Gemotions

Mark slumped against the wall, the world tilting precariously. Mrs. Davis. The woman who’d assigned that essay on Shakespeare and given him a D. The woman who’d made him feel utterly inadequate. His son, Alex, was going to be in her class.

His hands trembled as he reread the school newsletter, his eyes darting back and forth. A cold sweat slicked his palms, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He felt the blood rush from his head, the world dimming around the edges. He needed to get out of the hall, to breathe.

He gripped the wall for support, his knuckles white. "Alex," he muttered, the word a desperate plea. He knew he had to appear collected, to project confidence, but the fear was a physical weight, pressing down on him, stealing his breath.