“They are full of shit. Claudia broke up with me! Not the other way around. And there were no tears! Fix it now before my grandmother sees it.”
“I told you that I’m on it. I’ll talk to you later.” She ended the call.
I threw my phone on the bed and stepped into the shower. When I was finished, I checked my phone and noticed I had a text message from my grandmother.
I will be stopping by your office this afternoon. You’d better be there.
Shit.
I’ll be in the office all day.
Chapter Two
Samantha
“Zoey, come on!” I shouted. “We cannot be late.”
She waltzed into the kitchen and set her backpack down.
“I can’t believe you’re teaching English at my school. Why couldn’t you just open that used bookstore/coffee shop/hot mess hybrid you always talk about?”
“Thank you for calling my dream a ‘hot mess hybrid. You’re so charming, my sweet sixteen-year-old daughter.”
“You teaching English at my high school is an act of war,” she said, scrolling on her phone.
“Oh, come on. I’m fun. Your friends love me. I quote Jane Austen and carry color-coded pens.” I grinned.
“You’re going to be in the same building, breathing the same air, and correcting my classmates’ grammar in real time, Mom. This is actual trauma. I hope we can afford the therapy I’m going to need.”
“Stop being dramatic.” I poured coffee into my to-go mug. “It’s not like I’m going to shout, ‘Love you, Zoey-bear,’ down the hallway every day.”
“If you even say it once, I’m transferring to a boarding school in Switzerland and changing my name to Freida. Ugh. Why do you insist on making my life a living hell, mother?”
“Your hell is my hell,” I smirked. “Let’s go.” I grabbed my bag and purse.
“Just so you know. I already texted everyone I know and warned them.” She glanced at me as we stepped out of the apartment.
“That’s fine. Just don’t text during class. I hear the new English teacher is strict but quirky and totally cool.” I smiled. “Think of it as a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“I will not.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder.
“Sam!” I heard someone yell my name as I walked into the school.
When I turned around, I saw my best friend, Greta, rushing towards me, coffee spilling over the lid of her Starbucks cup.
“Are you ready to teach high school English Literature?” she asked, smiling.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Thanks again for putting in a good word with Principal Jordan.”
“I couldn’t think of a better English teacher.”
I opened the door to room 217, where I would teach English literature to high school students for the entire year. Stepping inside, I flipped the light switch and smiled at my clean, decorated space. Greta was a Godsend for helping me get this job, as the last school I worked at had to lay off teachers due to budget cuts.
I set down my bag and purse and picked up a piece of chalk. Dragging it along the chalkboard, I wrote my name, Sam Hollis—Where books are friends and grammar matters, mostly (except in texts. I’m not a monster).
Walking to the windows, I pulled the blinds all the way down and turned on the fairy lights I had put up last week across the tops of the windows and along the edges of the bulletin boards. The lights cast a soft glow that set my room apart from all the other teachers’ rooms in the school. I set the lights to twinkle gently, creating a sense of calm and peace for the students.
The first bell rang, and students began to filter into the room with faces filled with sadness, worry, and anger. A mix of emotions walked into my classroom, and I would make sure to change that.
