Page 17

High School

A s always, they set the conference room to a brisk negative forty degrees. I watch Maryellen fuss over the preparations. I’m always early, and I’m always prepared, which is a stark contrast to the bulk of the teachers who work at Whistler’s Hollow Finishing School.

Many of them have taught here under over three headmasters, and though they don’t look their age in the slightest, they’ve long since given up the illusion of having control over their curriculum or classrooms. Bobbi Jo is the most progressive one they’ve had yet, but the lifers have lost their zeal for innovation.

Make no mistake—the students receive a high-quality education, and the school is nationally ranked in every category. However, the influence of the Council and the founding families is far-reaching. It makes teaching a challenge, one the folks here are no longer willing to face. So, they show up late, rarely have their work done on time, and don’t seem inclined to intervene when the elite kids decide which targets they’ll spend the rest of their time here torturing.

I seldom intervene, but for differing reasons than fear of powerful society mavens. My lack of empathy stems from knowing what the price of intervention could be, and they have taught me since birth that I am not to interfere as the wheel spins. I didn’t grow up here, and the minuscule amount of information I may impart to the citizens regarding my life prior to being assigned to the Hollow hampers my influence.

Those directives come from a much higher authority than the Council or the others. They may control the supes here and the Society has global control, but for beings like Doyle and I, a more powerful authority dictates our actions within their framework. Those we are pledged to would not be happy if we allowed our loyalties to come into question.

“Good morning, Hugo!”

The sunshine filled voice of our headmaster pulls me out of my reverie, and I give her an amiable smile. She is a pleasant woman, if simple, and I hate that she’s being manipulated the way she is. “Good morning, Bobbi Jo. Did you have an enjoyable weekend?”

Her bright smile and loud clothing are a bit much, but she brought doughnuts from Close Encounters of the Baked Kind , so we’ll have to forgive her.

Jillian Marie Remington might be an absolute bitch, but the woman inherited the family recipe vault, and her roots go all the way back to New Orleans during Lafayette’s days. Her fusion of European and down-home country techniques makes the shop famous enough to draw tourists in the season, and anything her staff produces is enough to make up for Bobbi Jo’s boundless cheer.

“I did! I worked in the garden, got some reading in, and just loafed like a lazy polecat!”

I give her a nod, as if that sounds interesting and amazing, and she beams. Our boss is easy to please at all between her general daffiness and the effects of the ritual. “I had meetings out of town, I’m afraid. All work and no play makes Hugo a dull boy.”

Her baffled expression is comical, but she also nods. “Indeed. Well, grab some grub, and have a seat. You know they’ll all trickle in soon enough. And we all know who the last man seated will be.”

Of course, we do. ‘Coach’ Edgar will bustle in ten minutes late, dressed like a model for Underarmor, and claim he had to ‘rearrange’ his bench schedule for this. No one believes him, of course, because the amount of actual ‘judge’ work he has to do is so minimal that it’s laughable. There’s little to no crime in the Hollow, outside of kiddy shit, and most they take large disputes to the Council for resolution. The title is almost honorary at this point—Edgar spends most of his time with the football team or running his multi-state sports book.

Isn’t that ironic?

“Jolene! You’re here!”

My head whips around as Bobbi Jo crows her delight at the woman entering the conference room. I only met her briefly this week, and duty called. She intrigued the hell out of me, and I still haven’t puzzled out why I reacted to her presence for that brief conversation.

Bobbi Jo must have already let her know that the dress code here is informal. She styled her raven hair into an intricate poofy braid, and I doubt she did that to herself. More interestingly, she’s dressed in a pair of strategically ripped, paint splattered jeans and an oversized man’s shirt tied in a knot at her waist. A pair of knee-high Doc Martens grace her legs, emphasizing her thick thighs and round hips.

Our eyes meet as I finish my perusal of the girl who is so different from the primped, plastic enhanced women that populate this town. The startling emerald color seems to flash with a rainbow of color for a moment so brief that I almost don’t catch it. Sucking in a breath, I frown. This woman is unidentified, and the glimpse of a color change such as that doesn’t jibe with any possibility I’m familiar with. I’m also concerned about it occurring when we looked at one another, but then left as soon as we broke eye contact.

Jolene Athena Whitley is an enigma wrapped in a riddle covered in delicious-looking powdered sugar.

Or at least she is now. She’s chowing down on coffee and doughnuts like there’s no tomorrow. My lips curve up as I watch her eat with more gusto than any woman her age in this town and half the ones older than her. She’s so comfortable in her skin I wonder about the reports that say she had a rough childhood here.

She seems to have adjusted well, if you ask me.

“Bobbi Jo!”

Again, I’m startled as the Judge himself enters five whole minutes before the meeting will begin. Edgar Olivier Boone III strolls in like a jolly fat man distributing presents, planting himself in the chair next to Jolene as if it was reserved for him. She gives him an eye roll, and it makes me chuckle. Whatever is going on between those two should be remarkably interesting. I’m sure I’ll have the pleasure of knowing now that seeing them will trigger the effects. He whispers in her ear, and she swats his shoulder none-too-gently.

