Chapter 3
Lily
By mid-afternoon the next day, the boxes were stacked in corners, my clothes hung in the closet like sleek soldiers, and the stereo still thumped faint echoes of Backstreet Boys in the empty rooms. Time to trade unpacking for introductions.
I locked the front door behind me and started toward the Mustang. Carol was settled on her porch next door, The Firm open in her lap, glasses perched low on her nose. She looked up as I jingled my keys.
“Off already?” she called.
“Heading to the high school,” I said, slipping on my sunglasses. “Meeting Lynn Smith about the fair.”
Carol gave a knowing nod. “Lynn’s good people. She’s not only the art teacher but also the woman who knows everyone’s business—and everyone’s secrets.”
“Can’t wait to meet her,” I said brightly. “Sounds totally legit.”
Carol chuckled, shaking her head as I slid into the Mustang. “Drive safe. I’ll have sweet tea waiting when you get back.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I replied, smiling as I turned the key.
As the Mustang rumbled to life, I couldn't help but think about how Carol’s warmth reminded me of a mother. I bet she was the kind of mom who always had cookies in the oven and a listening ear. The thought flickered in my mind, making me wonder what it would be like to have that kind of support.
The road into town unfolded easily enough, lined with tidy porches and clipped lawns.
Main Street followed, short but busy in its own modest way.
Calloway’s Books, Sullivan’s Hardware, a cute ice cream shop called Scoops, Joni’s Diner, and Golden Garden, the local Chinese restaurant with its inviting red lanterns swaying gently in the breeze.
I eased through the stop sign, trying not to stare like a tourist. Chicago had skyscrapers and Lollapalooza. Willowbrook had rocking chairs on porches and pies cooling in kitchen windows. Whole different vibe.
A few blocks later, the high school came into view. Red-brick facade, proud flag waving, and a marquee that read PROM—TAKE MY brEATH AWAY—MAY 24. It was all so wholesome, so perfectly small-town, I half-expected a milkman to roll by.
But then I turned into the parking lot.
The scene was chaos. I stopped in front of a sea of tractors.
Red, green, sun-faded yellow. A long line of them rumbled by the football field as they waited to leave the lot.
There were teens climbing on tractor tires, some pretending to drive, others sprawled on the hoods like it was the most normal thing in the world.
A girl with a satin scrunchie sipped a Sprite, her legs stretched out over the hood of a John Deere, a boombox blaring Friends in Low Places, and a crowd of students cheering that the day was over.
“What in the honky-tonk is this?” I muttered to myself.
I stepped out of the Mustang and started up the walkway toward Willowbrook High. A pair of kids lingering near the entrance stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening and their jaws dropped in unison.
I frowned. What?
Then I caught my reflection in the glass door.
Platinum blonde pulled smooth into a high ponytail, not a strand out of place. Makeup sharp enough to cut glass—nude lipstick, clean liner, brows that could intimidate an army. Cream blazer, black skirt, slingbacks pointed enough to stab a balloon.
Professional? Definitely.
But in this hallway of scuffed sneakers and faded jeans, I looked like I’d stepped out of a corporate catalog by mistake.
Good. I was here to shake things up. And I wanted them to know it.
I stepped through the high school’s front doors and was immediately swallowed by noise.
The final bell must’ve just rung—students poured into the hallways like a flood, voices bouncing off tile and the orange and black lockers.
Sneakers squeaked across the floor, backpacks zipped, locker doors slammed shut.
Clusters of kids laughed, shoved, shouted goodbyes, and darted toward the exits, probably to get their tractors.
My gaze snagged on the mural dominating the main corridor: a giant cartoon bumblebee with sharp black-and-gold wings, stinger poised mid-strike. Above it, block letters shouted HOME OF THE YELLOW JACKETS.
I smiled, shaking my head at the mascot's cartoonish ferocity. A tiny part of me, the part that collected stickers as a kid, kind of loved it.
The crowd thinned as I made my way to the main office at the end of the hall. Inside, the chaos dimmed to the hum of a desk fan and the smell of pencil shavings. A cheery older woman looked up from her paperwork, glasses sliding down her nose and a pink cardigan draped over her shoulders.
“Afternoon, dear! You must be new. Oh, those sunglasses are just darling.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You here for Tractor Day? My nephew’s out there with his Ford 8N, proud as punch. You’ve got kids here?”
