Beautiful Little Furies: Compelling Women's Psychological Fiction by Laurel Osterkamp

Author:Laurel Osterkamp [Osterkamp, Laurel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2023-12-20T16:00:00+00:00

chapter 30

In the morning, I wake from a restless sleep, hungry because I’d forgotten to eat last night. I still have two days left of my work week, and even though I feel like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up a hill, I know I need to see it through. I’m not expecting anything more than a typical Thursday, but when I get to school, I realize that was naïve. The message light on my classroom phone blinks bright red, casting an ominous glow before I turn on the overhead lights.

When I play the message, my chest knots up. Jim, the principal, has called me. That never happens. Usually, he emails. If a phone call is necessary, it’s always his secretary, Tamisha, who makes it. Not this time. “Hazel, we need to talk. Come see me now, and I mean now.”

The message is time-stamped from twenty minutes ago. That’s not good. Jim rarely gets to school early, but he’s very critical of anyone who arrives after him. I’m on the late side today. In fact, first hour starts in twenty minutes. My tardiness will only make things worse.

I hurry down to Jim’s office.

Of course, he’s not there. “Um, Tamisha?” I interrupt her handing a folder to one of today’s subs and explaining how to take attendance. “Sorry. Jim called, said he wanted to see me right away this morning. Do you know where he is?”

She scowls. “He probably thought you would be here sooner.” She picks up her radio and speaks into it. “Jim, do you copy?”

There’s a moment of static as my stomach flips and churns. Then I hear Jim’s voice. “Copy.”

Tamisha gives me the stink eye as she speaks back into her radio. “Hazel is here to see you.”

“I’ll be right there,” I hear Jim respond.

Tamisha tells me to wait in his office, so I enter the space that is twice as big as most of the classrooms in this school, with a conference table, desk, and framed photos by the district’s PR person, catching the students looking wholesome, happy, and diverse at games and graduation. I’m staring at one photo, the crowd at the state basketball tournament from two years ago, girls with gold and black face paint on, waving signs to cheer for the team. The first girl wears a hijab, the second has rows of tightly braided hair, and the third’s golden locks fall into waves that rival a Disney princess. Two of the girls were in my English 11 class, and I’m trying to remember their names. Then Jim walks in.

“Good morning, Hazel,” Jim says brusquely, and instantly I know that this morning is anything but good. “How are you?”

He doesn’t make eye contact as he asks me that question, making it clear he doesn’t really care about my answer. “Okay,” I venture. “How are you?”

“Me? I’m fine. I feel bad that I haven’t been able to check in with you sooner after you returned from medical leave, the accident and all.”

Now Jim looks at me.

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