7. Delaney
DELANEY
Whatever restraint the students showed yesterday is gone. Countless selfies, a few signatures and I even had one student corner me to FaceTime their cousin in Oklahoma. Of course, I was more than happy to do it. This is exactly the kind of good PR my team is banking on.
I’ve spent the morning being peppered with questions, most of them about a certain English teacher, but I don’t mind. I’d rather talk about the time Connor got busted sneaking out of his second story window than try to explain to the students why I got booted from the tour and sent here.
“Okay, okay,” Mrs. Crane raps her cane against the upright piano as the last of the senior choir members file in. “We’re done with all the chit-chat. Miss James, take them through a warm-up please. I assume you play?”
I balk, mouth dropping open. “Play the piano? Um, yeah, just a little, but I don’t know if I can lead a warm-up.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m so not in the mood to be embarrassed by my incompetence this morning. I feel two dozen pairs of eyes on my back as I make my way down the risers towards the front.
“Nonsense.” But when Crane’s eyes meet mine, wide with panic, she softens just a fraction, “I’ll get you started, then you take the lead.”
Mrs. Crane wordlessly starts rolling her shoulders, and the students quickly follow along, shaking out their arms and legs next. The vocal warm-up is simple enough, and I join in. Then Mrs. Crane moves to sit behind the piano.
“Let’s show Miss James ‘Ni No Ni.’” She expertly runs her hands over the keys, playing a little tune while singing nonsense words at varying tempos. I jump in with the sopranos, finding their note and catching on to the rhythm game they’re using to warm up.
Mrs. Crane eyes me from over the top of the piano and gives me the briefest smile.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Crane says to the class. And then, just for me, “Next week, this will be your responsibility. So I’d suggest you brush up on your scales.” The tight line of her lips tells me the compassion she showed just now is a one time thing.
“Pass out this music for me, please.” She gestures to a stack of sheet music I copied yesterday. “You can go sit with the sopranos and start running them through their part.”
A group of wide-eyed girls in the front corner of the room stare back at me, but I’m fairly certain that I’m more nervous to sing with them than they are to have me join them.
I pull a chair over to sit with their group.
“I haven’t sung with a choir since I was a kid at church, so if I suck, I don’t want to see a word of it on social media.” A beat passes in silence before I flash my signature smile, hoping to put them at ease.
“You got it, Miss James! I’m Abby, by the way.” The bubbly blonde offers me her hand and I’m struck by her confidence.
“You can call me Delaney.”
I look over our section of the melody, and we get to work, running through our part a few times. The room buzzes, the harmonies drifting from each corner, melding somewhere in the middle.
The sound is magic, and it reminds me why I fell in love with music in the first place.
Music transcends judgement, bias, and expectations.
It’s an escape, a brief trip to another world.
And this kind of pure, unadulterated singing…
it brings a wave of emotion over me I didn’t expect.
Singing hasn’t been fun for me in so long, I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like when it is.
But I’m feeling it now.
Joy, and a touch of jealousy, that these kids get to sit in this magic without any expectation of more.
It’s simple. It's raw. It's peaceful. It’s beautiful.
That peace shatters as Mrs. Rutledge barrels through the door, camera in hand.
Showtime.
“I’m not here,” the principal whisper-shouts, but she’s already popped the fragile bubble of magic we created.
The camera clicks, and the girls around me giggle, some ducking their heads, others smiling wide, turning to make sure Rutledge captures their best angles.
Mrs. Crane looks visibly peeved but continues working with the altos.
My heart rate picks up, in time with the rapid-fire clicking of the camera. I used to love this, all the attention on me. But today, it makes my skin crawl. The posing, the pretending, it’s humiliating. I can all but hear my dad’s voice.
Remember this feeling next time you’re thinking about stepping out of line.
Clearing my throat, I mumble, “I’ve gotta, um, go to the restroom real quick.” My chair screeches as it shoots back, cutting through the lingering melodies.
My palms grow sweatier by the second as I push into the bathroom across the hall. My chest is tight, my breathing shallow.
Gripping the sink with all I’ve got, I force myself to meet my own gaze in the mirror. A bead of sweat drips down my forehead, and my chest heaves like I’ve just run a marathon, but otherwise, I look fine.
Stable. Normal.
I look like Delaney James.
I let out a long, shaky breath, counting down from ten, trying to restore some sense of calm.
These little moments of panic have been a constant companion since I was a kid.
