Delaney
What the hell are you supposed to wear on the first day of school as a scorned twenty-four-year-old pop star paying penance for pissing off one too many people?
The closet in my old bedroom is overflowing thanks to my stylist shipping half my wardrobe from my place in Los Angeles, but I highly doubt stilettos and lace body suits are appropriate attire for teaching choir at a high school.
Dad really meant it when he said “next flight out.”
I was back in bum-fuck-no-where Tennessee faster than my buzz wore off. He had me nursing a hangover on the uneven back roads that led to my childhood home.
Calling this place “home” feels like the wrong word for a multitude of reasons. A former working farm turned sprawling estate by my parents, it has always felt empty and cold rather than cozy and homey. And even before I left at sixteen, it was never a place I rushed back to.
In fact, I tried to spend as little time here as possible.
The chime of a text message interrupts my mental spiral and has me throwing piles of clothes off of my bed in pursuit of my phone. Swiping to read the text, I can’t help but smile.
Matty: Happy first day of school! I hope you hook up with all the hot teachers!
Matthew, my best friend in L.A. Another text pings through.
Matty: Actually, scratch that. Lay as low as possible so your punishment will be over and you can get back to L.A. with me.
My punishment, as Matty so accurately put it, is to help some old lady teach choir at Ridgecrest High.
Remi and my dad came up with this whole plan to show that I’m “a sweet, small town girl who wants to help others.” Definitely not a selfish brat who overstayed her welcome on stage when Molly Jo was the headliner.
And certainly not a washed up pop star whose shine is starting to fade.
The fight hardly seemed worth it, so I agreed. If I had tried to argue my fate, I know my dad would have pushed back harder. Remi might be my manager on paper, but it’s a known fact that my dad is the real puppet master.
And he holds those strings real tight.
Shuffling through the stack of jeans on my bed, I’m reminded how much I appreciated the uniforms at Boyd Prep.
Oxford button downs and plaid skirts are a choice, and not one I’d make again, but it made getting ready for high school so much easier.
It almost made up for the daily forty-five-minute commute.
When I was a kid, my parents turned their noses up at Ridgecrest High.
As their only child, they poured all of their resources into making me the best of the best, and public school wasn’t going to cut it for the life they had crafted for me.
But apparently volunteering at the local public high school is good enough now to clean up my image. The irony isn’t lost on me.
My dad brokered some kind of deal with the school board and principal.
They hire me as the choir assistant, release a couple photos that make me look charitable and down to earth to the tabloids, and then write a glowing article at the end of the semester, in exchange for an undisclosed donation from my team.
I’ve felt like a pawn in someone else’s game for a while now, but I’m pretty sure this takes the cake.
Sighing, I finally settle on dark wash jeans and a white square neck top. Basic, unassuming, and classy.
Exactly who they want me to be.
Wandering down the stairs, I pull out my phone to order a car then stop. I’m in the middle of nowhere; no way in hell I’m going to find an Uber at 6:30 in the morning.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, padding across the tiles of the expansive, sterile kitchen.
It always felt so unnecessary to me, all this space for a family of three.
My dad likes to flaunt his wealth where people can see it.
The big house, expensive cars, dressing in designer at all times.
The decorations are sparse, homey touches minimal.But, just like this house, he misses the heart and soul of things.
The fridge is equally bare, which elicits another expletive from me.
“Better tone it down,” a deep voice booms behind me. “That kind of an attitude is exactly what got you into this mess.”
My dad steps into the doorway of the kitchen, blocking the light.
“Didn’t expect to see you this early,” I quip, desperately fumbling with the coffee maker on the counter. Every interaction with him lately turns into a verbal sparring match, and if I have any chance of holding my own, there’s no way in hell I’m doing it uncaffeinated.
He leans casually against the counter, grey suit stiff against his movements like it’s been over-starched.
“Wanted to make sure you actually left the house.”
I narrow my eyes at him as the machine sputters to life.
“Did you really think I’d blow the whole thing off?”
He shrugs, tight and jerky under his jacket, and says, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.
