t exactly…
challenging him.” Her tone drips with fake concern.
“If he finished his test so quickly, he had time for airplanes, maybe the problem isn’t Dylan at all.
I’ll be interested to see how many pupils reach their potential in this class this year. ”
Her words are sharp and deliberate, meant to sting.
I keep my posture relaxed, marker still in my hand. “If Dylan’s bored, he’s welcome to take on the extension problems I’ve posted on the board. In fact, anyone who feels ready can. That way, everyone’s reaching their potential. Including Dylan.”
Pamela’s smile doesn’t budge, but her eyes flash.
“Wonderful,” she says briskly. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
I nod once, my eyes darting to Dylan, whose face has morphed from smugness to indignation that he has somehow still not dodged his detention.
“Oh, and by the way”—Pamela pauses at the door—“the PTA is organizing the school’s end-of-year production. We need someone to run it, and I thought of you.”
I blink. “Me?”
“Yes,” she says sweetly, head tilting. “You’ve got such… energy. And I didn’t think you’d have too much else going on.”
The sting lands, but I smile anyway. “Happy to help.”
“Are you sure? We wouldn’t want you to feel overwhelmed. Or for the children to suffer because you’re out of your depth.
I smile with all my teeth. “I’ll be fine.”
Pamela beams, victory claimed, and shepherds Dylan toward the door with a breezy, “Fabulous! See you tomorrow!”
The classroom is empty now, but her words weren’t.
Didn’t think you’d have too much else going on.
As if teaching thirty kids all day, every day, isn’t enough.
Let them think I’m soft. Even wildflowers split concrete.
***
The bell over the bakery door jingles as I push inside, already picturing the gluten-free pistachio and rose macarons as my prize for surviving Delacourt and Pamela in the same day.
But the cabinet is empty. A little handwritten “sold out” sign mocks me, and I realize this might be the thing that breaks me today. Not the double dose of dragon lady bullshit at school, but this. My favorite macarons in the world, sold out when I need them most.
“Seriously?” I mutter, letting my head tip back. “You were my one bright spot.”
The kid behind the counter shrugs. “Big order today. Sorry.”
I smile with a shrug, then walk out empty-handed, mood as flat as my sugar levels, and start down the street back to my car, my tote thumping against my hip.
Halfway home, my phone buzzes.
Logan: Got a sec this afternoon? Need to show you Dusty’s routine before we’re gone.
My stomach swoops, fast and reckless.
Me: That’s your opener? Not even a “hi”?
Logan: Hi, Ms. Parnell. You coming over or not?
I snort, thumbs flying.
Me: Bossy.
Logan: Organized.
Me: Fine. But only because Dusty deserves the best.
Logan: Obviously. See you soon, Ms. Parnell.
The dots vanish, and I’m left grinning like an idiot in the middle of the sidewalk. If I keep this up, he’s going to notice—and for once, I don’t think I’d care.