Gemotions

Margaret gripped the principal's desk, knuckles white. This couldn't be happening. “Mrs. Gable? For *my* son? Are you serious?” The principal, a young man who looked barely old enough to shave, fidgeted under her glare. She imagined him as a small child, probably one of those kids who always obeyed the rules. It made her stomach churn. Thirty years. Thirty years since she’d suffered Mrs. Gable’s passive-aggressive grading rubrics and her unnerving ability to *know* when you weren't paying attention.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied softly. "Mrs. Gable is a highly respected teacher, with excellent reviews." Margaret snorted. Excellent reviews from parents who hadn't endured a decade of Mrs. Gable's history lessons, delivered in a monotone that could lull a rock to sleep.

She crossed her arms, a muscle twitching in her jaw. "Well, I hope she's lightened up. Because I remember a woman who thought the color of your socks determined your comprehension of the Civil War."