Mr. Reynolds' office smelled like chalk, old books, and trouble. Clara stepped inside, her chin high, her steps measured. She could feel every pair of eyes from the hallway boring into her back as the door clicked shut.
So this is what Elena planned? Cute.
Mr. Reynolds didn't waste time. He slammed a stack of confiscated notes onto his desk. "Care to explain these, Miss Whitmore?" His voice was sharp, the kind that could slice through steel.
Clara calmly lowered herself into the chair opposite him. "Explain what, sir?" she asked, her tone smooth, almost innocent.
"Don't play games with me," he snapped. "This is clearly your handwriting. Notes about assignments, rumors, and—" He flipped a page, scowling. "—insults about other students. This is unacceptable."
Clara leaned forward, peering at the papers. She almost laughed. Insults? Really, Elena? That's the best you could come up with?
"Sir," Clara said sweetly, "with all due respect, does that even look like my handwriting? Mine is much neater. This one…" She tilted her head, feigning pity. "…looks like chicken scratch."
Mr. Reynolds frowned, glancing back at the notes. They did look rushed, messy. He hesitated.
Clara smiled to herself. Hook, line, sinker.
"But—" he began.
"Also," Clara cut in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "whoever wrote this clearly hates math. I, on the other hand, just scored ninety-two on the last quiz." She sat back, smug. "Why would I write insults about math problems?"
For a moment, silence filled the room.
Then, against all odds, Mr. Reynolds… chuckled. Just once, quickly, but Clara caught it. His face hardened immediately after, but it was too late. She'd cracked him.
Gotcha.
He coughed. "Even so, these are serious accusations."
Clara widened her eyes. "Accusations? Against who, sir?"
"You," he said flatly.
"Me?" Clara gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "But why would anyone accuse me, a model student, of something so vile? Unless…" She let her voice trail off, then leaned in. "Unless someone wanted to frame me. Someone desperate. Someone humiliated recently, perhaps?"
The corner of Mr. Reynolds' mouth twitched, as though he wanted to smile but refused. He adjusted his glasses instead. "Miss Whitmore, are you suggesting another student planted this?"
Clara dropped her gaze, feigning innocence. "Oh, I would never suggest that. But if I were to suggest it…" Her eyes flickered mischievously. "…I'd probably start with the one who had a math score lower than her IQ."
Mr. Reynolds coughed again, covering his mouth this time. Clara's lips curled. He's laughing inside. I win.
Just then, a loud sneeze echoed from outside the door. Clara's brows furrowed. She turned slightly—only to realize the office window was cracked open, and half the hallway was still gathered outside, eavesdropping shamelessly.
And at the center of them? Elena.
Their eyes locked. Elena's face was pale with rage, her nails digging crescents into her palms. The humiliation from earlier was still fresh, and now she was watching Clara charm the strictest teacher in school like it was nothing.
Clara's lips curved into the faintest smirk. She raised her voice deliberately so it carried into the hallway.
"Sir, I promise you, I would never stoop as low as forging notes to insult other students. After all…" She paused, eyes flicking to Elena. "…if I wanted to insult someone, I'd do it to their face."
The hallway erupted with laughter. Students clutched their stomachs, trying to stifle it, but the sound spilled in anyway. Elena's entire body stiffened, her humiliation climbing to unbearable heights.
Mr. Reynolds slammed his desk. "Quiet out there!"
The laughter died down. Clara sat back, looking serene. Her heart was racing, but on the outside, she looked untouchable.
Mr. Reynolds rubbed his temples. "Miss Whitmore, I'll investigate this matter further. For now, you may go."
Clara rose gracefully, giving him a polite nod. "Thank you, sir. I trust justice will be served."
As she opened the door, she turned slightly, her voice carrying just enough for Elena to hear:
"Oh, and sir? If you find out who wrote those notes… maybe give them extra math tutoring. They clearly need it."
The hallway exploded again. Laughter, whispers, even a few cheers. Elena's face was crimson, her perfect image shredded piece by piece.
Clara walked past her, unbothered, her bag slung casually over one shoulder. Checkmate. Again.
But just as she reached the stairs, a hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. Clara turned—and her smile faltered.
It wasn't Elena.
It was someone else entirely.