Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
I’m twenty-fucking-four, Marsha
Lulu
Sleeping in my own bed again was weird.
Good weird, I tell myself as I lace my sneakers and set off at dawn, pounding the familiar loop that winds past Birch and up to my spot. No dryers humming, no hockey player’s dog hogging my pillow, no Logan’s cologne on the bedsheets. Just me and my house, finally dry, finally quiet.
But yeah, it was a little weird. The space felt too big, too quiet. He texted me all evening, a stream of questions, little comments that made me grin in the dark until my eyelids drooped.
I slow to a jog and take out my phone, rereading some of the message chain.
Logan: You eat?
Me: Popcorn.
Logan: Doesn’t count.
Me: It’s *efficient*
Logan: Not the word I’d use.
Me: That’s the ONLY word you use
Could’ve turned filthy, and it would’ve if I’d let it, but it didn’t. It was just nice. Easy. I fell asleep before I could even say good night.
Now, sweat drips down my temple as I crest the hill, lungs burning as I slot my phone back into my leggings pocket. I don’t stop at the clearing for long today. There’s too much to do, too much in my head.
It’s Halloween soon, and I need to decorate now that I finally have the house dry. Charlie’s bachelorette is coming up. It’s Career Day at school today, and I have two of the burliest, don’t-know-what-to-do-with-a-kid hockey players coming in. Though, honestly, I’m grateful they agreed at all.
Sunlight’s just warming the rooftops when I loop back toward my house, mind clearing as I pound the pavement. My eyes flick across to Logan’s driveway as I slow, noticing his truck still parked outside. He has practice this morning, and he’ll be at school for the afternoon session.
My phone buzzes in my pocket the second my sneakers hit my driveway.
Logan: Saw you. Sweaty, flushed, out of breath.
Logan: Hell of a look on you, Parnell.
Heat floods my already overheated cheeks. I bite back a laugh, thumbs flying.
Me: You’d know all about that look, wouldn’t you Pookie?
Logan: Walk that smart mouth over here and I’ll show you what happens when you call me that
Me: Don’t you have practice?
Logan: Yeah. Doesn’t mean I don’t have time to deal with your trouble.
Me: Trouble’s my speciality.
Logan: No shit.
I pause on the porch, heart hammering harder than it did at the top of Birch. I am so tempted to go over there and show him how much trouble I can make.
Still, I fire off one more reply saying I’ll see him this afternoon, then tuck my phone away. Because if I don’t, I will definitely end up over the street. Instead, I head inside to shower, because I’ve got kids, PTA moms, and a principal waiting to devour me whole at Career Day.
When I pull in, the school parking lot’s already packed. I’m ten minutes earlier than usual and still somehow late. Typical. By the time I jog through the front doors with my tote bag thumping against my hip, the air already smells of burnt coffee and stress. Career Day. My own personal Olympics.
Principal Delacourt is stationed at the end of the hallway, clipboard in hand, lips pursed, gaze sharp enough to slice. She doesn’t say anything when I pass, but she doesn’t need to—her eyebrows are a whole paragraph of Are you sure you can handle this, Parnell?
I paste on my brightest smile, the one that says Yes, I can absolutely handle twenty-seven eleven-year-olds hopped up on muffins and the promise of professional athletes, thank you very much, and head for my classroom.
Of course, I don’t make it two steps inside before the PTA squad materializes. Three of them, travel mugs in hand, perched like vultures in the back row of my class. My eyes land on Pamela, Dylan’s mom. Joy.
“She’s very young, isn’t she?” one murmurs, not nearly as quiet as she thinks.
I’m twenty-fucking-four, Marsha.
Another chuckles. “Mm. Young and fun. But fun doesn’t exactly prepare them for middle school rigor. At some point, they’ll need more than costumes and sing-alongs.”
Pamela leans in, her whisper pitched just right to carry. “Especially when she’s already drowning in that production. Honestly, it was unfair to saddle her with it. But maybe that’s what happens when you’re still trying to prove yourself.”
My jaw locks so tight it could crack, and I freeze halfway through setting out the name tags.
The production. The very thing she pushed on me, smiling sweetly while knowing no one else would touch it.
The reason I’ve spent every lunch break hot-gluing sequins to elf hats, running lines with kids whose parents can’t be bothered, and scrounging props from the dollar store because our budget doesn’t stretch past printer ink.
I grip the stack of scissors a little too tightly.
“The production I was asked to lead,” I remind her lightly, setting down the scissors with care in front of them. “Big difference.”
She blinks, caught off guard, but recovers quickly with a saccharine smile. “Of course, dear. Just don’t burn yourself out trying to play teacher and drama club.”
My teeth flash, friendly as a shark. “I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, I’ll need everyone modeling their best classroom behavior today. No whispering, no disruptions. If you’d rather chit chat, the staffroom coffee is still hot.”
One of them coughs. Pamela’s lips pinch, eyes narrowing. “I’m sure we can act like adults during your… fun algebra lessons, Ms. Parnell. It will be great insight for the PTA to be up to speed on.”
I nod sweetly, ignoring the jab, and keep preparing my class, humming under my breath. Outwardly serene, inwardly on fire. Because I swear, if one more PTA mom treats me like I’m playing dress-up instead of teaching, I’m going to hot-glue their travel mugs to the table.
My eyes take in the kids’ artwork plastered across the walls—bright bursts of color, glitter smears, crooked letters.
Maybe it looks like chaos to them. To me, it’s proof.
Proof that spelling and writing and reading don’t have to be drills and dread.
They can be messy, loud, creative, and still every bit as solid as the tests they’ll ace later.
God forbid education be engaging. Or creative. Or, heaven help us all, actually fun.
“Ms. Parnell.”
I jump to see Principal Delacourt in the doorway, then straighten. “Morning.”
Her eyes sweep the room, nodding warmly at the PTA moms before lingering on the glitter-scattered posters long enough to make my pulse skip. Then her gaze snaps back to me. “Your brother will be here this afternoon?”
“Actually, he can’t make it. But—”
She sighs, cutting me off. “Of course. Last-minute change, I suppose? That’s unfortunate.”
Pamela pipes up instantly. “It is. These children need stability, Ms. Parnell. Not excuses.”
Heat rages across my cheeks, my head snapping to her and back to Delacourt. “I wasn’t finished. Eli can’t make it, but Logan Miller and Reid Hutchison are coming in his place.”
The shift is instant. The PTA moms audibly gasp, and Delacourt’s lips, pursed like she just sucked a lemon, soften into something closer to awe.
“Miller and Hutchison?”
“The Colorado Storm’s number eighty-two and thirty-three, yes,” I confirm, trying not to roll my eyes.
“Well!” Delacourt’s tone tilts, falsely bright. “That is… far more than we could have hoped for. I’ll make sure the rest of the PTA is aware.”
“Oh, we heard!” One of the moms smiles, sweet and wide, as her thumbs fly across her mobile. “Number thirty-three is my favorite.”
“Who’s thirty-three?” asks the other mom.
“The goalie.” Pamela giggles, fanning herself like Reid Hutchison might walk in shirtless. “Though eighty-two… he’s cute.”
Delacourt nods at me and leaves, while the moms all chortle, swooning like schoolgirls.
Fantastic. The same women who think glitter is a sign of my incompetence are about to combust over men who can skate backwards. Truly, a model of academic rigor.
I stack the last pile of scissors with extra precision before the bell rings, because if I don’t, I might just hurl them across the room.
For now, I’ll smile sweetly and keep humming. But the second Logan and Reid arrive, this circus is mine to run.