Page 1 of The Hitman
Chapter One
Callie
Today is officially the worst day of my life.
Not in the trivial sense of getting my high heel stuck in a sewer grate in downtown Chicagofor the third time. But more like, helplessly watching my career burn to ashes right before my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Miss Finley,” Principal Clemons says after sliding a slip of paper to me. “The board has deliberated over the accusations presented against you, and we’ve decided to release you via voluntary resignation.”
I mean to scoff, but end up ungracefully choking on my spit. Shelly, the vice principal, offers me a mini water bottle.
“You can’t do this,” I rasp after several sips. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Clemons purses his lips before leaning his elbows on his desk. “Willow Grove High School strictly prohibits any teacher-student relations, inside or outside the facility.”
“Wait.” My brow furrows at his accusing tone. “You’re not suggesting I was involved in aninappropriaterelationship with Kyle, are you?”
His lengthy pause is damning enough, but eventually, he says, “There have been multiple sources who have come forward with evidence that you were. Detailed text messages between you and other teachers.”
I’m shown an extensive collection of messages between myself and two other teachers. My chest hollows despite my pounding heart. It appears I’ve trusted snakes with this delicate situation instead of the friends I regretfully thought I had.
“It’s not what it looks like, I swear. I was only trying to help him.” The walls begin to close in on me when I turn to the vice principal. “Shelly, you know me. Tell him I would never do something like that.”
She directs her attention to the floor, refusing to meet my gaze, and my heart sinks.
So much for women supporting women.
“Allowing Mr. Henderson to sleep on your couch for any period of time is deemed inappropriate, but you went the extra mile by feeding, clothing, and housing him for two weeks.” He drops the pen he was holding with a heavy sigh. “Frankly, Callie, I’m not sure what you expected us to think about this.”
Anger boils in my gut. The unfairness of their accusations gnaws at my composure, and by the time I find my voice, I’m close to losing it altogether.
“What I expect is for you to have a better idea of what your students are suffering through instead of hiding behind your desk, punching numbers and cutting corners for the board.”
He blanches at my sardonic tone. “Excuse me?”
“Principal Clemons, Kyle’s dad is an alcoholic, his mom is a drug addict, and just a few months shy of graduation, he had the guts to say enough is enough.” My hands tremble in my lap, butI won’t take this lying down. I won’t sit back and let them fire me without speaking my truth. “When I caught on, he’d already been living out of his car for a week. He told me he didn’t think he could keep going, but he was so close to finishing the school year, making him the first person in his family to graduate. I didn’t want him thinking his only option was dropping out and becoming likethem. What’s so wrong with that?”
They exchange wary glances, and for a naïve moment, I think maybe they’ll reconsider.
“Regardless of his unfortunate situation, as his teacher, it’s not your job to step in.”
I blink, floored that a school praised for academic rigor and “nurturing tomorrow’s leaders” could be led with such heartlessness.
“You’re wrong.” I yank the resignation form toward me, scribble my signature at the bottom, then look Clemons dead in the eye. “It’s our job to do what’s best for them—allof them—and I’m disgusted to have been associated with a system that refuses to see that.”
They’re speechless by the time I stand and turn for the door.
I duck my head as I walk to my classroom to gather my things. Not even the stale scent of the gymnasium, sounds of hurried steps, or tinkling laughter from the students I’ve come to adore can mend the ache in my chest.
The bell rang nearly ten minutes ago, so I’m surprised to find a lanky young man, wearing clothes that don’t fit quite right, leaning against my desk.
Kyle looks about as well as I do with dark circles under his eyes and a solemn expression. “They fire you?” he asks bluntly.
“Yeah.”
I can’t make myself look around at the room that’s been mine for the last three years. Instead, I get to work packing up rather than crying over crushed dreams.
“Shit. This is all my fault,” he says. “Let me try to talk to them again.”
