The Poisoned Apple
Chapter 1: The Poisoned Apple
Teachers and comedians were always the first to be beheaded during a tyrannical reign. Witches are not well known for their comedic timing; I suppose that is why we are drawn to teaching and the healing arts.
Now that I stared into the eyes of twenty-five little faces, I wish I had brushed up on my comedic skills, so I would have a joke handy to lighten the mood. The principal suggested I use the last period of the day to become acquainted with my students. “It’s not common practice, but Silvia Peters was well-loved by her students, and they are still mourning her loss,” Principal Wagnor had explained.
Silvia Peters, the teacher I replaced, had become an insomniac, and rumor has it that she died of exhaustion. Though it was apparent that the staff was grieving, I wasn’t so sure about the students who spoke candidly about their young teacher’s death.
I cringed as a young brunette raised her hand. I glanced at my roaster and noted her name before calling on her, “Yes, Harmony?”
“You look tired,” Harmony declared. "Ms. Peters was always tired, and she used to nod off in class. Are you going to sleep in class as well?”
Against my will, my fingers shot to my face and began tracing the bags under my eyes. Harmony was correct; I was exhausted. When I had decided to teach, I had imagined that I would be teaching witches at the Divination Academy, where I had attended, or The Gibbous School, where the Lycans were trained, but never had I guessed that I would find myself shaping the minds of the human faction. Though I had been confident when I accepted the position, it wasn’t until last night that I realized how little I knew about humans.
Without bothering to raise his hand, another student cried, “She even fell asleep while standing!” The student who had piped in was the only student whose name I had dedicated to memory. His name was Roger, and I had spent most of my morning reprimanding him.
Before I could scold him for not raising his hand, the girl who had the unfortunate luck of being assigned the seat next to Roger reached out and batted his arm. “Roger, stop speaking so poorly about Ms. Peters,” she scolded him.
“I’m only telling the truth, Stephanie!” Roger protested as he stood to demonstrate. "One moment, she would be writing on the whiteboard, and then suddenly she...” He trailed off as his arms went slack, his eyelids drooped, and his chin dropped to his chest. Then he opened his mouth and released exaggerated sounds meant to imitate snoring, which caused some of the other students to giggle.
Stephanie didn’t find Roger’s antics as amusing as her classmates. She sat back and crossed her arms, “She didn’t snore,” Stephanie declared, “And you shouldn’t be making fun of her. She is dead; how would you feel if you died and we all made fun of you?”
Stephanie’s statement seemed to sober Roger up a bit. “I wasn’t making fun of her,” he cried defensively. I was just telling Ms. Moody what happened.”
I touched upon the gouges that Ms. Peters had left on the lip of my desk. I was horrified when I discovered the marks. If Ms. Peters had been a lycan, I would have dismissed the deep ruts, but Ms. Peters had been human, with fragile fingers and fickle nails, so I couldn’t imagine her having the ability to cause such damage. Now that I felt my own fingers stroking the same area, I realized that it was possible that she had.
Roger sat down, but Harmony's hand shot up again before I could experience a moment of relief. I sighed inwardly as I prepared to permit her to speak, but the bell sounded as I opened my mouth.
The kids lost interest in our discussion as they scrambled to collect their belongings. Since it was my first day, I had decided not to assign homework; when I was a young witch, this small token would have won us over, but human children were a different breed. Once the children had collected their things, Stephanie addressed me, “You forgot to give us an assignment,” she said.
I gazed around the room and noted that only Roger seemed to regard Stephanie with dismay. Though I considered him a problem child, he was the only student I found relatable.
“I want you all to look up the word “decorum,” then write an essay on how decorum could benefit us in the classroom,” I told them.
Stephanie, who was bright and likely already knew the definition of the word, gave Roger a sidelong glance. “I think this assignment is meant for you.”
I opened my mouth to assure Roger that the assignment was not meant to target him, but he didn’t give me the opportunity. He glared at me as he tightened the straps of his backpack and followed the other children out of the room.
Once the final student exited, I propped my elbows on the desk, cradled my head in my hands, and realized that this was the first moment of peace I had experienced the entire day. It was funny how we didn’t really appreciate silence until we were deprived.
I could have sat there the rest of the evening without a tentative knock on my door.
Reluctantly, I lifted my head to greet my visitor and saw that Randall Page, the warlock, had encouraged me to take the position. On any other occasion, I would have been thrilled that Randall had thought to visit me, but today, he was my mortal enemy.
Randall had reached out to me on social media when I announced that I was seeking a teaching position; at the time, I had expected a response from my old alma mater, The Divination Academy, and was anticipating starting the following school year, but then Randall Page, a fellow magic practitioner and former classmate, had messaged me, informing that there was a sudden occupancy at the Wakefield School in the human sector.
Initially, I was not interested in the position, but I was intrigued by Randall Page. Witches had a long history of snubbing warlocks, but Randall had been the exception, not due to his skills as a magician but because he was handsome, with a head full of honey-blond hair, hazel eyes, and an athletic build. I was a few years behind Randall in school, so he and I were not well acquainted. I had only inquired about the position in hopes of changing that.
I had planned to string him along, but by the end of our first conversation, I had accepted the poisoned apple and agreed to interview for the position.
Now, I regretted my decision and felt ashamed for being so desperate. I couldn’t believe that I had placed myself in such a precarious position in hopes of dating Randall Page.
I glared at Randall, who lifted his hands defensively, taken aback, “I guess you had a rough first day?” he ventured.
“That’s an understatement,” I muttered, turning away from him to resume my position, but before I could bury my face into my hands and return to my safe cocoon, Randall said, “Why don’t you let me walk you home and we can talk about it?
