Page 30 of If The Shoe Fits

“That’s what I thought at first,” I say, crossing my arms. “But no. I checked, and the only thing on their schedule was a pep rally last week. Nothing crazy. They had plenty of time to study.”

“Huh,” Agatha murmurs, her tone thoughtful. “Sounds like there’s something else going on.”

The sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hall, interrupting our conversation. I glance toward the door as the first wave of students carrying boxes of decorations approaches.

“Guess we’ll have to solve the mystery later,” I say, waving my hand to magic the Scrabble board away before anyone gets an eyeful of the, uh,less-than-professionalword choices we might’ve made.

The board and tiles disappear with a faint shimmer of blue light, leaving the table looking perfectly respectable.

“Smart move,” Agatha whispers, grinning.

I shoot her a look. “What? I’m a teacher, not a saint.”

chapter twelve

Agatha and I straighten our skirts—mine is a very staid navy blue and hers is a bright orange and black polka dotted affair,dotty just like her—and we don matching professional expressions as the sound of footfalls grows louder.

The clatter of shoes and muffled grunts of effort echo down the hall, and I can see Agatha’s lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement.

“Don’t,” I whisper, narrowing my eyes at her.

She grins anyway, biting her lip as if that’ll stop the giggle bubbling up inside her. When the first students round the corner, she nearly loses it, but I kick her lightly on the shin to shut her up.

“Ow!” she hisses, clutching her shin dramatically like I’ve maimed her for life.

But instead of quieting down, she snorts. Loudly. Then pretends to cough to cover it up, which, of course, only makes things worse.

I sigh, shooting her a glare that saysget it togetheras a group of teenage boys, their arms full of boxes, shuffle into view.

“Hello, Professors. Where should we put these boxes?” Matthew Jones asks, his voice polite but distracted.

Matthew is usually one of my more dependable students. Quiet, attentive, and usually the kind of kid who raises his hand with thoughtful questions. Unique especially since he’s a jock.

But today, he looksoff.

His face is pale, and his movements are stiff, like he’s not entirely in control of his limbs.

I frown as I watch him cross the room, carefully depositing his box in the corner where Agatha is directing the rest of the boys.

Something isn’t right.

“Matthew,” I call gently, my brows knitting together. “Are you feeling okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah, Professor Troy,” he mumbles, his voice a little flat. Then he hesitates, shifting his weight awkwardly before glancing at me. “I mean, I guess. Hey, can I ask you something? Since you’re, like, a girl and all?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Uh, sure,” I say, taking a fortifying breath.

Technically, he’s not wrong.

I am a girl, I suppose.

And Matthew’s always been sensible and respectful, so I nod, bracing myself for whatever question is coming.

“Go ahead.”

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Do you think Cyndi would like it if I showed up with red roses to ask her to the ball? Or pink? Pink is her favorite, but red is romantic, right?”

---