Gwendolyn "Gwen" Donnelly has only ever wanted one thing in her life: become class president.
In her senior year of high school a shocking murder throws a wrench into her plans. Gwen finds out that her favourite history teacher has been murdered an...
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I still can't believe Mr. Rycroft is dead.
It's only been a few days after Mr. Rycroft's death and I've been wishing to see him in class one last time.
Having history taught by another teacher feels wrong, but I think what unsettles me more is that everyone already has moved on so quickly to a new interesting topic, namely the class president applications.
Every year, the academy has a small competition to determine the class president of the year which is only available to seniors. I have been biding my time for the last three years to apply. My father says it will look good on my resume and I'm unfortunately inclined to agree. Agreeing with my father on anything ticks me off, but my father is right. Becoming class president will look great on my resume. It will show people that I'm not just great in football, but other things as well.
I glance at my watch and instantly pick up my pace.
I'm late.
Mrs. Brunner is going to kill me.
I just have to avoid drawing any attention.
I grab the door handle and open it slowly. The door hinge lets out a loud squeaky noise. I swear under my breath.
Just my luck.
The whole class's heads swivel my way and I wince.
So much for not drawing any attention.
Mrs. Brunner, our English and Literature teacher stands in front of the class with her short black hair and her mouth drawn in a thin line. She does not look happy at all. "Late for class on the first week already Mr. Lockwood?" She says with a scowl.
My eyes widen. "It won't happen again," I stammer.
"I sure hope not," she says before continuing to write on the white board.
I plop down on the only open seat left in the class, right next to the window. I feel someone staring at me and look to my right. I stare at her with a smirk which only angers her more.
Maybe being late isn't always so bad after all.
"Seems like fate, Donnelley. What are the chances the only open seat is next to yours?"
"Seems more like torture if you ask me." She drawls.
