Time Marches On

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Today is the first day of September. A little hard to believe that summer flew by so quickly and that I have already been back at work for almost a month now. It’s been a bit stressful, a new batch of kids, but, at the same time, I am looking ahead and forward to the end of the semester, to when I can finally meet my little girl. I won’t lie, the thought of labor and giving birth (vaginally or c-section) frightens me. I’ve always been afraid of pain, though I suck it up when I have to. It doesn’t stop me from crying when it happens. I worry about not being strong enough to do what I need to do to birth my child, even though – yes, I know – mothers have been doing this since the beginning of time and we have seven billion people on this planet to prove it. Still, that doesn’t stop the fear entirely. But that’s a whole other rant entirely.

I am doing my best to enjoy these moments of closeness with Elizabeth, feeling her move around inside me, kick and stretch and root. Last night, she was quite active as I laid down to go to sleep and turned over on my side; it felt like she was trying to walk or something. So I hummed to her. I hummed “Baby Mine” and, by the time, I finished the song, she had settled down and I could fall asleep. I have a list of lullabies that I have begun compiling for our little girl, songs that I want to resonate in her heart forever, sung by both me and her daddy.

My mother used to sing “Jesus Loves Me” to me, starting every night since I was born prematurely and in an incubator at a hospital in Miami. And, to this day at the age of 29, hearing that song still makes me cry and want my Marmee. I want my daughter to long for me when she gets older, to remember that I was there to sing to her, cuddle her, comfort her, sort out her thoughts and put her heart back in order when needed. I want my daughter to think of me when she’s ill and want me to be there to soothe her and take care of her. I want her to miss me when we are apart, more and more each time we part, just as I do my Marmee. I want my Elizabeth to know that I love her and am always there for her, no matter what.

And to think, for me, all of that began with a lullaby.

Sharing Neverland with My Child

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Illustration by Giacobino – http://giacobino.deviantart.com/art/Peter-pan-part-2-110950641

Yesterday, I reached 22 weeks (5 1/2 months) in my pregnancy and I came to a decision of something I wanted to do. I have begun reading Peter Pan to my unborn child. The story is so enchanting, the memory of it so ingrained in me that I cannot think of not sharing it with my baby. I have a beautiful copy that I believe I received as a gift several years ago. Just reading the first paragraph makes me smile, even with the admittance that “Two is the beginning of the end. (page 1)” I don’t believe that, of course, but that’s the fun of it.

Even now, I’m watching my belly jump and move as my child squirms and stretches and kicks, and I’m imagining him or her running around the house pretending to fly. I want to cuddle my baby and read to them, letting them get to know my voice, my cadence, my love for story, even before they can full realize it. So far we have read through chapter 1 and the first few pages of chapter 2, and I could still feel Baby moving as I read, responding, hopefully, to the becoming-familiar sound of my voice. I want my children to know about conspicuous kisses in the corner of your mouth, to fall asleep safely to nightlights that watch over them, know that Momma is there to tidy up their mind at the end of the day, putting everything back in order and preparing them to have a lovely day tomorrow.

I hope and pray that our child loves books, stories, and reading as much as I and their father do. I shall do my damnedest to foster a love for all the different types of Neverlands with them, as well as explore them with my child. I will be happy to be the dragon that they chase to slay, the fairy to grant their wishes, the evil pirate whom they must battle. I want to hear my child demand of Daddy, “Tell me a story,” and then listen as my husband weaves one of his beautiful tales from mid-air and dances it in front of our child’s imagination. I have always been a Wendy – always been ‘mother’, ‘story-reader’, ‘advice giver’, ‘dreamer’. Now I get to be Mrs. Darling, a little more grown up but still with lots to learn about childhood.

And, I have to admit, I’m rather excited about that. ^_^

What I Am…

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Almost everyone “knows” what makes a great teacher. They’ve seen the movies, after all: “Stand and Deliver”, “Mr. Holland’s Opus”, “The Great Debators”, “Freedom Writers”, “Dangerous Minds”, and, coming soon, “Here Comes the Boom”. I mean, obviously, these teachers are bold, bucked the rules, and used rash and unconventional methods in order to get to their kids. I mean, that’s what it takes. Right?

