Seasonal Cheer at Wayward Academy

“You look about as festive as a radish sandwich,” Midge had said. And she wasn’t wrong—Tim Endibel, co-head of Wayward St. Etheldreda’s Academy, was in no kind of holiday mood.

Three days before winter break, the sounds of the holiday concert rehearsal drifted up the stairwell, a cheery backdrop to his gloom. Tim sat at his desk, dispirited and utterly un-Christmas elflike. Even the cellophane-wrapped package of home-baked mince pies (“made with Calvados and puff pastry, Tim!”) that Midge had plunked down on his desk that morning failed to lift his spirits. And Tim liked mince pies. Damn her.

Midge, as always, was brimming with cheer. “What ho, Tim! Happy holidays!” she’d chirped before disappearing off to California to spend a week with her daughter and grandchild.

Tim had a daughter, too. Now a senior at a boarding school in New England, she was a self-declared they/them who hadn’t spoken to him since August. She blamed him for the divorce, wore a ring through her nose, and would likely spend Christmas with her mother, using the gift certificates he’d sent along with a carefully worded card.

Sheila, his ex-wife, spoke to him only when absolutely necessary. Their last conversation had been about the black mold infesting the house they co-owned in Millvale. She’d sounded almost cheerful, leaving Tim to handle the problem. Of course, she was comfortably settled in Florida with the family dog. Tim missed the dog.

Six years ago, Tim had a family, a home, and no mortgage on a country house he no longer wanted. That had been Granger’s doing. Thank God Granger was no longer on the board.

“Buy a house up here, Tim, and I’ll get you into the country club,” Granger had insisted. And before he knew it, Tim had a damp, tick-infested weekend retreat, unhappy kids, and a wife learning tennis with Tony, the club pro. The rest, as they say, was history.

Tim sighed and glanced at the untouched mince pies. Not even Calvados-soaked pastry could fix the mess his life had become.

His self-pity was interrupted. “Mrs. Braydune is here to see you, Tim. She says it’s urgent. Oh, and Brigley called—he’s running a few minutes late.”

Of course it was urgent. It always was with Veronica Braydune. Whether it was her son Evan sticking a purple marker in the electric pencil sharpener or her other child calling the chorus teacher a “poison dwarf,” everything with Mrs. Braydune demanded immediate attention.

“Well, he is very short,” she had argued. “And he bullies the children. He hasn’t even given Hamilton a solo all year.”

Tim braced himself. Whatever Brigley, the board chair, had in store would have to wait. Veronica Braydune had arrived, tote bag in hand, ready to make her latest grievance known.