Page 16 of Can’t Say No

Wells crosses his arms, coming to a stop at the edge of my desk. “Are you liking having her back in town?”

“Did Caroline send you to check up on me?”

Wells hitches his shoulders up, a sheepish grin peeking through his beard. “Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to use your office during my free period, since it’s so much nicer than mine.” Without another word, he slinks across the room to my attached office.

Caroline and I forced him into our fold when he came to work at Ridgecrest two years ago. He’s grumpy as hell, damn good at his job, and secretly loves the students more than the rest of us combined. He’s a man of few words, but I’ve gathered bits and pieces of his story over the years. He knows what it’s like to not have anyone in your corner, and he works his ass off to make sure none of his students feel that way.

And, as grumbly and reserved as he is, he can meddle with the best of them. I know damn well Caroline sent him in here to gossip, and he was more than happy to oblige.

Leaning on the door frame, I poke my head into my office as the last of the students file into their seats behind me, the bell signaling the start of third period.

Wells has taken up residence, feet propped up, hands laced behind his head.

“Boots off the desk.” He doesn’t move a muscle. “And to answer your question…” Wells raises an eyebrow at that. “It’s weird as hell having her back here. I think it’s gonna be a long semester.” He gives a satisfied hrmph, and I leave him there, shaking his head, boots still on my desk.

“Mr. Majors! I heard you dated Miss. James! Is that true?”

Gonna be a long fucking semester indeed.

7

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.