Chapter 12
SHAME CASTLE PRINCESSES
The lecture room feels wrong when no one’s in charge.
Mister M dropped us off nearly an hour ago with no instruction besides, “Finish chapters four through ten in your workbooks. Be ready for a review tonight.” He didn’t say what time, he didn’t say who with, he didn’t say why. But Avery’s not with us, and that tells me just about all I need to know.
The clock ticks loudly, daring us to misbehave.
Of course, Brielle takes the bait.
She balances an etiquette manual on her head like a crooked crown, arms outstretched, walking heel-to-toe across the training mat like it’s a grand stage.
“Observe,” she declares. “Poise. Precision. Perfection only the program’s elite training can produce.”
June’s already giggling. “Try not to break anything this time.”
“Oh please, I am the picture of balance," Brielle says. She turns too sharply, and to no one’s surprise, the book slips, clattering to the ground with a thud. She freezes. Eyes wide, stopped mid-curtsy like the desks might report her to Mister M.
June claps. “Three out of ten. Disqualified for violence against literature.”
Brielle bows low. “Thank you for your feedback. I am eager for the opportunity to improve.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It feels good. Real. Like maybe we’re still people under all the polishing. Weird people, but people. My eyes land back on June, who’s now stacking etiquette manuals like bricks on the floor around her.
“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning over.
“I’m building a fortress of shame.”
Brielle snorts. “Ooh! Put me in the east wing.”
“Sorry, that’s reserved for mentors with repressed emotions."
“Sooo, all of them?” I shake my head, still smiling, and toss her my textbook. “What wing are we in, then?”
“Denial,” June says. “Obviously.” In the far corner, Ivy hasn’t moved. She’s got her head down on her desk, likely asleep.
June peeks over her ever-growing book wall. “Hey, sleeping beauty! Wanna rent a room?”
Ivy doesn’t even stir.
“Hard pass,” June mutters. “Respect.”
Brielle flops dramatically onto the floor, stretching her fingers toward the ceiling. “Okay, but seriously…where is Mister M?”
“Bleeding out in the north stairwell,” June says. “Probably tripped over his own ego.”
“I bet he locked himself in his office trying to write the perfect insult,” I add.
Bri giggles. “Or spilled something on his fancy coat and died of embarrassment.”
The door creaks open, freezing us in place. Juniper’s arms are suspended mid-stack. Brielle’s splayed with one sock half-off. Ivy’s snoring lightly. I sit up a little too straight, which only makes me look more guilty.
Mister V steps into the room with a folder carefully tucked under one arm and a raised brow that could double as an accusation. His jacket’s buttoned, gloves tucked in one hand, eyes flicking around like this was not his intended destination.
He takes in the scene with a level stare: the scattered workbooks, Brielle’s cardigan strung between two chairs like a finish line, and of course, the looming shame castle. His gaze lands on each of us in turn. Longest on Ivy, then me.
“Is this the new etiquette curriculum?”
“Independent study.” My answer is automatic. Automatically stupid, but automatic, nonetheless.
June salutes from her spot on the floor. “Extra credit points, please.”
“Where is your mentor?” He asks, lips pressed in confusion.
“Lost in the vents,” Bri claims, waving her hands wildly as if his absence were thrilling folklore.
“Ascending to his final form,” Juniper adds. Mister V turns to me, eyes narrowed.
I shrug. “I heard he took the day off to scowl at himself somewhere quieter.”
He raises a brow, unimpressed by our display. “And none of you thought to report his absence?”
“Technically,” I say, dragging out the word. “We built a support system.”
“Shame castle. Very effective.” Juniper pats the growing book tower.
Brielle points at me. “She’s the mayor. I’m the head of foreign affairs.”
Mister V exhales, a long, suffering sound. “This room looks like a daycare for the terminally well-spoken.”
“Thank you,” June beams.
“Not a compliment.” He steps forward, picks up the etiquette manual Brielle dropped, turns it upright, and slides it back in front of her. “I’ll inform Mister M that you’ve all advanced to theatrical improvisation. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
Juniper snorts. Brielle slaps a hand over her mouth. Mister V turns, studying me with haunting blue eyes. They’re like two oceans. Not the cute kind with little creatures; the deep kind that drowns people who swim too far.
“Don’t you usually de-escalate them?” he asks, tipping his head.
“I got distracted.”
“By rebellion?”
“By architecture.” I nod toward June’s tower.
He hums a non-judgment that feels like secret judgment. Clears his throat. “Well, I suggest you clean that up before someone less tolerant arrives.”
June leans in. “He means Mister M,” she says.
Mister V doesn’t deny it; he simply disappears down the hall. We stay deathly still for three more seconds.
June gets to her feet. “Do you think he secretly liked it?”
“No,” Brielle says.
I grin. “Maybe.”