Page 12 of If The Shoe Fits

And there she is.

Cyndi Tremayne.

The queen of crocodile tears herself is putting on a performance so convincing, I half expect someone to walk in with a bouquet of roses and an award for Best Actress in a Drama.

Her sobs are delicate yet audible enough to tug on even the coldest of hearts—well, not mine, but that’s beside the point.

She’s practically draped across her father, the principal, like a tragic damsel in distress.

Principal Tremayne, bless him, looks every bit the doting father as he pats her shoulder and rubs soothing circles on her back.

He’s murmuring soft, comforting words that I can’t quite make out, but I’m pretty sure they include“poor thing”and“it’s going to be okay.”

Meanwhile, Cyndi peeks up at me through her ridiculously long lashes, a single tear slipping down her cheek like a perfectly timed special effect.

Her lips quiver, her chin trembles, and for a moment, I almost believe she’s genuinely upset.

Almost.

But this is Cyndi we’re talking about.

The same Cyndi who put a tadpole in my tea and magickedWicked Witchonto my classroom wall.

She’s about as innocent as a hungry gremlin at a midnight buffet.

I stand there, taking in the scene, wondering if I should say something or just quietly back away.

But no, I’ve been summoned, and there’s no escaping now. Principal Tremayne looks up, spots me hovering in the doorway, and gives me a strained smile.

“Ah, Professor. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Quickly?

Oh, honey, if you saw me running down those stairs, you’d know quickly wasn’t exactly the word for it.

But I just nod, plastering on a polite smile and stepping inside, bracing myself for whatever absurd accusation Cyndi is about to lob my way.

Let the games begin.

chapter five

Iput up with a lot of crap on a daily basis. I mean, I’m a teacher, it’s practically part of the job description.

Grading endless essays, dealing with student drama, pretending I didn’t just see another kid use a spell to pass notes in class.

It’s all part of the deal.

But dealing with this ridiculous crush?

Absolute torture.

The kind they write about in angsty novels where the heroine always ends up sobbing into a pint of ice cream.

Let me set the scene: Here I am, just your average plus-sized Witch, rocking a little extra padding around ye olde love handles. Not that they’ve been used for much loving lately, but still, they’re there, and I’ve come to terms with them.

Mostly.

But then I walk intohisoffice.

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