Page 55 of Fall Fake-Out

Sadie snorts. “Pretty sure Ryan’s talking about the straddling incident.”

“I would say it was more like a straddling accident.”

Lily lifts her head from the quilt. “Wait, how do you straddle somebody on accident?” Apparently, she’s awake.

Ryan nods to Lily. “My wife makes a great point.”

“There are many ways to straddle someone,” I deadpan.

Mom gasps. “Wade Stevenson! M-I-A is here,” she spells out my niece’s name like we need a code system for a four-year-old.

“It was no big deal,” I laugh.

Dad lowers his papers. His eyes settle on me, and the backyard somehow feels different now, heavier than before. “You’re the principal, and you were caught in a compromising situation with a teacher in front of your students. To say it isn’t a big deal is irresponsible and not being a good leader.”

Something in my chest twists, because I know he’s right, but all I hear is the same thing I’ve heard my entire life.

You’re not responsible enough.

You’re not serious enough.

You’re not enough.

“I know, but it really was an accident. There was a bee on Ari and⁠—”

“As principal, you don't get the luxury of excuses.” My dad frowns. “People are looking for reasons to get you fired from this position.”

Mom’s pushes slow. “Marty, accidents happen.”

“He’ll have to explain that to the district when they hear about this.” His words aren’t angry; they fall in the category of disappointed.

Ryan tosses the football back toward me as a peace offering—or at least a distraction. I catch it automatically.

Mom pushes Mia on the swing again.

Sadie goes back to painting her nails.

Dad opens the grocery ad.

The conversation moves on.

But for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that no matter how hard I work, how many hours I put in, or how much I care about that school and the students, some people will always be waiting for me to fail.

And the worst part?

Sometimes I think my dad might be one of them.

Wade

The time before students arrive is my favorite part of the day.

Hallways sit quiet except for the distant hum of copy machines and the occasional squeak of sneakers against freshly waxed floors. Classroom lights flicker on one by one while teachers shuffle around, carrying coffee cups and stacks of papers they were supposed to grade over the weekend but didn’t.

For about thirty glorious minutes, Autumn Ridge High belongs to the adults.

I walk through the front office, giving a small wave to Mrs. Albany as she aggressively bangs against a three-hole punch.

“Morning, Mrs. Albany.”