Page 3 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter two

W hile I was busy ignoring my overactive and much neglected libido, especially where Principal Tremayne was concerned, the man himself was announcing his plans to reinstate the Harvest Moon Ball .

It was only the biggest dance in the history of school dances. And the folks at Castor’s Corner apparently missed it.

Its date aligns with the Harvest Moon, hence the name. And if my memory is correct, it’s in just two weeks.

So darn soon, too .

It’s been a while, but I remember the last time the Academy held one.

I was sixteen and named the sophomore class’s Pumpkin Princess.

Even with braces and over-sprayed hair, it was still one of my favorite memories.

Unfortunately, the day after I was crowned one of the town’s big wig families filed a complaint and the dance was taken off the school calendar.

Talk about sour grapes.

I hate to bust your bubble, but some so-called princesses were more wicked than us Witches!

I never did find out who was responsible for that, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

If Principal Tremayne is confident the school should have the dance, then I am totally fine with it.

I walk into my class and, of course, no one is seated yet. But I don’t blame them.

This dance is big news.

“Professor Troy, can you believe it?” Bethany Spano, one of my favorite students, is standing by my desk with her twin brother, Daniel.

She’s the sweetest little thing.

Curvy, nerdy, and shy. Her nose is always in a book, and she is never late with her homework.

Bethany kind of reminds me of me, which might be why I have a soft spot for her.

Daniel is much the same, except he is Bethany’s polar opposite appearance wise.

Where Bethany is cute and soft, this teenager is tall, lean, and has a head full of shockingly pale platinum hair.

Daniel is one of the Academy’s few Magical Music students.

That’s a program for Warlocks and Witches whose magic is triggered through music.

He’s quiet, but polite and for that alone, I like him.

“It is big news,” I tell Bethany and smile gently.

“I-I wonder if I’ll get asked to go,” she whispers, biting her lip.

I swear my poor heart squeezes as I watch her gaze flick over to where Matthew Jones, star quarterback, is sitting with the most obnoxious student I have ever had, Cynthia Tremayne.

Ugh.

Did you notice the last name?

Yep. You guessed it.

Cynthia is the daughter of my boss, the smexy pants principal. She is currently in my class, and she is a total and complete brat.

But it’s worse than that.

Cyndi notices Bethany’s longing gaze and the little monster grins right before she sits down on Matthew’s lap.

Like she’s an erotic dancer and this is a private booking.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

The quarterback raises his hands, his expression shocked like he isn’t sure what to do.

Bethany looks away, sadness washing across her face. Daniel growls. And the rest of the class smirks and chitters away like the gossip chasing clowns they sometimes are.

But I was more than ready to handle it.

I walk over to the pair of them, and I cross my arms.

Sigh.

I know she knows I’m there, but Cyndi keeps chatting away, twirling a lock of Matthew’s chestnut hair around her finger.

He isn’t touching her. But he isn’t saying no, either.

That makes me sad.

Bethany should maybe set her sights elsewhere, but I know he isn’t a bad kid.

I mean, I can’t blame Matthew for being interested.

Cyndi is lovely.

She’s tall and thin, with golden locks and bright blue eyes. She is the epitome of beauty.

But as we all know, that only goes skin deep.

Beyond her perfect porcelain complexion, Cyndi is, I’m sorry to say, ugly to the bone.

She is a spoiled little brat.

“Do you mind?” I ask, and Cyndi turns her head to face me, scrunching her nose like she smells something bad.

“Mind? No, I don’t mind,” she replies, turning back to Matthew.

“Okay. That’s it. Everyone, sit down. In. Your. Own. Seat,” I tell the entire class before turning back to where Cyndi is still perched on a panicked looking Matthew’s lap.

“Uh, Cyndi, I think the professor wants you to?—”

“I’ll handle this,” she says with a smirk. “I really like this seat Professor Troy. I think I’ll stay.”

“Miss Tremayne, you are dangerously close to getting a failing grade for the day. You have three seconds to comply,” I tell her.

“Failing grade? For what? I mean, I am sitting down,” she retorts.

“Okay, that is one failing mark for you. And one for Matthew. Now, are you going to return to your seat, or do I mark you down for detention?”

“You can’t do that!” she spits angrily.

“Cyndi, come on,” Matthew says, and he is squirming to get her off, but Cyndi is worse than a tick.

“You do understand that the next failing grade means you will have to repeat my class, and as for Matthew, he will lose his extracurricular privileges,”

“What are you saying?”

“No big homecoming game this Friday,” I threaten.

I hear several gasps erupt around the classroom, and I know there are several of Matthew’s teammates among them.

Not to mention Cyndi’s whole cheer squad.

But there is one person whose sympathies I did not expect to fall on Matthew’s plight.

And that’s poor Bethany, who looks near to tears.

“Oh, no!”

“No, Professor, she is moving right now. Come on, Cyn! Get off me,” Matthew grunts, but refrains from actually pushing her away.

