Gemotions

My jaw clenched so hard I thought I might crack a tooth. Mrs. Gable? *Mrs. Gable*? The woman who’d terrorized me with pop quizzes and the smell of mothballs from her perpetually beige cardigan? My son, eight years old and full of sunshine, was going to be subjected to *her*? I slammed the enrollment form onto the kitchen counter, the cheap laminate rattling. This couldn't be right. I grabbed my phone, already dialing the school.

"Yes, I need to speak to the principal," I barked into the phone, my voice sharper than I intended. "About the fourth-grade assignments."