CHAPTER ONE
“Ashleigh Hutchinson, please report to the principal’s office.”
The voice summoning me over the intercom crackles through the dull murmur of the chemistry lab. Students abandon their Bunsen burners and beakers—some clear, others filled with orange bubbling liquid, a couple with radioactive green—in favor of staring at me.
One beaker goes up in smoke. That’ll be fun to clean up later. Or should I say, throw out? Not even acetone can save that beaker. And I refuse to use beakers that have been compromised by organic matter in my classroom. I do have standards.
The air is so thick with bitter smoke that I cough. The entire room smells like the burned coffee you get from the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop near the Metro station, the kind you know only makes a profit because caffeine is an addiction and a severe hangover can make you pay five dollars for a cup of literal garbage that’s been baking on the sidewalk during a record heat wave in summer. Which I did, coincidentally, just this morning.
“Oooooohhh, what’d you do, Miss Ash?” Jonah calls out from the back of the class, setting off a chain of gossipy whispers. Other teachers have dubbed him the “class clown”—his mission, to disrupt the class. But the way I see it, he’s a natural leader. And funny as fuck, too, though I’ll never tell him that—he can figure it out when he inevitably becomes the CEO of a start-up in Silicon Valley.
I touch my nose and point at Jonah, implying I know what I did to get sent to the principal’s office and I’m not telling. The truth is, I have no idea why I’m being summoned right now. Then I direct my attention to the entire class. “Turn off your burners, bottle up your concoctions, and finish your lab reports.”
I launch myself out of the chair and crack a window to diffuse the smell. “Aaron, you’re in charge,” I say to the smartest thirteen-and-a-half-year-old I’ve ever met. “And don’t forget to label your bottles. I need your name, today’s date, and your blend.” I close the door behind me.
The truth is, the lab report means nothing. It’s the last day of school. They all passed with flying colors. But why waste one final opportunity to practice? Plus, I now have ten bottles of simple syrup just in time for the summer break. Okay, make that nine. They can’t all be winners.
This year I went for a combination of orange-infused, lime-infused, and straight-up sugar water. I can’t wait to try Aaron’s tonight, hair of the dog and all. Which appears to be the only way to cure the kind of pounding headache I currently have. Believe me, I’ve tried everything else.
I turn the corner and nearly bump into Miss Clare, Sherman Oaks Private School’s biology teacher and my personal hype woman.
“Ash,” she says, placing her hand gently on my arm as we do the hallway tango of walking around each other while fitting in as much interaction as we possibly can before our feet take us our separate ways. She tilts her head toward the intercom in the hall with a smile. “Promotion?”
“On the last day of school? Hardly,” I say, laughing.I wish.But maybe someday. Principal Holland will need to retire sooner or later, and I know I’m the right person to replace him.
“Another award, then,” she says, getting excited.
“Maybe,” I say, a little coy, like it’s nothing when in fact, every award I win is another step closer to proving I’m capable of running the school.
I resume my march toward the office, but not before clamping down on the smile that’s creeping across my face. Shit, maybe Iamgetting promoted.
Connie, the school administration manager, waves me through without looking up from her extremely loud and ASMR-porn worthy keyboard. She’s always typing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen hernottype. Which is weird, right? Like how many school newsletters can she send out in a week? And how many times can she ask the parents for more money for even more “state-of-the-art” facilities?
I have a theory that Connie is secretly like Allison Janney’s character in10 Things I Hate About You—an erotica author who goes by a pen name, something like Mike Hunt, and she writes all day about his “throbbing member” entering her “slit.”
Now Connie gives me a small nod of permission and I head into Principal Holland’s office. I’m immediately assaulted by a barrage of participation awards hanging from the walls. You know, “Best Dressed School of 1984” and “Healthiest LunchMenu in the County.” I search for the “Biggest Asshole” certificate for Principal Holland but come up short. I don’t even know how he gets these awards. Is there a principal awards night where sad people go to feel validated?
Don’t get me wrong. I love teaching. I love my students. But I loathe Principal Holland. If I were to profile him like I was onCriminal Minds, my binge-watching show of choice, he’d be a serial killer, no question. Male, midforties, mother issues—which is why he obviously hates strong women. He thinks the world owes him.
Hearing me, the man himself swivels around on his vintage oxblood leather chesterfield chair and gestures for me to sit. “Ashleigh,” he says in such a slimy way I almost vomit in my mouth. How can someone make you hate the sound of your own name? “Do you know the reason I’ve called you out of your class today?”
Guess we’re skipping the small talk. Thank God.
I’m about to straight-up ask where my latest award is but decide to play it cool.
“Is it about the simple syrup? Brilliant, right? The kids love learning about hydrolysis,” I say, explaining how lessons in chemistry can double as lessons in useful life skills.
He shakes his head. “We’ve had complaints.”
Wait, what?Complaints?That’s unexpected. I care for my students. I take them from flailing preteens who can’t even tell you that hydrogen is the first element on the periodic table to having the top grades in the state.Andthey can whip up a mean simple syrup.
“What are you talking about? If I’m not mistaken, one of those awards on your wall states I’m the best chemistry teacher in the state.” I point to the wall where, in fact, a plaque with my name on it is displayed. Granted the school’s name is evenbigger. And Principal Hollandfuck’s name is on it too. But still, it’s there. Proof.
The smallest smirk rests in the corner of Principal Holland’s mouth. He’s totally getting off on this. TheCriminal Mindsprofile stands. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a basement full of body parts. Wheels up in twenty.
“It is not about your classroom, Ashleigh.” Again, with the name. I shiver. “I’ve had numerous reports about your out-of-school activities,” he goes on, emphasizing theout-of-schoolpart so forcefully I can smell the stale tobacco from the not-so-secret cigarette he smokes at lunch. “Our reputation is important, and your …promiscuousbehavior is leaving a bad taste in the mouth of the parents, the faculty, and the school community.”
And suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.
