Page 13 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)
chapter twelve
A gatha and I straighten our skirts—mine is a very staid navy blue and hers is a bright orange and black polka dotted affair, dotty just like her —and we don matching professional expressions as the sound of footfalls grows louder.
The clatter of shoes and muffled grunts of effort echo down the hall, and I can see Agatha’s lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement.
“Don’t,” I whisper, narrowing my eyes at her.
She grins anyway, biting her lip as if that’ll stop the giggle bubbling up inside her. When the first students round the corner, she nearly loses it, but I kick her lightly on the shin to shut her up.
“Ow!” she hisses, clutching her shin dramatically like I’ve maimed her for life.
But instead of quieting down, she snorts. Loudly. Then pretends to cough to cover it up, which, of course, only makes things worse.
I sigh, shooting her a glare that says get it together as a group of teenage boys, their arms full of boxes, shuffle into view.
“Hello, Professors. Where should we put these boxes?” Matthew Jones asks, his voice polite but distracted.
Matthew is usually one of my more dependable students. Quiet, attentive, and usually the kind of kid who raises his hand with thoughtful questions. Unique especially since he’s a jock.
But today, he looks off .
His face is pale, and his movements are stiff, like he’s not entirely in control of his limbs.
I frown as I watch him cross the room, carefully depositing his box in the corner where Agatha is directing the rest of the boys.
Something isn’t right.
“Matthew,” I call gently, my brows knitting together. “Are you feeling okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah, Professor Troy,” he mumbles, his voice a little flat. Then he hesitates, shifting his weight awkwardly before glancing at me. “I mean, I guess. Hey, can I ask you something? Since you’re, like, a girl and all?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Uh, sure,” I say, taking a fortifying breath.
Technically, he’s not wrong.
I am a girl, I suppose.
And Matthew’s always been sensible and respectful, so I nod, bracing myself for whatever question is coming.
“Go ahead.”
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Do you think Cyndi would like it if I showed up with red roses to ask her to the ball? Or pink? Pink is her favorite, but red is romantic, right?”
“Oh, um,” I begin, my brain scrambling for a tactful response, when another voice cuts in.
“Back off, Matt. I’m asking Cyndi to the ball,” Brian Henderson says, ambling over with a determined look in his glassy eyes.
Matthew bristles, straightening his spine as he turns to face Brian.
“Hey man, I’m the one who’s asking her.”
“Yeah, well, I called dibs,” Brian retorts, puffing out his chest.
“You can’t call dibs on a person!”
Before I can intervene, another boy, Daniel Spano , joins the fray, setting his box down with a thud.
“What are you guys talking about? I’m asking Cyndi to the ball.”
“Like hell you are!”
“Get in line, buddy!”
“Dude, I’m *way* closer to her locker than you are between classes!”
And so it goes, one by one, until all five boys are shouting over each other, their voices rising in pitch as the argument escalates. Agatha and I exchange wide-eyed looks as the boys start jabbing fingers into each other’s chests, dangerously close to a full-blown shoving match.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa !” I shout, stepping forward and throwing up my hands.
“That’s enough! Everyone take a deep breath before this turns into something we all regret.”
The boys freeze, glancing at me like they’ve just realized I’m still in the room. For a moment, the tension seems to deflate, but the glassy look in their eyes doesn’t go away.
Agatha leans closer, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Is it just me, or are these boys acting weird ?”
I nod, my frown deepening. This isn’t normal teenage awkwardness or misplaced bravado.
This is something else.
And I don’t like it one bit.