Page 2 of Wintertime Heat (Holiday 1)

Scarlett gives me an unnerving look, “You don’t watch Spanish soaps, Abby. You study them.”

“All righty then.” I chew my food quickly. “I’m not going to do it, though.”

“Just flirt a little. You haven’t dated anyone serious since Tim Andrews and that was two years ago. You need some action.”

Burning my tongue with the scalding coffee that I gulped down my throat, I glare at her, “Not at my new job. I don’t plan to be the school slut.”

Scarlett scoffs, tossing her mane of thick hair over her shoulder in an artful manner, which I’m sure she practices in the mirror at least once a day, “Honey, you couldn’t be the school slut, even if you tried.”

I pause in the act of closing the clasp of my purse and frown, looking up, “Why do I feel like I was just insulted?”

“Because you were,” Scarlett plants a kiss on my cheek, throws me a warm jacket for the bitter cold outside, and kicks me out.

Standing outside my door, I blink owlishly when it suddenly opens, and my car keys are thrusted into my hand, slamming the door shut again.

Sighing, I shake my head, and check for the time, making a mental note to adjust the time of my watch.

My trusty red Gurgel Supermini, the first car that I bought with my own savings, stood in its spot. I run an affectionate hand over it, before climbing in and starting the engine. The heater sputters and dies, before coming back to life and slowly the ice box, that I was sitting in, starts heating up.

It is the last week of October. Even though Halloween is a huge thing in this side of Boston, the cold turn of the weather has pushed even the more fanatic people who celebrate Halloween, inside their homes.

This winter held the record of the worst one in the past ten years.

It was a wonder they hadn’t shut the schools down, I muse, as I take a turn and see the huge, red building that looms in the near distance.

For a public school, Woodside Public School was surely well maintained. It had just recently been renovated again, from what I’d heard, and most of their staff had been replaced. But the standard of education had definitely improved.

Parking my car, I get out and pull my jacket closer around my shoulders, feeling the cold seep into my bones. However, I couldn’t help the broad smile across my face at thought of my class.

I was appointed the Senior English teacher of the Junior High School. It has taken a lot of effort to get here. I worked in private schools, as a volunteer, as a paid staff member, but my aim had always been to work in a public school.

The students here come from diverse backgrounds and having studied myself in a public school, I knew first-hand how dire it was for these young minds to have teachers who truly wanted to help them flourish.

So, when I walked into my first class and saw the young teenagers hanging about the classroom, wearing bored expressions on their faces, I grinned.

Time to get to work.

&nbs

p; “My name is Abby Johnson. You can call me Miss Abby or Miss Johnson.” I grab the chalk and scrawl my name onto the blackboard and then turn around to stare at a sea of uninterested faces.

Raising a brow, I say, “Put away your books. We don’t need those.”

That certainly got their attention.

The school was huge.

Taking advantage of the hour’s break that I got between classes, I explored the whole school from top to bottom. I found it interesting that they had put together the entire of the Primary School and the Junior School.

It seemed very ambitious.

“Miss Johnson!” Came a frazzled voice from behind me, making me pause and look over my shoulder.

The Principal’s assistant, a young man, probably around my age I assumed, was walking briskly toward me, his eyes lit with annoyance.

“Mr. Davis. Do you need me for something?” I really hoped I hadn’t done anything. I didn’t fancy a visit to the Principal’s office.

Collin Davis was a tall man with a very striking face. And right now, annoyance was the foremost expression on it, “You’re supposed to be on duty in the lunch room, Miss Johnson.”

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