Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Call me if you need bail money
Lulu
The multipurpose hall is a beehive, humming and about to swarm. Kids fidget on stage, costumes drooping or pinching in all the wrong places. My clipboard is a mess of crossed-out notes, and the tape dispenser is stuck to my wrist like a shackle.
This was supposed to be a punishment, a poisoned chalice.
Let the sparkly young teacher sink or swim.
They handed me the production after I dared hand Dylan—and half his friends—detentions for being dicks in class.
Pamela had smiled that sharp PTA smile and said, “Maybe this will redirect your… energy.”
And I’d taken it, because I’m stubborn. Because I knew she expected me to crumble, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction. But mostly because the kids’ faces lit up when they heard, and they deserved something special.
“Hold still, Maddie—perfect. We’ll pin that hem later,” I say, crouching low. My knees crack, but I push up with a smile. “Remember, rehearsal is where we make mistakes. You’ll all look incredible by show night.”
From the back wall, the PTA brigade watch like hawks, their arms folded in sync, their smiles just a little too sharp.
“How unfortunate about the costumes,” one coos, voice dripping sympathy that doesn’t touch her eyes. “A shame the order forms seemed to have gotten… switched along the way.”
Another tilts her head, mock-concerned. “It’s such a lot for one young teacher to manage. Maybe too much.”
Snickers sound, soft but pointed.
Pamela kneels beside Dylan, fussing with his perfectly fine sash. “At least yours fits, sweetheart. Lucky you.” She glances at me as though she’s scored a point in a game I didn’t agree to play.
Heat crawls up my neck. “We’ll fix everything that doesn’t fit. No one’s getting left behind.”
“Of course not,” Pamela says sweetly, loud enough for the parents lingering in the doorway to hear. “Though if things aren’t ready in time, it’ll be such a disappointment for the children.”
The chorus picks up again. Such a disappointment. Shame about the order. She means well.
I force my smile back on. “They’ll be ready.”
The door opens, heels clicking against linoleum. Principal Delacourt enters, all crisp blazer and clipped efficiency. The room hushes, like even the paint drying knows better than to move under her gaze.
She surveys the stage, the crooked backdrop, the PTA lined up like judges. Then her eyes land on me.
“Miss Parnell.” Her voice is smooth as glass, but it cuts all the same. “I can see you’ve put… enthusiasm into this. But enthusiasm alone won’t carry a production.”
The PTA practically hums with smug approval as one of them steps forward.“If the paperwork was misplaced, that’s sloppy. If the wrong order was submitted, that’s inexperience. Either way, the outcome reflects on your preparedness.”
A dozen eyes swivel toward me. Parents. Kids. PTA. My students’ smiles wobble as though they’re absorbing every word.
My chest caves. Not in front of the kids. Please, not in front of them.
I make myself stand straighter. “With respect, the order was submitted correctly. I double-checked it myself.” My voice stays even, but my hands are tight on the clipboard. “What happened after it left my desk… I can’t control.”
One of the moms makes a pitying noise. “That’s why some schools have parents co-sign everything. Less room for…” Her smile sharpens. “…mistakes.”
I sigh. This production was supposed to be for the kids. Their chance to shine, my chance to show I could lead something that mattered. Instead, every step feels like a trap door waiting to open, and I can feel them tugging the levers. But I refuse to let the kids pay the price for their game.
Delacourt’s lips thin and her eyes dart toward the mom, just long enough to make the woman hesitate. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins,” she says evenly. “I’m aware of the procedures.”
Then she turns back to me. “Excuses don’t matter to an audience, Miss Parnell. Only results. But…” Her gaze narrows slightly, assessing, not unkind. “I’m not blind to the effort you’ve put in, just make sure it shows. For you.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until it hurts. “ The kids will be ready. The costumes will be ready. Everything will be ready.”
Delacourt studies me for a long beat. “Good. Because if the program falters, it’s not the PTA’s name on it. It’s yours.” Then, after the smallest pause, she lowers her voice so only I can hear. “And mine… And that’s exactly what they want.”
From the stage, a little voice pipes up. “Miss Parnell, is our show gonna get canceled?”
The question slices through the hall, and Pamela’s smile spreads like oil.
My stomach turns to stone because a kid asked that. A kid. Who’s been pouring their heart into this.
“No,” I say immediately, forcing brightness into my voice even as my throat closes. “Absolutely not. We are putting on this show, and it’s going to be amazing. That’s a promise.”
