Page 12 of Wicked Little Secret

Every other student in the room bounces their attention between us. One glance at Miss Oliver and then a glance back at me once she replies. Their two dozen gazes fall on me in interest for what I’ll have to say to her answer.

I let the moment linger on longer than I probably should.

The two of us are locked into a stare that every other student sits on the outside of.

They’re spectators as I stand mildly surprised at how accurate and succinct she’s been. Finally, I accept that she’s risen to the challenge—and she knows she has.

A small little smirk has bloomed onto Nyssa Oliver’s face. It’s subtle and slow, curling her bottom lip and lighting up her eyes.

Confidence that’s not easily shaken.

The awareness that she’s correct. The hint of teasing that she is.

No one else in the room catches it. No one else in the room is privy, despite being present.

Clearing my throat, I force myself to cut the moment short. I gesture to the blackboard. “Reading. Open your textbooks to page four-hundred and sixty-two. You have fifteen minutes to read the chapter, absorb the material, and tell me the significance of crime classification.”

It’s an emergency escape hatch.

A distraction for myself as they practically groan and begin flipping to the assigned reading page. I turn my back on the class and go to my desk feeling like I’ve just had warm coffee spilled all over me a second time.

For the second time by Miss Oliver and Miss Oliver alone.

My afternoon is devoted to grading the essay question I gave today’s class after their required reading. I’d spent my lunch hour on the phone with the surveillance company that’s installing a camera system on my property.

Should Veronica ever have the guts to return, I’ll have everything on camera.

Tangible proof she keyed my car.

For the next hour, I’m engrossed in grading the essay questions. It comes as no surprise that most of the papers sound like they’ve been written by some AI generator. When I encounter the sixth paper that sounds like a regurgitation from ChatGPT, I sigh and drop my pen.

Castlebury University is allegedly a prestigious institution of higher learning, yet the students that come through are routinely below standard. If they’re not glued to their personal devices, they’re lazing around smoking weed and sleeping in ’til noon.

A sullen expression bleeds onto my face at the bitter thoughts.

Was I ever this unintellectual? Was I ever lacking so much depth?

Sure, I had my moments, as many young adults do. I dabbled in my share of frat parties and keggers. Occasionally, I skipped class and cut corners on coursework.

But I was never this useless. This content with being mediocre. Less than mediocre… painfully below standard.

I mark down the next essay question with an aggressive swipe of my pen. The red ink is inexorably satisfying on the page.

Jason Hendricks will learn the hard way his staying up late gaming then nodding off during class will not pay off. He’ll be one of many failures.

I come to the next student’s paper, reading the name scrawled up top in neat, swoopy letters:

Nyssa Oliver

Ah, yes.

The girl that met my challenge today in class. The girl who spilled coffee on me yesterday. I have plenty of red ink for her…

“Ahem. Professor?”

I look up, almost feral from excitement, a wavy lock of hair falling over my brow, and find myself staring across the desk at the girl.

None other than Nyssa Oliver herself, like she’s materialized out of thin air.

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