Page 7 of If The Shoe Fits

I hear several gasps erupt around the classroom, and I know there are several of Matthew’s teammates among them.

Not to mention Cyndi’s whole cheer squad.

But there is one person whose sympathies I did not expect to fall on Matthew’s plight.

And that’s poor Bethany, who looks near to tears.

“Oh, no!”

“No, Professor, she is moving right now. Come on, Cyn! Get off me,” Matthew grunts, but refrains from actually pushing her away.

I raise my eyebrow and lift my tablet, the one where all I have to do is tap the button marked detention next to their names.

Finally, with an exaggerated huff, Cyndi finally stands.

I don’t react.

I can’t.

One sign of weakness and this entire class will go to Hell in a handbasket.

For a town that has been there before—I’ve heard the tales from my parents—I can tell you, it is not something I want to experience.

“My father will hear about this!” Cyndi stands and stomps her feet before storming over to her desk.

I wish I could say that little tantrum was the worst of it, but that would be giving Cyndi Tremayne far too much credit—and underestimating her overdeveloped sense of drama.

You’d think someone who struts around in designer heels and magically enhanced lip gloss would have better things to do than wage war on me, but no.

Cyndi’s got vengeance on the brain, and I’m her target of the week.

By Tuesday, it’s clear she’s not messing around.

Pranks, tricks, and inconveniences rain down on me like confetti at a cursed parade.

Honestly, if this keeps up, my once-ebony hair is going to turn gray before I hit middle age.

No, I am not already there! I’ll have you know my family’s average lifespan is one hundred and fifty years, give or take.

Wednesday morning rolls around, and I’m already dreading work.

But what can I do?

Being an adult means showing up even when you’d rather hurl yourself into an alternate dimension.

Walking into my classroom, I tell myself maybe today will be different.

It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.

The wordsWicked Witchare magicked across the entire back wall in permanent ink.

Permanent. Ink.

Now, I’m no stranger to a little teasing—I am a teacher, after all—but this is on a whole new level.

Plus, the jibe isn’t even accurate.

Sure, I’m a Witch, but Wicked? Please.

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