I don’t know. You tell me. I am most certainly NOT that type of teacher. I’m not going to give up my family life to be at school until 9pm every night tutoring students. I am not going to put myself in the way of bodily harm (especially not now) to save a child from what I judge to be a bad situation; couldn’t do it legally, even if I wanted to. I’m not going to allow my work as a teacher to so consume me that I end up hospitalized from the sheer stress and pressure on my system.

I will tell you what sort of teacher I am, however. I am a teacher who is there every possible day, there for my students with the information and help that they need. I will stay after for a certain while or be there early if students need some extra time of mine in order to do better in their work. I am willing to explain when students don’t understand. I am more than happy to answer questions that feed into the building of their character, not just the development of their academic skills. For example, today, during a reading of “Raymond’s Run” by Toni Cade Bambara, my lowest level class (and the one with the largest personalities & discipline issues), one of the students asked, “Why would you make fun of someone with special needs?” I should point out that this particular student has huge problems with impulse control and failure to think ahead. However, his question allowed for a quick lesson on character to this class, to which they all listened (!) and, I hope, took to heart.

So while I am not the teacher in jeans and a leather jacket showing off my marine training to my kids, or promising students who can barely do basic algebra that they will pass the calculus AP test, I AM a teacher who does my best to give my kids the best I absolutely can. However, as I tell them at the beginning of every year, I can give them all the tools they need but, if they choose to do nothing with them, there’s nothing I can do about that.

I am not a “stand and deliver” teacher. I am not. And I never will be. I believe that movies like that can create an expectation, not only in people outside of the education profession, but also in teachers like me to disregard what we already are. I refuse to watch those movies because they make me feel badly about myself, like I am “not doing enough” if I am not changing lives that dramatically. Or at least, that publicly. But you know what? I do what I do right now, even if I won’t do it forever. I do it for my students, not for myself. Miracles do not need to be cataclysmic, apocalyptic, or even just earth-shattering. Miracles can be quiet little things that few people even know exist.  I think Taylor Mali said it best when he simply said,

“I am a teacher. This is what I do.”

On Fountain Pens

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I love fountain pens! Absolutely adore them! When I write with fountain pens, I find that my words seems prettier, more stately. They were made for letters, notes, calling cards. I could easily see myself sitting at a secretary of a morning, replying to bits of mail. A few acceptances here, a few regretful declinations there, a congratulatory note to a friend. It’s why I am working to get back into letter- and note-writing to my friends and family. It’s a beautiful skill and habit to cultivate. I very much much enjoy what I see and feel when I write. I also love receiving letters in the mail that are not bills or something of that sort of dire importance to be taken care of. I also know that I am remembered and cared about.

Part of me – a large part – loves to see my mind poured out on paper. I love the evidence of my thoughts. I have told some that, a great deal of the time, I feel less than adequate mentally because my brain doesn’t move at the same pace as others’. It often takes me a long time to consider concepts and ideas before I can reach a conclusion or opinion about them, and there is no physical evidence of that process. So I fear that people often think I am not thinking or that I won’t think about things. When I write, the evidence of cognitive thought is there on paper. Proof that I do actually think!

I have been keeping journals since I was 17 years old and entering college. Most of them are leather-bound, golden-edged books that evoke thoughts of libraries and drawing rooms, of sunny parlors and crackling fires. I love to look back at them and see how my handwriting has evolved over the years and to take joy in the pages and pages that I have written about my life over the years. It also makes me realize just how much I need to invest in more notebooks to carry around with me. Always need something to write in, after all. Pen without paper isn’t quite as useful, you know?

“I CAN’T, you say?”

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I’m not used to being told “you can’t”. It’s not normally in my vocabulary. When someone says to me, “You can’t do XYZ”, my response is usually, “Watch me.” I take it as a challenge to excel and I usually meet those challenges. I’ve always been rather independent and willing to work towards whatever goal I or others set for me. In fact, I often welcome the challenges and joy in rising to meet them.

However, pregnancy presents a brand-new set of challenges. Now I am being told more and more “don’t do that” or “you can’t do that”. I actually growled a little when my mother told me I couldn’t lift my in-laws’ retirement cake the other day as we were going through the check-out line. I’m used to working hard, to lifting, carrying, doing for myself and others a great deal. So, to be told that I can’t do the things that I am rather used to doing is, admittedly, a bit tough to swallow. It’s like telling me I can’t walk and have to be carried everywhere. And, yet, it makes me wonder if I will be able to do what I need to as the months progress. I am a middle-school teacher and there is a LOT that goes into that, as you are aware, I’m sure. Long days, and sometimes even longer nights, are involved, naturally. However, I’m used to managing it all, doing it all, and so being told or finding out that I can’t do things right now is rather jarring. I’m not used to being treated like I am made of glass, even as I am doing my best to be careful, for myself and for the baby.