I will enjoy the hell out of this meeting. That is becoming apparent.

Walking over to the pastries, I grab one and pour myself a cup of coffee. I’d prefer it black, but Maryellen makes coffee that tastes like eagle piss. I drop a random assortment of flavored creamers and sugar into the cup, mixing it to make my personal addiction drinkable. Edgar is still aggravating Jolene, and it occurs to me. I don’t think I’ve seen that jackass in a mood this good for a long time. He’s tolerable with her beside him.

Once I have my goodies, I maneuver to my usual seat on the other side of the table near the front. Bobbi Jo needs help with tech during the meetings, and no one else is inclined to stop her flustered babbling when it happens. The muffled snickers and eye rolls make me irritated, so I try to sit close enough to help when needed. Some of the staff are no better than the students with bullying, that’s for sure.

When the clock on the wall hits 8:30 am, a large group of teachers rush in. They’ve all been in the lounge gossiping and griping about having to come, and the late arrivals are all moronic power plays. Bobbi Jo is not the typical choice for headmaster, and though she’s one hundred percent behind the staff, they treat her like crap because she doesn’t fit their idea of the head for the illustrious Whistler’s Hollow Finishing School.

The bloody Council chose her, so I can’t figure out what in the fuck their problem is. She’s done nothing but make their lives easier, but I guess that’s small Southern town politics for you.

As my colleagues find their seats, I see the looks they give our new art teacher. Some are speculative, some are envious, some are outright hostile… I understand curiosity and even the jealousy wafting off the younger female teachers at Edgar’s obvious familiarity with Jolene. He’s a catch by local standards—hell, by any standards given his fortune—but he doesn’t fish from the same pond. Every single woman in the room is sizing the returned beauty up to figure out how to tear her down, that I guarantee.

“Okay everyone! Settle!”

The noise level doesn’t change a bit, and I sigh. Every. Damned. Time. I open my mouth to yell at them when I’m shocked to see Edgar stand. What’s he playing at? He’s the worst of the bunch.

“Now, folks. Bobbi Jo is trying to start the meeting. In the interest of efficiency, let’s all give her the floor so we can get on with our days. Some of y’all have classrooms to explore, and lesson plans to submit.”

I’ll be a son of a bitch. You could hear a pin drop as the room goes silent and our fearless leader beams like he handed her an Oscar.

“Thank you, Edgar, darling. I appreciate your help,” Bobbi Jo simpers.

She never thanks me, and I’ve had to shout like a referee in the past. Humph.

“Today marks the sixth ‘first day back’ meeting I’ve led, and I couldn’t be prouder to be the head of this amazing team. We have a new member joining us this year, though many of you may recognize her from her days at our schools when she was growing up. Jolene Athena Whitley, welcome back to Whistler’s Hollow Finishing School!”

Bobbi Jo claps like a maniac, Jolene turns a delectable shade of pink, and Edgar smirks as he claps along. I join the applause, and the rest of the staff does as well. It’s interesting watching the reactions of the others now that they have an identity to attach their emotions to. Some of the initial assessments change, and I can see a few of the jealous ones’ eyes glitter with intent. Looks like Jolene’s tenure at this school may have been rougher than I realized, and her position at the school may not be any better.

“Jolene, of course you know Edgar. He’s the football coach, but he teaches advanced personal training classes to select athletes at the school as an elective.” Bobbi Jo turns to me and points. “Hugo is our one-man history department—his classes rotate so he can fill all the needs for the subject.

The ladies in the corner there represent the Science and English departments, and Marcel looks grumpy, but he teaches French, English, and Greek studies. The Math department is at a conference until Wednesday, and the other arts teachers are finishing up a summer camp at one of the Cantwell’s event spaces until Friday. You met Maryellen and?—”

“Excuse me, Bobbi Jo? Do you think we could move it along for those of us who have actual lives to lead?”

The tone of voice that comes out of the woman I thought was a sweet heiress of the Atwater fortune is a shock to me. I went on several dates with Dolly when I first moved to the Hollow, but we just didn’t click. She was never anything but kind to me, though, and I honestly did not know this kind of person lurked inside of her. A smirk that carries more malice than I can fathom mars even the doll-like perfection of her blue eyes and cupid bow lips.

What in the hell has been going on in this town since Jolene arrived?

“Um, well… yes. Yes, Virginia, there is an agenda!” Bobbi Jo jokes to a silent staff. “Hugo, if you could fire up the smart board for me, we’ll get into the objectives for today.”

I nod, looking over at the star of the hour. She’s chewing her lip hard, eyes on the table in front of her as Edgar whispers something into her hair. Her head shakes, and she shoos him away, picking up a pen to doodle in her open notebook. Sighing, I turn to the laptop and start plugging in the mess that Bobbi Jo’s made of her presentation into the viewer.

Looks like battle lines have been drawn at WHFS, and the students aren’t even in session yet.