West Shores Academy

“West Shores Academy”

West Shores Academy sat on top of a cliff overlooking the ocean. From the east wing’s windows, students could see steely gray waves bubbling and dashing themselves on the rocks. For the average passerby, the academy was gloomy and scary, always cast in clouds. For Joan Perez, it was practically home. 

She pulled up to the front doors in her blue 2011 Ford Focus. She stepped out, her heel crunching against ice. It was summer currently, but the sun never shone on this part of the countryside. She shivered in the crisp air, then made her way to the enormous front doors of West Shores. 

  Inside, the gigantic halls were lit with dangling light fixtures, sculpted to look like bronze flowers blooming. The carpet was dark green with gold filigree edging, worn down after hundreds of footsteps. It had been so long, since her last time here, and yet everything had remained the same. 

She found her way to the first classroom, with Dr. Marando. She peeked her head in, breathing the familiar smell of old book pages and chalk dust. Dr. Marando looked as she had the moment Joan had graduated, with her mouth pressed into a firm, lipless line, and her hair gathered back sleekly into a bun. 

She was talking to a couple at the moment, both serious and adorned with enough glittering jewelry to tell Joan they were parents, rich parents. The only kind that ever came to West Shores. 

“As I was saying, Mr. Jordan has a history of struggling in my class. He seems stressed. Perhaps an extracurricular could take his mind off of things?” she suggested. 

The woman pressed her gloved hands daintily to her mouth. “But we would be able to fit that in between his French lessons and his rugby practice?” she fretted.

Dr. Marando shook her head. “This is what I was concerned with, Mrs. Hewitt. I think your son is being overwhelmed by…,”

Her voice trailed off as Joan wandered further down the hall. She had parents like that, ones that piled expectations high on her plate. The dance lessons, the etiquette, every class had to be honors. She’d been so exhausted until Dr. Marando had swooped in to help. 

She’d been the first person to ever ask Joan what she wanted to do with her life. She smiled to herself, entering the next classroom. 

This one, the art room, was void of any teachers, but she’d been expecting that. Her old art teacher, Mr. Bloom, wasn't expected to return to West Shores until he finished with his charity auction in Berlin. She entered this classroom freely, her hands gliding over the large oaken desks. She found hers easily enough, on the second row, seat closest to the impressionist paintings by Mr. Bloom’s desk. 

She felt under the desk, searching with her fingers until she found grooves in the wood. She smiled, ducking underneath to have a look. There, in deep scrapes, were the words “JOAN OF ART”. She’d done this with a whittling knife that Mr. Bloom had allowed her. When he discovered her deed, she’d thought he would be mad. But instead he was delighted, and told the class that day that rebellion is just another form of expression. 

She left, the smell of acrylic and clay still lingering in her nose. 

Joan continued to peek into classrooms, some with professors, most without, slowly making her way down the hall to a very important room. She passed one classroom without looking in, Dr. Branch’s classroom. The science room. The faint fluorescent lights from the observation tanks shone against waxed tile like moonlight. 

She pursed her lips and closed the door. Too many bad memories of that place, of Dr. Branch’s taunting voice, of searing lashes against her palms when she spoke out of turn. She’d been only a kid back then, with no voice against the twisted and intentionally cruel ways of her science teacher. 

Finally, she stopped in front of the last door on the hall. Beside her were the girls dormitories, which she didn’t care for. When the halls were empty, every room looked the same. It didn’t matter which cot had been hers. No, what really mattered was what was behind this door. The principal’s office. 

She took a deep breath, banishing her nerves, and opened it. Inside it was familiar, just like the rest of West Shores’ hallowed halls. The floor was made of polished stone, slick and without a smudge. The walls were still lined with oddities from Principal Franta’s travels, snippets of plants and crude clay figures he claimed were from islands unmapped. 

The desk was enormous, and, most importantly, empty. The chair behind it, a green velvet high backed beast, was not. It spun for a moment, whirring around too fast for her to glimpse the one sitting down. Then, it stopped, someone skidding to their feet and whipping around. 

“M-Miss. Perez! I didn’t hear you come in!” he exclaimed as he stumbled out of the chair. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. It had been years, and they both had changed, but she still recognized him. His blonde hair had faded to gray in places, and his glimmering blue eyes had lost their luster. His back was hunched a little now, and he looked smaller, though she accredited that more to how much she’d grown.

“I don’t make a habit of announcing my presence to an empty room, Dr. Branch.” she glowered. 

Dr. Branch stiffened. Then his mouth slowly curled into a smile. 

“And what are you doing here, Miss. Perez? Taking an old walk down memory lane? You were in here an awful lot, weren’t you?” he said, tracing swirls on the desk. 

Miss. Perez’s hands slowly clenched into fists. 

“Principal Franta knew how to set me right.” she said, and forced herself to relax her fingers. 

Dr. Branch rolled his eyes. “And my guidance lent a hand as well, I assume?” 

He watched her hands dart behind her back and laughed. What fun she had been as a pupil, a scared little girl with knobbly knees and quick fingers. And how fun she was now, grown with hesitancy in her footsteps. He looked up and met her eyes. 

That was a mistake. 

“I came here for a reason.” she said, fishing in her purse. There was power behind her eyes, like the force that dashed the waves to pieces on the cliff side. Her gaze was sharp enough to draw blood. He took a step back, then two steps as she advanced. 

“Yes, Miss. Perez?” he asked, turning his attention to her hands.

She withdrew something from her purse covered in a thin plastic sleeve and set it with a firm thunk on the desk. 

“It’s Principal Perez, actually.” she said, and settled behind the desk in one smooth motion. 

Dr. Branch froze, his face twisting, a myriad of emotions all shown in the fraction of a second. For a moment, he was prepared to laugh, to show her the door and take a seat when she was gone. Then he was confused, eyebrows scrunching, as she withdrew the plastic off of a bronze name plate. Then, as he watched her ease herself into the chair, he felt the contents of his stomach turn to lead. He blinked once, then twice, staring at the nameplate in shock. 

Principal Perez. She smiled up at him, steepling her fingers. He realized with mounting dread that this was not the girl he’d taught so many years ago, the wild, untamed girl he’d spent four years discouraging. Now it was her turn for her lips to curl into a smile, like a cat with its cornered prey. 

Dr. Branch’s shoulders went slack as he realized there was no comeback, no witty remark to bring Joan back to tears, back to being weak and naive. He turned, tail between his legs, and slunk to the door. 

“Oh, and one more thing, Dr. Branch” she said, with a twirl of a perfectly manicured finger. 

He turned, and knew in that moment he’d gone too far. Through all their years together, he had never felt remorse. Not after all the years of forcing her to prove every answer. Not after forcing her hand into the gut of a cruelly decimated frog while she cried. Not after lashing her hands over and over for the slightest transgression. 

But now, as she sat behind the desk, as she held all the power, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. She smirked at him. 

“You’re fired.”