I’m four and a half months along and already feel huge, so I have no idea how I will be coping in the months ahead, with the further changes in my body and the weariness and discomfort that will surely come with it all. But I know it’s all worth it.

“A Love Affair with Disney”

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I have grown up on Disney movies, tv shows, concerts, trips, toys, etc. Even now, as a woman of twenty-nine, and especially as I am pregnant with my first child, I am in love with Disney. Whenever we pass the Disney Store in one of the bigger malls in Indianapolis, I have to pull my husband inside to look around. Of course, Disney now owns practically everything – from Power Rangers, to X-men, Captain America, etc., but I still find extreme pleasure in moving around the store, smiling and admiring the loveliness of the costumes, dolls, toys, and clothing that are laid out. So much more intricate and elaborate now than when I was a little girl and longed for such pretty things. But now I find that it is far more nostalgia for me and a sweet nostalgia at that. This past Christmastime, we went to the Disney Store and, when I spied a cute little Stitch in his Christmas pjs and bed slippers. I picked him up and he was so soft and adorable that I fairly started to cry as I held and cuddled him. I didn’t purchase it, however, as the hubby had already bought me a lovely Cheshire Cat and Stitch for our 5th wedding anniversary.

While Disney has sanitized many of the old fairytales, placing in happy endings where traditionally there were none, only fearful, heartbreaking, and sometimes bloody lessons to be learned, I still find a sweetness and joy in watching them. I enjoy remembering when I was a little girl and longed to a heroine. Not necessarily a princess, I think, but a heroine nonetheless. I remember when “Beauty and the Beast” first came out and I watched Belle with her books. I marveled that there should be a heroine so much like me, with a love of books comparable to mine, as I knew no one in school or in my community with such a love and obsession. Therefore, I found a comrade in a fiction when there was no such one in life. Also, like Ariel, I felt that my father didn’t understand me and I longed for experiences, for places to explore and discover.  However, along with that, came a rather romantic spirit but I soon puzzled out for myself that the sort of princes in the Disney fairytales were not the sort of prince I wanted. I didn’t want someone to save me but someone to work alongside me, someone who would get to know me, understand me. Honestly, in all the Disney stories, I do think that “Beauty and the Beast” is the relationship closest to what I wanted. Belle and the Beast were together for a long time, perhaps close to a year, getting to know each other, helping each other, learning each other. None of these whirlwind loves like Ariel and Eric (three days, really?) but a true friendship start to their love. A friendship that fostered understanding and loyalty. That is what I wanted. And that is what I received with Ben.

So, in a way, I suppose, Disney has helped me decide what I did and did not want out of love and relationship. So, thank you, Disney. Thank you for that.

“Nesting with Alcott”

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If anyone were to ask me who my favorite character ever is, I would have to say Josephine “Jo” March, from Alcott’s Little Women.

Over the past day or so, I have been seized by the desire to have as many of my Louisa May Alcott books by my bedside as my poor little nightstand can handle. On there now, I have Alcott’s biography and journals, Behind a Mask & Other Stories, A Whisper in the Dark, From Jo March’s Attic, Alternative Alcott, Under the Lilacs, Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom, and The Inheritance. An Old-Fashioned Girl is sitting here on the arm of the couch next to me and my large hardback volume of Little Women is on the shelf above my head. I have read all of these books at least half a dozen times, some of them at full dozen at the very least.

I was gifted with my first copy of the 1990s film “Little Women” when I was but twelve years old, for Christmas. I fell in love with the March Girls, with Marmee (which is what I call my mother to this day, seventeen years later, and have gotten other people to refer to her as such), with Laurie, with Jo’s stories and determination to be a “great writer and earn barrels of money”. I have been blessed and excited to even have some parallel experiences with Jo in my life, such as selling my first story for $5.00 and marrying a teacher of German (instead of a German professor). Jo has always inspired me and she will always be my favorite.

