2. Colette
COLETTE
T hree days of being stuck in bed with the flu away from work and my perfectly organized schedule has crumbled faster than Christmas shortbread cookies.
The final bell rang fifteen minutes ago, the students are cleared out, and I'm arranging the last stack of essays on my desk when Daisy bursts through my classroom door, shaking a brown paper bag full of what I hope is her delicious baked goods.
"That man is going to be the death of my business!" She plunks the bag down next to my thermos of peppermint tea. "I brought you scones. Maple. The good kind. Not those pretentious things Tucker's selling."
Tucker’s Coffee, the shop across the street from Daisy’s Bakery sells packaged maple cookies—not freshly baked scones. But I’m not about to argue when my best friend brings me my favorite treat.
"Thank you." I peek inside the bag, inhaling the sweet, buttery aroma. "Though I'm sure your business is doing fine."
"Fine? He's got a line out the door every morning with his fancy pour-overs and single-origin whatever.
" Daisy paces between the student desks, her flour-dusted apron leaving a faint trail.
"Yesterday he had the nerve to suggest I try his new roast. Like I need coffee advice from Mr. 'I studied brewing techniques in Seattle. '"
I nod sympathetically, though honestly, I don't see the conflict.
Daisy's bakery serves straightforward drip coffee alongside her incredible pastries, while Tucker's place is.
.. well, more specialized. But telling Daisy that would be like suggesting Romeo and Juliet is just a teenage romance gone wrong.
"And then he had the nerve—the absolute nerve—to put up a 'Best Coffee in Town' sign!"
"Mmhmm," I murmur, picking up my red pen again. Twenty-seven essays on "The Great Gatsby" won't grade themselves.
"Did you know he's offering pumpkin spice lattes in December? December! That's a fall drink!"
"Terrible," I say, though I secretly think serving whatever drinks people want to order seems perfectly reasonable.
But Daisy's been my friend since high school, and friendship means supporting each other's completely irrational vendettas.
Besides, I bring my own peppermint tea to work in my thermos.
Seven dollars for hot water and a fancy name? No thank you.
"The Christmas pageant scripts are giving me that look," I say, gesturing to the untouched pile beside my computer. "Like they know I'm behind schedule."
"Oh please, you'll have everything perfect as always." Daisy drops into a student chair, making it creak ominously. "Unlike some people who think they can waltz into town with their fancy espresso machines and industrial grinders and—You're not even listening, are you?"
"I am! Tucker's foam art is pretentious, his prices are highway robbery, and his..." I trail off, trying to remember her previous complaints.
"His bean-sourcing philosophy is elitist!"
"It does seem excessive." I take a bite of the maple scone she brought me. So good!
"At least someone understands."
"Right, that." I take a sip of my tea. "Though technically, you two serve different–-"
"Don't you dare say we serve different products." Daisy narrows her eyes. "Coffee is coffee."
A soft knock interrupts Daisy's coffee tirade. Our school treasurer, Marcy Whittaker, peers around the door, clutching a manila folder to her chest like it might explode.
"Miss McAllister? Do you have a moment?"
"Of course, come in." I straighten in my chair, noting how Marcy's glasses are slightly askew – never a good sign.
"Well, you see..." She shuffles forward, adjusting her candy-cane striped cardigan. "About the Christmas pageant budget request you submitted..."
I've been waiting for approval on those funds since September.
"Perfect timing. I need to order the new backdrop materials and?—"
"That's just it." Marcy's fingers flutter to her glasses again. "The school board met yesterday and... well... they've decided to... reallocate the funds."
"Reallocate?" The word tastes bitter. "To what?"
"The hockey team needs new uniforms." She practically whispers it, like saying it softer might cushion the blow.
"New uniforms?" I stand up so quickly my chair rolls back. "They got new uniforms last year!"
"Yes, well..." Marcy pulls out a spreadsheet, handing it to me with trembling hands. "The board voted and?—"
"My shepherds are wearing bathrobes held together with safety pins! Mary's veil is actually an old curtain panel, and don't get me started on the cardboard stable that's been recycled so many times it's basically dust held together by hope!"
Daisy whistles low. "Didn't they promise you new costumes last year too?"
"And the year before that." I sink back into my chair. "This pageant is a town tradition. We can't keep putting it on with costumes that are literally falling apart during performances. Last year, one of the wise men's crowns disintegrated mid-scene!"
"The board feels that since we're a hockey town..." Marcy's voice trails off.
"A hockey town? We're a town, period. With culture and arts and—" I wave the spreadsheet. "Students who deserve better than performing in costumes that are literally falling apart during the show!"
"I'm so sorry. I tried to argue for splitting the funds, but..."
I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate. Maybe it’s the added pressure from taking some sick days, but I’m just so over this. It happens every year.
"And what exactly am I supposed to do about costumes?” I say, trying to fight back tears. “The pageant's in less than three weeks!"
"They suggested maybe some... creative fundraising?" Marcy's voice rises to a squeak.
"I'll be back," I tell Daisy and Marcy, snatching my coat from the back of my chair. My heels click against the linoleum as I march down the hallway, past the trophy cases filled with—surprise—hockey memorabilia.
Behind me, I hear Daisy and Marcy's footsteps, their voices calling out.
"Colette, wait! There's something you should?—"
The rink connects to the school through a covered walkway, and the blast of cold air does nothing to cool my temper. The hockey coach, Wade Greer, isn't going to get away with this.
"You can't just barge in—" Daisy hurries behind me, still wearing her flour-dusted apron.
"Watch me." I've known Sarah Greer all my life. We have book club every other Thursday. If anyone can talk sense into that hockey-obsessed husband of hers, it's me.
I clutch my spreadsheet like a battle flag. "I'm going to give Wade a piece of my mind.”
"But Coach Greer isn't—" Marcy's voice echoes down the corridor.
"Perfect! Practice hasn't started yet." I pick up my pace. "I'll catch him before he gets the team on the ice."
"That's what we're trying to tell you!" Daisy's voice bounces off the trophy cases lining the walls. "Wade's not?—"
"Five years!" I call over my shoulder. "Five years I've put on this pageant. And every single year, something gets in the way. New hockey sticks, new uniforms, new nets?—"
"Colette, seriously, you need to?—"
But I'm already pushing open the doors to the practice rink, my perfectly crafted speech about arts funding and cultural enrichment ready to go.
The cold air hits my face. The familiar smell of Zamboni fuel and teenage desperation hits me, but I'm too worked up to care. A few players are on the ice, running drills and I stride toward the bench area where Wade usually preps his practice plans.
Only Wade isn't there.
Someone else is leaning against the boards, spinning a whistle around one finger and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
I’d recognize that smug face and backward baseball hat anywhere.
Hendrix Ellis.
My high school nemesis.