Page 52 of The Hallows Queen

“Kill it!” she says, then my phone beeps as the call drops.

I take a breath and stare at my reflection. My face is beat to perfection, my contour chiseling my already decent bone structure, but I went easy on the eye makeup, skipping my usual black eyeliner and just using a neutral eyeshadow and mascara. I chose a black skirt that hangs right about at my knees, paired it with a burgundy blouse and my lucky pair of Louboutin’s, and my mom gifted me a to-die-for Prada bag as agood luck on your first daypresent to tie the whole outfit together.

I slip my feet into my shoes as I pass through my bedroom, then head to the kitchen to grab a protein bar. I don’t want to risk being late if I battle the line at the coffee shop, so I also fill up a thermos with coffee and add some cream.

Making sure my phone is in my purse, I grab one of the folders I brought home from lesson planning with Mrs. Justice last week and my keys, then head outside.

The sun has yet to rise into the sky, and a chill kisses my bare legs as I head out for my car.

Excitement bubbles in my chest as I crank the engine of my Cayenne. I can’t believe this isreallyhappening. After almost a decade, I’ve hit the goal I’ve been working toward.

What do I work toward now?

I chew on my lip as I pull out of my parking space, and then start heading to Luxington High, the question bothering me. What do people look forward to when they have already fulfilled their goals?

What’s after the finish line? Or is this when I settle down, get comfortable, and eventually start decaying? Oh god, is this what my life is now?

Something dark settles inside of me, and suddenly, I feel trapped.

Yeah, things have changed. I’m still getting my groove on this wholeadult lifething, but I’ve never not had a purpose or a goal before.

What’s next?

* * *

“Good morning, Mrs. Justice.”

I greet my cranky partner-in-crime, who’s flipping through a textbook at her desk, and then I find my own desk and sit. Putting my now empty coffee cup down, I throw my purse into the bottom drawer of my desk and then power on my computer.

My desk sits in the far corner of the room, parallel to Mrs. Justice’s, which is in the center of the wall like she’s the main attraction and I’m just her sidekick. I guess I am.

While my computer starts up, I stand back up and grab my coffee cup. Stopping in front of Mrs. Justice’s desk, I smile. “I’m going to run to the teacher’s lounge and get some coffee, would you like anything?”

She points to her cup, which is filled with the same thick, green liquid she had every day of the last two weeks that I met her here. “I’m fine.”

I nod, trying my best not to look disgusted at the concoction she’s decided is a substitute for breakfast. I know my way around pretty well, since I spent the last couple of weeks here lesson planning, but there’s a decent sized crowd of students mingling in the halls now, which adds an extra layer of anxiety. I’m thankful I had time to get to know this place without students; I would hate to be the new person who needed a map.

The thought reminds me of how many times I was that person growing up. I was constantly changing schools when my foster homes changed, so I got used to being the new kid after my third elementary school. But the embarrassment never went away.

It wasn’t until fifth grade that I just stopped giving a fuck altogether. I had enough of new introductions, new lockers, new seat assignments, and that awkward‘class, we have a new student’speech the teachers gave. That’s when I started beingthatfoster kid, the stereotypical one. Never brought a pencil, always got sent to the principal’s office, thebadkid from the broken home who no one wanted to be friends with.

It didn’t bother me – what was I going to do, invite a friend for a slumber party in a house that wasn’t mine?

That little stripe of embarrassment stayed, though. No matter howtoughI tried to be, I was always the new kid with no family, the one who didn’t know where she was born, the one who didn’t know her middle name.

When I started university, and officially settled on teaching as my major, I promised myself I would never make a student feel isolated like I felt growing up. I would never make a kid stand up and introduce themselves on their first day in the middle of the year. I would never let a troubled kid go ignored simply because of their situation.

I find my way to the teachers’ lounge without incident and make a beeline straight for the fancy-pants coffeemaker on the counter.

Me and this coffeemaker are on a first name basis already, so I dig around in the drawer for the caramel macchiato pod and slip it into the machine. Making sure there’s water in the back, I pop my empty cup under the spout and hit theBREWbutton.

While the coffeemaker does its thing, I turn around and lean my back against the counter.

“First day?”

My gaze finds a young blonde woman sitting at one of the tables, using a plastic fork to cut into a stack of pancakes.

“First day with students,” I answer.

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