Alcott’s books have always brought me joy. I remember when my mother put a copy of The Inheritance into my hands as a surprise, Alcott’s first novel written as a teenager and unpublished until that year. I was overjoyed and sat down to read it right then. Since then, I read that sweet little book about goodness and purity whenever I need a reminder of what is important in life. Just as I cry and remember my family losses when I read of Beth March’s quiet, patient, loving life and gentle departure from this world and resolve to live so that those gone would have been proud of me. Eight Cousins allows me to live, vicariously, through Rose. I have always dreamt of having brothers, especially those who were kind and loving. Boys whom I could love and care for as family. I was gifted with those in the form of God-sent male friends in college, and I am ever thankful for them. An Old-Fashioned Girl reminds me that there is nothing wrong with being a simple person with simple tastes and to have hands that are always willing to do for and encourage others, whether they notice it or not, appreciate it or not.

These are the books I grab when I need something to feed my soul, something to lift my spirits and give me hope and a smile. When I need invigorating, I pick Alcott’s “other” stories. Her sensation pieces, her “blood-and-thunder” tales. I was absolutely fascinated when my mother returned from a trip visiting her friends and gave me Behind a Mask & Other Stories (you can easily see who feeds my obsession). I read it and re-read it to make sure I hadn’t missed anything in the mysteries of these stories. My favorite collection of these sensation stories, however, is the now-out-of-print From Jo March’s Attic. I love “My Mysterious Mademoiselle”, “Which Wins”, and “The Countess Varazoff”. I actually ended up writing my thesis for my Masters of Arts in Literature on body theory as utilized by Alcott in her stories “Behind a Mask” and “Betrayed by a Buckle” to call for a reform of women’s rights and the constructs of what it meant to be a “proper woman in her proper place”. It was a joy to use two stories that I have treasured all my life, as well as Alcott’s strong views on equality and femininity, to produce a work that I dare to think she might have agreed with if she were alive to read it.

Alcott is imprinted on my brain, my emotions, and my heart, and she will always be. I would not have it any other way. And may I someday be a Jo, a Rose, a Polly, an Edith, and embody those beautiful qualities that she wrote into these amazing characters who remain my dear friends to this day.

Perhaps, like Alcott, I may, someday, be able to echo the lyrics that Jo sings in the Broadway staging of Little Women:

Here I go
And there’s no turning back
My great adventure has begun
I may be small
But I’ve got giant plans
To shine as greatly as the sun

I will blaze until I find my time and place
I will be fearless,
Surrendering modesty and grace
I will not disappear without a trace
I’ll shout and start a riot
Be anything but quiet
Christopher Columbus
I’ll be Astonishing
Astonishing
Astonishing

At Last

Story Tidbit – “Kaious and Vashka”

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Ouch! Gods, help me!

Vashka’s entire body screamed at her as she lowered herself onto her stomach on her bed. Her back was afire but there wasn’t anything she could for herself at the moment. She sent the servant girl for Ochabu, for she trusted only the old woman to tend her.

“Child! What happened?” the old midwife questioned as she entered the room and pulled the door to.

Vashka merely groaned weakly from where she lay on the bed. If she could have seen what Ochabu could see, she would have considered the old woman’s exclamations well warranted.

Her clothes lay in bloody shreds upon her, the brown skin of her back striped a dozen times. The lines lay thin but the lashes had gone deep; not deep enough to stitch but too deep to heal quickly.

Ochabu rolled up her sleeves and set to work immediately, heating water and sending another slave girl out with a list of specific herbs and plants to make a healing salve for the girl’s wounds. She tore off what remained of Vashka’s clothes. There was no time for modesty; Vashka was already beginning to shake with the pain of the whipping.

“Who did this to you, child? Who would dare?” Ochabu asked as she worked and, shakily, Vashka poured out the story of an hour.

After a while, a shadow moved under the door and it opened quietly. “My lady,” a young slave boy said. “His Excellency demands your presence.”

“The Lady Vashka is in no condition—” Ochabu began but Vashka’s quiet voice broke in.

“Tell His Excellency Kaious that I am unfortunately indisposed and send my deepest apologies,” she said with as much strength as she could muster.

The slave boy looked confused and slightly afraid but he obeyed quickly, leaving the harem as fast as he could.

Vashka sank down onto the bed again, feeling Ochabu start to bathe her wounds. She flinched at the hot water on her tender wounds but soon ceased to feel pain as darkness slipped blessedly over her head.

She did not hear heavy, hurried footfalls approach a short while later as Kaious stormed into the room.