“As if!” I laughed as I shifted my Prada briefcase higher on my shoulder.
She tsked playfully. “Well, you’re young. Plenty of time.”
“I’m Lily Harper,” I cut in quickly. “I’ve got a meeting with Lynn Smith.”
Her face brightened. “Oh, Lynn! Isn’t she the sweetest? Been the art teacher here forever. I heard she’s bringing in someone fancy to help with the fair—guess that’s you! How exciting!” She clapped her hands together, delighted. “Let me get you a visitor’s pass, hon.”
As she fumbled with a plastic sleeve and a roll of labels, a girl was standing right next to me, clutching a sketchbook to her chest and studying me with curious, blue eyes.
“You’re meeting with Mrs. Smith?” the girl asked. She was petite, her brown hair straight with the ends curled under, thin bangs framing her forehead, and a bright, open face that made her seem even younger than a high schooler. Tiny gold Mickey Mouse earrings sparkled when she tilted her head.
I nodded. “Yup, that’s me. Cute earrings, by the way.”
Her smile widened. “Thanks! I was just heading back to the art room to finish a project. I have Mrs. Smith for art, and I usually stay after school to work. Um, the room’s kind of tucked away if you don’t already know where it is.”
She tilted her head toward the corridor and waved for me to follow.
“I’m Kayla, by the way,” she said, glancing at me. “Are you, like, famous or something? Your outfit looks really expensive."
I smiled. "Not famous, just particular. I’m Lily. And in my line of work, presentation matters as much as talent. I create brands—the whole vision that makes people stop and pay attention. Posters, murals, ads, sponsorships. If it needs a look that sells, I'm your girl."
Her eyes widened. “That’s really cool. Mrs. Smith’s always talking about how design and storytelling go together—now I get what she meant.
” She hugged her sketchbook closer. “I love her class. I’m not good at art, but she plays Phantom of the Opera while we work, and she’s taking us to see it in Columbus. My first Broadway show!”
"Wow! Phantom's a classic," I said, leaning closer. "But have you heard of Rent yet?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Rent? Like... like the thing you pay?"
"It's a musical about artists in New York. I worked on early promo posters for Rent that ended up in coffee shops all over the city. Watching people line up beneath something you created? Total rush.”
We reached the classroom, and Kayla veered toward a table at the front where a tall boy was unpacking supplies.
His height made her look even smaller than she already was.
They exchanged a playful greeting, their banter easy and familiar, the kind that only comes from years of growing up in the same place.
I stepped inside. Student work covered every inch of wall space—vibrant paintings, sketched portraits, clay pots drying on shelves. Raw talent and possibility filled the room like the scent of acrylic paint.
Only a handful of students remained, bent over projects or rinsing out brushes at the sink.
“Alright, kiddos,” a voice called from the front.
Mrs. Smith—tall, sharp-featured, with a kind of presence that immediately steadied the room—set her clipboard on a wooden easel.
Her smile was warm, the kind that made it impossible not to smile back.
“Keep working if you need to, but clean up before you leave. I’ve got a meeting at the back table, so no excuses about forgetting your supplies here overnight. ”
A chorus of “yes, Mrs. Smith” answered her, the shuffle of brushes and papers already beginning.
Lynn crossed the room with an easy stride, wiping her hands on a paint-smeared apron before tugging it off and draping it over a chair. She extended her hand as if we’d known each other for years instead of thirty seconds.
“You must be Lily Harper,” she said warmly. “Lynn Smith. Thanks for making the trip.”
I shook her hand firmly, matching her smile. “Wouldn't dream of missing it. The raw talent in this room is actually giving me life right now.”
Lynn glanced around at her students. “They keep me on my toes,” she said, her voice filled with quiet pride. Then she nodded toward the back table. “Come on, let’s sit. I want to get you up to speed before the board meeting.”
As I pulled out a chair, Lynn gave me a knowing smile. “You’re probably wondering how in the world you ended up here,” she said.
I arched a brow. “I had a few questions.”
“Well,” she began, “my cousin’s best friend works at the Columbus Arts Council.
She mentioned your agency after they raved about your winter gala branding.
Next thing I know, your portfolio lands in my lap through a chain of favors I still don’t fully understand.
” Lynn waved a hand. “It involved a church bake sale, a lost dog, and my sister owing someone from high school. Typical Willowbrook nonsense.”
I laughed despite myself.