Viola Fisher, President of Prudeville and Queen Perfectionist, has several tattoos, one on her arm and another on her thigh that I couldn’t make out because she was hustling down the hallway. My eyes widen, both shocked and impressed, and every comeback I had waiting for her vanished with a single look. I’m not usually at a loss for words, especially when it comes to rattling Viola, but all I can do is blink. As I stand paralyzed by the door, Viola prances down the hallway with water dripping down her perfect bare body as she flips me off.
She pauses in the doorway, not yet walking all the way through, and makes direct eye contact with me. “It’s rude to stare,” she bites out, her lips pinching together in a challenge—the slightest twitch depicts an evil grin forming.
I swallow, seemingly
