Chapter 1
I'm late. Again.
My car wheezes up the mountain road like it's about to die. Which, honestly, same. The welcome sign says Pine Ridge, Vermont - population 1,200. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone's business. Great. They'll definitely notice the new substitute teacher can't show up on time.
I blame the gas station. Actually, I blame myself for spending twenty minutes reading ingredient labels on every single snack because my brain decided that was important. ADHD is a superpower, they said. You'll hyperfocus on important things, they said.
They lied.
Pine Ridge Elementary squats at the end of Main Street like something out of a horror movie. Gray brick. Peeling paint. Windows that look like dead eyes. There's a swing set in the yard, creaking in the wind.
No kids on it.
It's recess.
That's wrong.
I park crooked—par for the course—and grab my stuff. Coffee thermos. Three notebooks I'll lose by lunch. Pens that might work. And a stress ball shaped like a brain that my therapist gave me as a joke.
The joke's on me. I actually use it.
The office smells like old paper and something else. Something chemical. Bleach, maybe. Too strong. Makes my eyes water.
Behind the desk sits a woman who could be fifty or seventy. Hard to tell. She's got reading glasses on a chain and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Doesn't even try.
"You must be Miss Jenkins."
"Sarah. Yeah. Sorry I'm—"
"We start at eight sharp here." The smile gets tighter. Like she's swallowed something sour. "Principal Roberts is waiting."
She leads me down a hallway. The walls are covered in children's artwork, but it's not normal kid stuff. No sunshine. No rainbows. No dogs with too many legs.
These drawings are dark.
Houses with no doors. Just walls.
People with their mouths taped shut.
Trees with faces that look like they're screaming.
My brain does that thing where it notices everything at once. The secretary's shoes don't make sound on the linoleum. Like she's floating. The smell of bleach gets stronger near the bathrooms. There's a wet floor sign but the floor underneath is bone dry.
Focus, Sarah.
Principal Roberts' office is exactly what you'd expect. Fake wood paneling. Motivational posters about teamwork that look printed in 1985. A desk way too big for the room. Like he's compensating for something.
Roberts himself is tall. Balding. Got that smile coaches use when they're about to cut you from the team.
"Miss Jenkins! Welcome to Pine Ridge Elementary." He doesn't stand. Doesn't offer to shake hands. "I trust you reviewed the curriculum?"
I did not review the curriculum. I skimmed it at 2 AM while watching videos about whether octopi have consciousness. Because that's what my brain decided was critical at 2 AM.
"Of course," I lie.
"Excellent. You'll be taking over Mrs. Henderson's fourth-grade class. Twenty-three students. She had a... family emergency. Very sudden."
The way he says "family emergency" makes my skin crawl. Like he’s tasting the words. Savoring them.
"Is she okay?"
"That's not your concern". Still smiling. Always smiling. He leans forward, his expensive watch catching the light—a bit too much flash for a small-town principal. "Normally, we hire from within the parish, but the state oversight board was quite insistent we fill this vacancy immediately. Mrs. Henderson’s accident—her emergency—was quite sudden, and they didn’t want the district auditing our 'special programs' during a vacancy"
He pauses, his eyes scanning me with a clinical intensity. "And frankly, Miss Jenkins, your profile intrigued us. We wanted someone with your... hyperfocus. We believe you’ll find our 'structure' very satisfying"
"Your concern is the children," he continues. "Lovely kids. Very well-behaved".
Twenty-three fourth graders who are "very well-behaved" is like saying sharks are "friendly". I reach for my phone to check the time, but the screen is a blank slate—no signal, just like when I crossed the town line. It’s a complete dead zone.
He slides a folder across the desk. "Class roster. Emergency procedures. Our discipline policy is quite strict. We believe in order here, Miss Jenkins. Structure. Routine. Control"
That last word hangs in the air.
I flip through the folder. Every kid has a photo. Which is helpful because I have face-blindness issues. But something's off about the photos.
The kids aren't smiling. Not even fake school-photo smiles.
They're just staring.
Dead-eyed.
Like they've seen things.
"We also have a very active church community," Roberts continues. "Pastor Williams serves as our counselor. Wonderful man. Very dedicated to the children. Very... hands-on."
My ADHD brain files that under "weird things to mention" and "probably important later."
"Any questions?"
About a thousand. But I can't organize them into words right now. "When do I start?"
"Right now." He checks his watch. Expensive. Too expensive for a small-town principal. "Recess ends in five minutes. Mrs. Patterson will show you to your classroom."
*
