“Officially in charge,” he amended with a grin. The bell rang and instantly the noise in the hallways was amplified with the sounds of slamming lockers and students rushing off to class. Genevieve, however, stood there a moment longer—imagining the new hire in a new light, as someone eager to learn the ins and outs of the ice cream business. A frozen confection connoisseur—a true partner. Training him would be an important job, something her father had surely considered, and she felt a sudden swell of pride.

“You’re right. Kind of.” She ruffled Brandon’s hair playfully and he feigned horror, ducking away and smoothing it back down.

“Do you have any idea what it takes to get my hair this perfect?” he said in mock reproval.

“Uh huh. It takes you rolling out of bed.” They both laughed and went their separate ways.

Genevieve started the day in her new favorite class—Economics. As a budding entrepreneur and future business owner, she was bound to love the subject, but beyond that, the class was now taught by someone who knew how to infuse the material with the enthusiasm it deserved. Instead of droning lectures, cringey PowerPoints, and outdated textbooks, class consisted of vigorous discussion, intriguing debates, and group projects. And, Genevieve thought as she entered the room where students were milling around freely, they didn’t have to be pinned in their seats all period.

“Hey, sweet girl.” Miss Love greeted her with a smile. She had nicknames for most of them already, even though it was only weeks into the school year. Genevieve had naturally been christened after her job slinging scoops.

“Good morning, Miss Love,” Genevieve said cheerfully. Always with an eye for fashion, she took note of the young teacher’s floral A-line skirt, fitted scoop-neck top, and strappy red sandals. “Love the shoes,” she mouthed to the teacher. Miss Love winked at her, tossed her pink curls over her shoulder, and turned to the front of the room.

“Is everyone on track for tomorrow’s supply and demand market activity? You should all be gathering in your groups. Aiden, you’re a buyer, not a seller; you need to be on the other side of the room. Tamika, where are your notes?”

The class bustled about as their teacher moved between desks, helping them prepare their arguments and offering words of encouragement. Genevieve walked out of class energized and eternally grateful that she didn’t have to sit through the boring monologue that Mr. Garcia surely would have given them instead.

“Genevieve! Wait up.” Kristin Bourne, a short, peppy junior who shared Genevieve’s second period math class, caught up with her in the hallway. “Are you working tonight?” the girl asked, tugging her snug crop top over a strip of exposed belly as a teacher walked by.

Despite her earlier resolution to look on the bright side, all of Genevieve’s high spirits came tumbling down at the thought of work. She indulged an uncharacteristic flash of real animosity toward her dad, then quickly shook it off and gave Kristin her brightest Sweet Dreams customer service smile. “I’ll be there!” she said. “And you should totally come in for some mint chocolate chip; I whipped up a fresh batch last night.”

Kristin beamed. “You remembered my favorite!”

“Of course I did.”

Calculus, which Genevieve enjoyed immensely, zoomed by, and then it was time for her least favorite class, English Composition, which at least she shared with Brandon. Genevieve disliked English in general—reading and writing were incessantly boring to her—and both she and Brandon were way too advanced for the class, but as a dual enrollment course it gave them college credit for English 101 and 102, so they had agreed to suffer through it together.

“Hey, nerd,” Genevieve said amiably as she approached Brandon, who always waited for her at the double doors by the cafeteria.

“Hey, dork,” he responded easily, and the two of them fell into step on their way to room 202. When they arrived, both of them froze, and then simultaneously groaned.

“Oh god, not today,” Genevieve muttered, and Brandon grunted in assent. “And I thought this class couldn’t get any worse.”

They shuffled to their seats, warily eyeing Pinewood High’s infamous substitute teacher, Ms. Pierce, who stared sourly at the moping students filing in and slumping at their desks. Impossibly, the always irritable teacher looked even more miserable than usual, with her frizzy, dyed red hair unraveling from its haphazard bun and her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She wore ill-fitting jeans and a shapeless pink blouse that clashed horribly with her hair. Genevieve stole a glance at Brandon, who sat two rows behind her. He did not meet her gaze directly, but she saw him bite back a smile before pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“So,” Ms. Pierce said when the bell rang out over the PA, “despite the lackluster sub notes from your regular teacher, I’ve managed to cobble together an assignment. This is a college-level class, as you well know, so I expect you should all be fully capable of planning, drafting, and revising a five-paragraph essay on the use of metatheatrical devices in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, which it appears you were assigned to read over the weekend.”

There was a stunned silence, into which Jocelyn Traynor raised her hand and asked timidly, “Um, do you mean a five-paragraph essay due tomorrow?”

Ms. Pierce smiled without humor. “No. I mean a five-paragraph essay due by the end of this period.”

The class gasped collectively and began to buzz with protest, to which Ms. Pierce snapped, “Quiet! You’re already wasting time. This is no different than the AP exam many of you are no doubt familiar with and hopefully preparing for, if you wish to get college credit for this course.”

“This is a dual enrollment class, not AP,” Jack Steinberg said smartly. “We get college credit regardless.”