I have developed a habit lately of oversleeping on days that I have early morning meetings or intentionally forgetting appointments.
But in my defense, everything I’ve flaked on would have been a colossal waste of time.
Photo ops at the zoo, merch drops at midnight, fucking Cameo videos; this isn’t the first bullshit PR rodeo I’ve been dragged through.
But this one is different. The ice is thinner, the stakes are higher. And while it still reeks of shit, I don’t think I can fuck this one up.
Pasting on my sweetest smile, I lay it on thick.
“This is a wonderful opportunity and I wouldn’t dream of jeopardizing it. I promise to be on my best behavior and represent myself, and our brand, to the best of my ability.”
I mentally pat myself on the back for throwing him a bone with our brand. My career is his pride and joy. A promise to restore it to its former glory is a play straight to his ego.
My dad’s brows shoot up. Or at least, they make a valiant effort.
Too much Botox in too short of a time has hardened his features into a sort of perma-scowl.
Like his face, his ambition is unmovable.
The goal is, and always has been, superstardom.
This bump in the road is just that: an obstacle he’ll drag me over kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Let’s hope you do a better job bullshitting the school than you do me. This is your last chance. Keys are on the hook by the side door. I trust you still know how to drive.”
With that, he retreats back down the hall, steps echoing off the walls of the sparse home.
A feeling not too far from panic settles in my chest as the reality of my current situation starts sinking in. I’m staring down a long ten weeks of early mornings, high expectations, and my fragile career hanging in the balance.
And the fact that I can’t find a damn thing in this kitchen is sending me into orbit.
I fling open every cabinet, finding pristine Pyrex, cookie sheets I know have never seen the inside of an oven, and an inordinate amount of mixing bowls. Finally, I spot the travel mugs, illogically stashed on a high pantry shelf.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself, my confidence wavering in the sudden stillness of the morning. I should be used to carrying the weight of his expectations, but try as I might, my dad always has a way of draining all my strength. A big sip of coffee helps to quell my nerves.
“I can do this,” I repeat as I start up the old Lexus I drove a decade ago. I repeat it as I shift into gear, as I wind down our long driveway, and as I drive the eerily familiar back roads into town.
And by the time I pull into the parking lot of Ridgecrest High, sun peeking up behind the building, I almost believe it.
I’ve spent all of five minutes at Ridgecrest High, but already, it’s not what I imagined.
Tall ceilings, lots of windows with that gorgeous late August morning sun pouring in, and dark wood everywhere.
The building is old, probably built in the fifties, and on the surface has a quaint, vintage vibe.
But upon closer inspection, it’s in desperate need of a facelift.
Peeling paint, cramped hallways, and flooring that clearly needed to be redone years ago.
They need funding, badly, and here I am, their newfound cash cow.
The sweet old lady at the front desk insisted on a selfie for her granddaughter before handing me my temporary staff badge and sending me on my way to my first official meeting.
The faculty lounge wasn’t hard to find; I followed the other staff filing through the building like ants.
The lounge is small but thoughtfully laid out, with a coffee station and kitchenette lining the wall opposite the windows, and lots of comfortable chairs and small, circular tables doting the remaining space.
It’s in better shape than other parts of the school, but far from modern.
Teachers and staff mill about the lounge, and I don’t miss the whispers behind hands and their sneaky stares, all eyes on me like always.
I cringe inwardly, wondering what they know about my latest scandal and the little deal my dad set up, the questions gnawing at me as I imagine how pathetic I must seem to them.
I stuff down my embarrassment and set my face to a nice, easy smile.
I’m here to do a job, just like everyone else in this room.
I find a spot near the wall and do my best to blend in when I hear it. A laugh, deep and carefree, wafts down the hall and into the room. It unlocks a memory I’ve buried deep. Me at twelve, running barefoot through the field behind my house, laughing until my sides hurt, chasing my best friend.
My former best friend.
The man responsible for the warm memory steps into the faculty lounge, and I’m met with a face I haven’t seen in years. Brown skin, deep chestnut-colored eyes, and the most gentle smile I’ve ever known.
Connor Majors.