Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,35
I call you Simon or Mr. Burnham? she finally wrote in her notebook.
He knew trouble when it nudged him in the arm.
If first impressions proved accurate, Ms. Wick was a problem with no clear solution, a human version of the Riemann Hypothesis, and he wanted none of it. None of her.
Mr. Burnham, he wrote, and determinedly ignored her for the rest of the faculty meeting.
When the lengthy meeting ended, Ms. Wick tucked her notebook beneath her arm, slung her purse over her shoulder, and raised a pale eyebrow. “Have I passed initial inspection, Mr. Burnham?”
Her voice was slightly hoarse, low and warm with amusement. It seemed expressly designed for sharing confidences and laughter. But Simon had never indulged in those sorts of dangerous intimacies, and he didn’t intend to start now. Especially with someone like her.
“I’ll meet you in your room shortly,” he said.
At that, she snorted. “I’ll take that as a no.”
The prospect didn’t seem to bother her. She left the table after a saucy salute in his direction, and within a dozen confident strides, she was linking arms with one of the other art teachers and whispering briefly before they both convulsed with mirth as they left the cafeteria.
Maybe she was laughing at him. His rigidity. His coldness.
Fortunately, he didn’t care about her good opinion. He cared about professionalism and hard work and creating an orderly, calm environment for himself and his students alike. As long as the personal lives and judgments of his colleagues didn’t affect job performance, they were irrelevant. Hell, he didn’t even know why Mildred had left, or why Candy was so happy to see the older woman gone. He didn’t need to know, and he didn’t want to.
Although Mildred, as of last year, hadn’t mentioned the prospect of leaving, and the customary ceremonies accompanying the retirement of such a longtime teacher hadn’t occurred. No announcement in a faculty meeting or presentation of flowers and a gift. No potluck in the library, which he visited only to offer a handshake before promptly departing once more.
Odd. Very odd.
Considering the matter, he slowly walked to the cafeteria door, only to find himself beside Candy and one of the newer English teachers—Greg? Griff? It didn’t matter.
“Ms. Albright.” Simon was speaking to her. Why was he speaking to her? “Please pardon the interruption. I was wondering—”
No, he wasn’t a gossip, and he didn’t care.
Her brows rose behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, Mr. Burnham?”
He wrestled with himself for a moment.
“Mildred. Mrs. Krackel.” There. That wasn’t a question. Thus, he wasn’t a gossip.
Greg-Griff-Whoever turned away to cough into his fist, shoulders shaking, while a tiny, evil smile curved Ms. Albright’s mouth.
“Mildred got what she deserved,” she declared. “Mary Shelley would be pleased.”
Then she marched down the hall without another word, her English Department colleague at her shoulder.
Terrifying, Ms. Wick had called Ms. Albright.
Mary Shelley had written Frankenstein, a story of horror and violence and transgression. And the author would be pleased about what happened to Mrs. Krackel? What precisely had Ms. Albright thought Mildred deserved?
The halls of the school seemed to empty with astonishing quickness that evening, and by the time he’d stopped by his room to gather his briefcase and journeyed to the opposite end of the school, where Ms. Wick’s classroom was located, shadows were amassing in the corners. His footsteps echoed in an unsettling way as he strode down halls he’d rarely visited.
His pace quickened as he neared her door. It was getting late, and he didn’t intend to spend longer with his mentee than absolutely necessary.
She was sitting at her desk, her high forehead crinkled as she typed on her laptop. Another man, one less intent on the business at hand, one interested in such matters, might have called that evidence of her concentration endearing.
Her shades were closed against the gathering dusk outside, and the overhead fluorescent lights didn’t entirely banish the gloom. To his surprise, however, the expansive room, stuffed with work tables and cabinets, was neater than Ms. Wick herself upon first glance.
He’d have time to inspect her classroom organization later. His first priority: making the rules and expectations regarding their relationship—their mentor-mentee relationship, that is—clear.
When he knocked on her doorframe, she looked up from her laptop placidly, with no sign of startlement.
Even as he approached her desk, he began instructing her. “Per Principal Dunn’s request, I will observe your seventh period class for five consecutive days, beginning this upcoming Monday. Since seventh period is one of my planning periods, I will stay the