Meds help, my therapist helps, but the best solution I’ve found in the moment is to step away and just breathe.
Doesn’t work so great in the middle of a show, but people always assume I’m stepping off to puke.
Fans would rather see me as a party girl than someone who struggles with their mental health, and my team has never tried to correct them.
The bathroom door swings open as I wipe my brow, my heart finally returning to its normal rhythm.
“Oh, how funny!” a voice behind me exclaims. “I was gonna ask Connor for your number!”
Caroline Brighton scoots right up beside me, twisting her long dark hair into a messy bun in the mirror I was just using to regain my senses.
“Will you come out with us this Friday? It’s kinda become a tradition, me, Connor, and Wells. Have you met Wells? Tall, bearded, grumpy as hell. Likes to hide in a corner during faculty meetings. You’ll like him. Or you won’t! Either way, you should come!”
Caroline babbles on while I’m still finding solid ground.
“Have you been to Eddy’s? I’m sure you have. You grew up here, right? So of course you have.” She bounces on the balls of her feet, waiting for my answer.
Blinking a few times to clear the last of the haze from my eyes, I nod. “Yeah, yeah of course I’ve been to Eddy’s.”
Her loud clap echoes in the bathroom, “Perfect! Lemme have your phone and I’ll put in my number.” She holds her palm out, then pales as a realization sweeps over her face.
“Oh my god, I’m not a weird fan or anything. Haven’t even listened to your recent stuff.” Now her eyes go wide, cheeks pinking with embarrassment. “Fuck, I’m gonna stop talking before I put my foot in my mouth again. My caffeine addiction is clearly at full force.”
Smiling weakly, I hand over my phone. “If I could bottle your energy, maybe the new album would be out by now.”
Caroline laughs as she taps away on my phone. “It’s just a steady stream of shitty faculty lounge coffee, baby. Okay, now you’ve got my number. I sent myself a text so I have yours, too. I’ll remind you Friday, but usually we meet up around seven.”
“I appreciate the invite.” I pause, an internal battle starting.
Maybe it’s the near panic attack hangover, maybe it’s the genuine smile on Caroline’s face, but I almost let my walls down.
I almost tell her how fucking exhausted I am with this merry-go-round, how desperate I am for something normal, even though I don’t know what that looks like anymore.
I almost tell her that it’s been years since I’ve simply hung out with friends, years since I’ve been invited somewhere without any expectations attached.
I almost let those truths take root.
But those thoughts are interrupted by the school bell, followed by a swarm of high school girls that rush into the bathroom to primp between classes.
Instead I just shoot Caroline my practiced, media ready smile. “Can’t wait.”
The rest of the week rushes by in a blur, and by Friday, I’m beat. I’ve done world tours, performing in a different city every night with no time off, and somehow I’m just as worn out from one week working at a high school.
It’s like all the pent-up exhaustion has finally caught up to me, years of recording and performing and public appearances all coming to a crashing halt here in Ridgecrest, my body finally having time to feel bone-tired.
My Lexus is, apparently, just as worn down. Connor and Wells managed to get it jumped and to a car shop, but it needs more than a new battery. So, to add insult to the injury that is being relegated to my family home, I’m also car-less.
By the time I order a rideshare to Eddy’s, I’m already starting to regret my decision to go out tonight. The late afternoon sun beats down on my back as I make my way down the meandering driveway toward the front gate.
I can’t decide which is worse: the staggering solitude of this house, or the thought of small talk at Eddy’s.
Nights out in L.A. were chaotic and unruly, but at least I always knew what to expect.
I imagine a night out at Eddy’s with the hometown teachers is cute and domestic and cheery…
all adjectives that I’m fairly certain I’m allergic to.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires jerks me from my thoughts, and I spot Connor’s old Honda Civic rolling to a stop ahead of me.
“Let’s go, princess!” He shouts, leaning out the window, tapping the side of his car. He’s got a five o’clock shadow and a fresh fade. It’s a dangerous combination. His brown eyes sparkle as he waits for me to respond.
“I called an Uber,” I say, jamming my phone in his face, annoyance creeping into my voice.
“I know.” He points to the screen. “I’m your ride.”
Sure enough: Your driver, Connor, has arrived.
“I pick up a few rides when I have free time. Helps pay the bills.” He shrugs before hopping out to open my door.
All I can do is roll my eyes.
He looks over at me, lips twitching with a suppressed laugh as I pull my seat belt across.