Page 10 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

"I'm just being helpful." I avoid her gaze, focusing instead on straightening a stack of summer reading program pamphlets.

Before Harriet can lecture me further, I notice Mr. and Mrs. Fangsworth hovering uncertainly at the juncture between two hallways.

"I'll go help them find Ms. Howell's room," I say, already moving away. "We'll catch up later?"

Harriet sighs but nods. "Don't overdo it."

I cross the hallway quickly, putting on my most reassuring smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Fangsworth! Looking for Ms. Howell's classroom?"

"Yes, thank you, Nurse Maeve." Mrs. Fangsworth's tense posture relaxes slightly. "This place is a maze."

"It's just down the hall on the left," I explain, gesturing for them to follow me.

"Did you hear about the Stillwaters?" As we walk, Mrs. Fangsworth shifts closer to me, lowering her voice. "Apparently, they're renovating their entire underwater grotto after that unfortunate incident with their daughter's pet octopus."

Mr. Fangsworth chuckles, a surprisingly gentle sound from such a large man.

"No!" I gasp, always a sucker for Saltford Bay's harmless gossip. "What happened?"

"Let's just say ink stains don't come out of carpets easily," she whispers with a wink. "I heard the girl tried to pretend it was her, but her mother wasn't a fool. Krakens don't get their ink till they're at least twelve years old."

"Smart girl." I nod. Kyra Stillwater was indeed one of the brightest kraken students of the school. "Here's Ms. Howell's room. She'll be so pleased to show you Tommy's science project."

After directing the Fangsworths, I return to my post as greeter and guide. For the next two hours, I direct lost parents, answer questions about our summer programs, and replenish our stock of baked goods and drinks at the concession table.

By eight thirty, my feet ache and my smile feels plastered on my face. I slip into the teacher's lounge for a fresh cup of herbal tea, pouring the hot brew into my favorite mug.

"Weird bug, whatever it is," Ms. Jensen says to Mr. Rockwell near the coffee maker. "Emmie Stinson's entire family is sick, and she said the spots glow in the dark."

"Probably just spring fever." Mr. Rockwell shrugs. "Happens every year."

I take a sip of my tea, mulling over their words. Glowing spots doesn't sound like any spring fever I've encountered.

"Ah, Maeve!" The deep, rumbling voice behind me makes me jump, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my cup.

Principal Braggstone fills the doorway, his seven-foot troll frame requiring him to duck slightly to enter the lounge. His gray-green skin looks almost olive under the fluorescent lights, and his perpetually furrowed brow suggests either deep thinking or mild constipation. I'd place a bet on the latter. The moss-green stubble on his otherwise bald head catches the light as he moves, creating an almost shimmering effect that would be beautiful if it weren't attached to someone who makes my skin crawl. His massive hands, each finger thick as a sausage and tipped with manicured nails, grip the doorframe as he looks at me like I’m a cake on display at the bakery.

"Principal Braggstone." I nod politely, already calculating the fastest escape route.

"Orlin, please." He smiles, revealing shockingly white and even teeth. "We're colleagues, after all."

"Orlin," I echo, inching toward the door.

"Volunteering late again?" He moves farther into the room but stays in the doorway, effectively blocking my path. "Such dedication! The school is lucky to have you."

"Just helping out." I gesture vaguely toward the hallway. "Actually, I should check on the refreshment table."

"I'll walk with you." He falls into step beside me, his long stride forcing me to walk faster than comfortable. "I was fishing last weekend, you know. Caught the biggest trout anyone's seen in Saltford Bay this season."

"Impressive," I murmur, scanning the hallway, desperate for an excuse to break away.

"The key is patience," he continues, standing too close as I rearrange cookies on the refreshment table. "You can't rush these things. The fish, or whatever you're after, needs to feel comfortable before it takes the bait."

I nod mechanically, the metaphor not lost on me. His massive frame hovers over mine, casting a shadow across the table. My skin prickles with discomfort, but years of professionalism keep my smile fixed in place.

From across the room, I spot Harriet waving frantically, pointing to a worried-looking woman with iridescent blue skin and a long flowing head of hair that falls all the way to her knees.

"Excuse me," I say, relief washing through me. "I believe someone needs medical advice."