The kids cheer, bless them. But behind their clapping, I can still hear the whispers, the PTA’s not-so-quiet smirks. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Delacourt watching me. Not disapproving now, but thoughtful. And maybe even a little impressed.
***
After I lock up, I shove my clipboard under my arm and make it to my car before my knees give out.
It’s been a week since the bachelorette, a week since the stupid karaoke dares, and Logan’s been in and out with back-to-back away games. He was home for a blink earlier this week. Gone again, but back tonight. Long enough to leave me with his hoodie, not long enough to soak him up.
And between then and now, the PTA have been sharpening their knives. Rehearsals that should’ve been joyful feel like battlegrounds, and I’m running out of armor.
I drop into the driver’s seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, throat aching. I can’t call Logan. Not for this. He’d answer, sure, but he’d try to fix it, and what I need right now isn’t fixing. I need to scream into the void with someone who won’t look at me like I’m breaking.
I dig out my phone and type.
Me: Emergency. Girl talk.
It takes about six seconds for my screen to light up.
Zoe: Emergency like out of coffee, or emergency as in I should sharpen my manicure?
A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and wet. I swipe at my eyes and type back.
Me: The second one. Can we meet? Please.
Zoe: Name the corpse, babe. Tell me where to pick you up
Relief doesn’t fix everything, but it cracks a window in the pressure cooker. Tamara’s off-limits for this kind of venting—it wouldn’t be fair to dump this on her when I’m desperate to talk to someone without holding back, which includes coming clean about Logan.
Charlie and Claire both have kids and jobs, and while I love them, they wouldn’t give me the cold, hard honesty I need right now. So that leaves Zoe. She’ll let me vent about the PTA, and she’ll make me laugh about the Logan confession in the same breath.
By the time I get home, I’m wrung out. I dump my bag on the kitchen counter, strip out of my work clothes, and pull on leggings, UGGs, and an oversized sweater. My hair goes up in a messy bun that probably won’t survive the hour.
Then I step outside, letting the night air bite at my cheeks. The porch boards are cool behind my leggings as I sink onto the steps, the sky just starting to ink toward purple.
I fold my arms tight, breathing until the lump in my throat loosens.
“Not enough whiskey in Denver to fix that face,” a voice calls from next door.
I glance over to find Betty leaning against her railing, silver hair coiffed perfectly, a tweed, woollen coat tucked snug around her. She looks like she’s about to chair a board meeting.
“Rough day at the happiness factory, Sugarplum?”
I huff a laugh, kicking at a step. “More like the gladiator pit. PTA moms, one. Lulu, zero.”
Betty tsks, crossing the grass with surprising speed for someone in satin slippers.
She lowers herself onto the step beside me with a soft groan.
“Darling, PTA mothers are professional assassins. They eat stubborn young teachers for breakfast and floss with their tears. You’ll never win playing their game. ”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Feels like they’re setting me up to fail, and the principal isn’t exactly in my corner.”
Betty hums, watching me closely. “Then you stop playing for them. Play for the kids. They’ll remember the teacher who fought for their spotlight, not the cow in pearls who tried to snatch it away.”
The knot in my chest loosens just a little. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Life usually is.” She pats my knee, scandalously red-polished nails flashing. “Don’t give the bitches your sparkle. Keep your shine, and let them choke on the glare.”
I lean into her shoulder, smiling despite myself. “You always know what to say.”
“Of course I do. I’ve had sixty-eight years of outliving men and mothers who thought they knew better.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Speaking of men—you still sneaking around with our broody Hockey Boy?”
Heat blooms on my cheeks. “Betty—”
“Oh, relax.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Your secret’s safe. I’m not the one you should be worried about. Just make sure when you do tell your brother, it’s on your terms, and not because you get caught with his teammate’s tongue down your throat.”
I groan into my hands. “You’re outrageous.”
“And right,” she sings, patting my head.
Before I can reply, headlights sweep across the porch. Zoe’s car pulls up, music thumping. She hops out, already grinning.
“Emergency response team, reporting for duty!”
I get to my feet and then turn to offer Betty a hand to stand.
“Well, look who it is, legs and trouble all in one package.”
“Betty, my queen!” Zoe marches straight across my lawn to hug her. “Still corrupting the neighborhood one terrified deliveryman at a time?”
“Somebody’s gotta keep things spicy.” Betty leans in and kisses Zoe’s cheek like they’ve been besties forever. “You ditching me for girls’ night?”