He stopped short, just inside the door, seeing Ochabu rising from Vashka’s bed where she still laid, her wounds as plain as day. Without a word, he closed the door and drew the bolt. Then he just stood there for a moment silently. It almost seemed to the old midwife that he was marshalling his anger for the question so she beat him to the punch.

“Your…advisors did this, Excellency.”

“What?” The single word was low but carried the weight of an army’s fury with it.

“Apparently, someone has accused my lady of plotting to poison you,” Ochabu explained as she checked the herbs that were boiling on the brazier.

“Who?!”

“My, our vocabulary is limited this evening.”

Kaious cursed beneath his breath. “This is no time for jokes, Ochabu!”

“I understand that, Excellency. Believe me, I do. But anger will not make these herbs boil any faster,” she pointed out, coming back with fresh cloths to lay on Vashka’s back. Kaious had taken a seat on her bed, next to her, so she handed them to him with a look that said “make yourself useful”.

“Who accused her?” he asked as he laid the hot strips across her back. Seeing those red, glowing, welted stripes over his dear one’s flesh made him sick inside.

“She does not know. They would not tell her. All they would say was that proof had been provided that condemned her and demanded that she confess. Naturally, she would confess nothing. For she has done nothing! The old fools!” Ochabu made an angry sign of disdain with her fingers. “So they striped her for her refusal, for they knew you would never allow her to be executed. Just like spoiled children with an animal that has upset them.”

Kaious frowned deeply, gazing over Vashka, who groaned as he touched her. “I’ll kill them!” he breathed furiously. “They cannot do such things without my knowledge! Without my permission!”

“Actually…they can,” a voice came from the bed. Vashka was awake, barely. She blinked and tried to move to glance at him but the pain drove her to keep still.

Kaious knelt next to her bedside as she turned her head again, slowly this time. “Shkaya…” He brushed her damp hair back from her forehead.

She winced again in her wakefulness. “Silver-steel whips,” she rasped, her voice rough with pain.

Kaious instinctively winced himself. Silver-steel whips were the favored interrogation tactic of the Council. But to use it on Vashka—on his favorite, his chief concubine—without his permission! It was inexcusable! It was a fool’s errand!

Vashka spoke haltingly and gave a sound that almost sounded like a chuckle. “I know that look. And Jan’zed was so kind as to read me the law before they flogged me. Nothing in the law says that they had to alert you unless they found ‘indisputable proof’.”

“And they obviously didn’t,” Ochabu cut in as she ground the boiled herbs to make the salve.

“Whomever accused you can’t be fully trusted then,” Kaious growled. “Only someone inside the palace would be able to accuse you and the Councilors must not think it enough weight.” He lifted a dry rag and gazed at one of the stripes. Its smooth, perfect edgings where it had cut into her back were the tailormark of a silver-steel whip. The whip lash was wrapped with silver-steel, the softest and most flexible metal in the empire; the steel was also razor-sharp and produced the smooth, deep lashes like those Vashka bore.

“Shkaya, darling, what proof did they give you?” he asked as he lifted the other strips from her back.

“An…obsidian jar.” She flinched again as the air touched the wounds. “They say my accuser found it in my room…that it contained  mozelth poison and that the law allowed them to…question me. They probably thought I would be far enough back in the rotation that you would not see me until they had healed.”

Kaious exploded again, leaping up from the bed! “That is impossible! I know of the one place that poison can be found! And you have never seen it! And the fools thought they could deceive me! They can’t do this! The law…I am the law!”

“No…” her voice was quiet. “You are only Kaious.”

The look he gave her was all anger, sadness, and, most of all, helplessness. She was right; he was only Kaious. He was a figurehead; his word was law but much of the law did not depend on him, for it had been in existence for centuries. Kaious ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I still want them to pay! Jan’zed…that old jackel!”

Ochabu approached, placing a bowl in his hands and gesturing to Vashka’s back.

The hurting woman sighed, too. “Do what you must, love. Be angry, ply your rage. But do not endanger yourself. Do not give reasoning for another uprising so soon.” She paused as he sat on the bed again. “You swore to me that you would be careful. You swore to me, Vima! And I hold you to your word now!” Her voice was still weak but it held a firmness that he had come to know and love.

Ochabus shuffled out of the room, mumbling that she would be back later to check on Vashka and needed to arrange for medicine.