Ms. Pierce stared at him, and then slowly walked up to his desk and snatched away his papers.

“Then apparently this assignment doesn’t make a difference to you,” she said. He glared at her as she walked away, but no one argued after that.

Genevieve went to work on the essay. Time seemed to drag on forever in the silent, too-warm room, and her thoughts inevitably drifted, conjuring up a double-layered strawberry sundae with caramelized pineapple topping in a dipped waffle bowl.

After finishing the required five paragraphs, she glanced up at the clock, saw there were five minutes left in the period, and checked her phone. Brandon had texted her a nerd emoji, along with the message, What took you so long? She grinned and began tapping out a response, then gasped as a long-taloned hand swiped the phone right out of her grip.

Genevieve looked up to see Ms. Pierce looming over her like a vulture—electrified hair unraveled, dark eyes blazing—and she felt a startling moment of true fear. The teacher waved Genevieve’s phone, creating an unpleasant breeze of thrift-store mustiness. “You can pick this up after school,” she snapped, jamming the phone into her baggy jeans pocket.

Genevieve was still shaking with outrage at the end of Yearbook, which happened to be her last class of the day. Brandon had tried teasing her about the phone incident and she’d let him know swiftly and furiously that she didn’t find anything at all funny about it. She kept picturing Ms. Pierce’s scowling face above her, twisted in a kind of malice Genevieve had never before seen on a teacher.

When he realized how upset she was, Brandon offered to walk with her to get her phone back, but she waved him off dismissively.

“It’ll just take a second. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

Genevieve slammed her locker shut, spun the dial, and headed for room 202. She passed through the crowded cafeteria, remembering not so fondly her freshman and sophomore days, stuck on campus for lunch. Last year, as juniors, she, Brandon, and a few of their friends usually walked across the street to grab a burger or a slice of pizza at the Fast Fry. This year, of course, they didn’t have a lunch period, as their final class ended before midday.

She turned the corner for the east wing and was a few doors away when she heard raised voices coming from down the hall. Genevieve hesitated, trying to place the first voice, which was elevated not in anger but in fear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please leave my room.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” sneered the other voice in a cruel mimic. Genevieve instantly recognized this one as belonging to Ms. Pierce, and her blood ran cold. The loathing in the substitute’s tone matched her earlier frightening expression when she’d snatched Genevieve’s phone.

“Please,” the other woman said again, and with a shock, Genevieve realized it was Miss Love. Of course. The sounds were coming from the vicinity of her room. It had taken Genevieve a moment to make the connection because she’d never heard the agreeable young teacher raise her voice for any reason. “I would like you to leave now. You’re frightening me.”

“Oh, you’re frightened, are you? You haven’t begun to be afraid. Do you know what’s really scary?” Ms. Pierce’s voice trembled with rage. “Being passed over for a job you know you’re qualified for because some young, dumb floozy comes along and applies!”

“I understand you think you were entitled to this job,” Miss Love said in the kind of slow and careful tone you used when dealing with someone dangerous, “but I was not the one who made the decision to hire⁠—”

Ms. Pierce let loose a high-pitched shriek of laughter that sent a chill down Genevieve’s spine. “Oh, you had no say, did you? No special qualities, no direct influence? Well, I know better. I know things about you that would get you fired. I could have this job if I wanted to! I will have it.”

Genevieve had heard enough. Her surprise had given way to fury at the spiteful substitute’s treatment of Miss Love, who was kind to literally everyone. She strode to the door just as Ms. Pierce sneered, “Nice hair, by the way. New color?” Genevieve pushed open the partially shut door, nearly colliding with the enraged substitute, who was storming out.

She caught a glimpse of Miss Love cowering against her desk, one hand on the headset of her telephone, as if she was about to call for help; the other was lightly touching her pink curls with an expression of shock and devastation on her face. Her eyes were bright with tears.

Ms. Pierce did a double take when she saw Genevieve, and she at least had the decency to appear momentarily chagrined. Then her eyes darkened with their usual contempt.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped. “You should be at lunch.” She shut the door forcefully, but not before Genevieve caught Miss Love’s eye; the obviously frightened teacher was trying to smile for her benefit, although she looked dazed.

“I’m only here half days,” Genevieve responded coolly. “I came for my phone.”

“Oh, that.” Ms. Pierce began walking back to her room. “Fine, fine, follow me, although if it were my choice, you’d lose it for at least a day or two. That’d teach you a lesson; probably the only lesson you’d learn in that pitiful class this year.”

Genevieve followed her stiffly, not bothering to argue. Her stomach was twisted in knots at what she had just overheard and witnessed. She waited outside Ms. Pierce’s room as the substitute retrieved her phone and handed it to her reluctantly before walking away, seemingly headed for the cafeteria. Genevieve watched her go and then quietly retraced her steps back to Miss Love’s room, where she raised her hand uncertainly. She heard the teacher inside, weeping softly, but what could she say to her? She was about to knock anyway when she realized Miss Love was speaking.