First to Fail (Unraveled #3) - Marie Johnston Page 0,5

one of my father’s schools from sinking was about stopping the abuse of power that had been dragging the school down, not being tough for no reason. I always had a valid reason.

“What is it, Ms. Branson?” I pushed away from the desk. My assistant was nearly as new as I was. I had only arrived at the beginning of the month, but Ms. Branson had started a month earlier when the new school year had begun. I had kept her on because Ms. Branson had just turned in her resumé, disgusted with the atrocious behavior of the last principal. With at least one person in my corner, maybe I could save this ship from getting toppled by the next wave of parental outrage.

Just like I’d done at the previous school I’d fixed.

“The history teacher brought down a freshman. The girl was late for class all last week and Mr. Budinsky has had enough.” Ms. Branson looked behind her, then stepped into the room, holding the door almost completely closed. “He’s also tried disciplining her for abusing the use of his name.”

Budinsky. I could imagine all the ways a teenage mind would twist that.

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll let you know when to send her in.” The girl’s tardiness wasn’t the major concern. It was what had caused her to arrive late to class. Again with the teenage mind.

I logged into the security footage. The cameras had been in disrepair, but they were one of the first things I had gotten fixed when I accepted the position of principal. The former principal had been sleeping with the head of the finance department and they’d redirected funds. Some had been embezzled, the rest diverted to bulk up the football team and purchase a new bus. Never mind that the library had one DVD player to check out and it was the first DVD player most of the school’s students had ever seen.

Assuming the student was in the current period, I reviewed the security footage of the minutes before and after Mr. Budinsky’s class started. It was only Monday and tardiness looked to be on the schedule for this week. The grainy footage of a girl sauntering up to the closed door, shooting a shit-eating grin over her shoulder, was clear enough. The student wore a khaki skirt, which wasn’t popular with the girls. Most preferred pants, since leggings went against the dress code.

Preston Academy had a uniform dress code. Navy blue or khaki pants or skirts. Red, navy, or white polo shirts could be paired with them.

I punched into another camera’s feed. A boy lingered in front of a storage closet. I narrowed my eyes. I’d never been in that particular closet, but I’d bet my father’s new Audi that it had enough room for two kids to get handsy, especially if one of those kids wore a skirt.

“Not on my watch,” I muttered. I sent Ms. Branson a message to send the student in. I also listed the camera and minutes for Ms. Branson to determine the identity of the boy.

Seconds later, my office door opened, and the girl slipped inside. Her light brown hair hung loose over wiry shoulders. Her light brown eyes were a rebellious mix of do your worst and I don’t care. I might be deluding myself, but I thought I also saw a little oh shit, what have I gotten myself into?

I hoped the girl felt that way. It gave me a little hope that I could work with the student’s behavior.

“Ms. Shaw.” The girl sat primly in a chair on the other side of my desk. She looked around the office.

Yep, it was bare. I had spent the first week packing the former principal’s trophies in a box. Then I’d loaded all the outdated textbooks and taken the haul to the end of the drive that led to Preston Academy. The old employee—or his mistress, who no longer worked at Preston Academy either—could come pick up his belongings as long as they didn’t step foot on campus.

As for my decorating efforts, I’d find appropriate decor. My preferences had to go out the window. Movie posters and pop culture art were not appropriate for the head of a private school. I could just imagine the president of the school board wandering in and questioning his hiring choice.

I’d never been able to openly display the few knickknacks I’d collected over the years or the purchases I’d made at cons. But I’d been deliciously distracted from