Kaious nodded at Vashka’s words and, leaning down, kissed her hair. “This may hurt, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he began to apply the salve to her back. Every time she winced or groaned, his heart broke anew and his anger flared hot. He should draw and bleed these snakes for what they had done to her…to his wife! It made him shake with fury but he forced his hand to be still as he drew the salve along the stripes on her back. By the smell, he knew it to be the same herbs that she had used on his many wounds during their days in the army.

As he worked his way down her back, Kaious found himself stopping when he reached a familiar scar. A particular stripe had crossed it so that it formed a small X on the far left side of her back. He lingered there for a moment but then moved on, eager for the salve to begin its work. When he was done, he laid fresh strips of cloth over her back and then knelt beside her again. “You must keep still, Shkaya. Let the wounds heal.” He tried to give her a smile. “Think of them as battle scars.”

She gave as weak an effort in return. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” was his reply, just as quiet, as he stretched out his hand and touched her cheek. “I must go now. Ochabu will watch you. Whatever you need…”

Vashka gave another weak attempt at a smile and shooed him with a gentle word, “Go.”

As much as he wanted to linger, Kaious knew the dangers of people knowing he was in her chamber. With a gentle, quick kiss, he left her room, closing the door gently behind him. As he turned away from it to move into the open harem, many of the girls felt their blood go cold at the look on his face as he glared at them.

“I will have none of you tonight!” he bellowed, shaking off Aeth as she approached him. Then he stalked from the harem and the bang of his chamber doors echoed through the corridors.

Kaious did indeed let his anger be known but he planned it out carefully and portrayed that façade of controlled, cold cruelty that serves best to frighten or at least instill that modicum of fear that grows over time.

He did nothing to punish them but calmly assured them that he was grossly displeased with these proceedings and that he, too, knew the letter of law.

“So, my noble sirs, do not make the mistake of hiding behind the law and keeping me in the dark. I am Kaious. Do not forget. You advance yourselves only through my good graces.”

Grand Vizier Jan’zed bowed in reply. “Of course, Your Excellency. We are merely seeking to protect your royal person and the sanctity of the empire.”

“I am well aware of this, Jan’zed. But, I give you my solemn—and experienced—word that whomever accused the Lady Vashka is a liar. She is a smart woman who values her life, Councilors. She would not attempt something as foolish as trying to poison me,” Kaious warned them, sitting stately upon the golden throne of the Ankai. He saw the look of disgust on Jan’zed’s face when he referred to Vashka as a lady but paid it no mind. “I wish this matter dropped, gentlemen. Now!”

Though much of the law did not depend on him, his word was still law. Once Kaious has expressly forbidden something, it could be pursued no longer. And it wasn’t.

“A Teacher’s Revenge”

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The noise was incredible. Twenty-three hyped up eighth graders and one poor teacher with a migraine. Not good odds. Her hands felt tingly and so did her head. Light, like she was going to pass out, but too full to do that.

The kids just wouldn’t shut up. “Will you just be QUIET?” she screamed mentally.

And the noise stopped.

It wasn’t just complete silence. It was a profound silence.

Blinking, Melissa looked around at her class. Each and every one was totally silent, mouths closed, eyes open wide. Some with surprise, others with fear. She could see some of them trying to open their mouths and failing and the eyes growing wider still.

They couldn’t speak, none at all.

Could it be true?

Out the corner of her eye, Melissa saw a girl in the back jump up as if to bolt from the room.

Petrificus! Her mind leapt out before she even knew to think.

And the girl froze in mid-step!

So it was true! Finally! It was about time that Powers That Be lent teachers a hand.

Quietly raising a finger to do so, Melissa wordlessly mobilicorpus’ed the girl back into her seat. And there she stayed…after Melissa petrificus’ed the entire class to their seats.

Then, picking up the book, she opened to chapter I and began to read.

“When Jem was thirteen, he broke his arm badly at the elbow….”

The twelve pages of the first chapter flew by and Melissa even saw some students relaxing and beginning to actually listen to the story as she read and stopped in a few places to explain. She reminded them of their assignments and projects and when the bell rang for the end of class, she silently released the spells that held them and let them scamper away fearfully, not daring to open their mouths until they were out the door and casting glances back at her as they went. They were probably afraid that she’d turned them into something next. She was sure they were all vowing to never return to that classroom and they would tell everyone they knew. That was fine.

Who would believe your teacher was a REAL witch anyway?