I raise my eyebrow and lift my tablet, the one where all I have to do is tap the button marked detention next to their names.

Finally, with an exaggerated huff, Cyndi finally stands.

I don’t react.

I can’t.

One sign of weakness and this entire class will go to Hell in a handbasket.

For a town that has been there before— I’ve heard the tales from my parents —I can tell you, it is not something I want to experience.

“My father will hear about this!” Cyndi stands and stomps her feet before storming over to her desk.

I wish I could say that little tantrum was the worst of it, but that would be giving Cyndi Tremayne far too much credit— and underestimating her overdeveloped sense of drama.

You’d think someone who struts around in designer heels and magically enhanced lip gloss would have better things to do than wage war on me, but no.

Cyndi’s got vengeance on the brain, and I’m her target of the week.

By Tuesday, it’s clear she’s not messing around.

Pranks, tricks, and inconveniences rain down on me like confetti at a cursed parade.

Honestly, if this keeps up, my once-ebony hair is going to turn gray before I hit middle age.

No, I am not already there! I’ll have you know my family’s average lifespan is one hundred and fifty years, give or take.

Wednesday morning rolls around, and I’m already dreading work.

But what can I do?

Being an adult means showing up even when you’d rather hurl yourself into an alternate dimension.

Walking into my classroom, I tell myself maybe today will be different.

It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.

The words Wicked Witch are magicked across the entire back wall in permanent ink.

Permanent. Ink.

Now, I’m no stranger to a little teasing— I am a teacher, after all —but this is on a whole new level.

Plus, the jibe isn’t even accurate.

Sure, I’m a Witch, but Wicked? Please.

That’s like calling a cat a dog just because it’s fluffy and has pointy ears.

I plaster on my best teacher smile and set about trying to salvage the day.

But as I make my way through the hallways, I hear it whispered.

Wicked Witch .

A few brave souls even laugh. One particularly bold student shouts it outright as I pass, which earns them my patented disappointed glare.

You know the one—it’s the same look your mom gives when you ruin Thanksgiving dinner by mentioning Aunt Kathy’s third divorce.

By the time I make it to Friday, I’m cautiously optimistic that the chaos has settled.

The graffiti has been scrubbed off (thank you, enchanted cleaning spells), the whispers have mostly died down, and I dare to hope that Cyndi’s found a new hobby.

Like knitting or summoning imps.

But no. Of course not.

As I’m jotting down homework on the magic board, something catches my eye. Floating lazily in my mug of tea is a fat tadpole.

A tadpole.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for amphibian rights, but I draw the line at one swimming in my Earl Grey.

I stare at the mug, trying to decide what’s worse, the tadpole itself or the fact that I took a sip before I noticed it.

Spoiler alert—it’s a tie.

I let out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Really, Cyndi?” I mutter under my breath.

She’s not there, of course, but I hope the universe delivers my exasperation directly to her obnoxiously flawless ears.

Because one thing’s for sure. This is far from over.

“That’s it! You all have the weekend to get this little bout of teen angst out of your systems. Anymore nonsense and you will ALL be held after class for detention starting Monday!” I shout to the surly students filling my classroom.

They are still moaning about weekend work.

But it’s dismissal and I don’t have to deal with them anymore for the time being.

Thank the Goddess.

I’m not happy about any of this. Punishing students. Giving extra work.

Poor Bethany is near to tears as she walks after her brother, and I feel bad for yelling at everyone.

Especially when I know there is only one person behind this whole thing.

Cyndi .

Why she hates me so, I have no idea.

I spend too much time on it as it is, and later into the night I am still thinking about it.

No student has ever gotten under my skin like this. Even my magic is misbehaving.

Usually blue and bright, my magic has been dulling. Lackluster as of late.

Sighing, I ready myself for my monthly strengthening of the spells and wards around my ancestral home. For some reason, we may use magic to protect our space.

It doesn’t fall under the whole personal gain conundrum, which is good. Without my parents, I am the only one living here, and it is a big house.

Quite lonely for just me.

I think it’s because magic is finite, there is only so much to go around that we are given some allowance to use spells and casts to guard what is ours.

I never see the gold eyes watching me from beyond my garden gate or I might have been embarrassed as I dance around nude as the day I was born, casting spells, and thanking the Goddess for her harvest.

This is my zone.

My safe space.

Here, I refuse to think about my job, my students, or my sexy boss.

Not for the moment, anyway.

The weekend is finally here, and I mean to enjoy it.

No brats and no pining for men—or Wolves—that I can’t have.

A breeze dances around me, stroking my skin and lifting my hair. I smile and gasp as the sound of a Wolf’s howl echoes around the cul de sac where my house sits.

Frozen, I turn slowly, shivers racing up my spine, but whatever I think is there, I don’t see it.

“It’s nothing,” I tell myself, but my heart is thundering inside my chest.

I turn around and send a spark of magic flitting about the yard.

There’s nothing there and I frown.

But I could have sworn.