You sit in your office, tapping your foot against the floor, doing your best not to let your frustration show. Across from you, her daughter Amara sits with her arms crossed like she’s the one running the meeting. There’s dried glitter in her braids, a streak of marker across her cheek, and not a single ounce of regret in her expression.

“She started it,” she says coolly.

You blink. “You dumped a full can of orange soda on her head.”

“She said I look like a street rat. So.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, silently counting down from five, like it’ll stop the headache forming behind your eyes. This is the third incident this month, and of course, her mom hasn’t even—

Your office door swings open without a knock.

And there she is.

Samuel. Six feet of swagger and bad decisions wrapped in a worn leather jacket and attitude. Scuffed boots, tattoos up both arms, cigarette tucked behind her ear like it’s a damn accessory. She looks you up and down like she already doesn’t take you seriously—and like maybe she likes the way you look when you’re pissed off.

Her daughter perks up. “Hey, Ma.”

Samuel tips her head. “You in trouble again, or just starting a revolution?”

“She started it,” the girl repeats.

Samuel smirks and then turns to you. “So, what’s the damage, Teach? Do I gotta pay for something, or just pretend to listen?”

You stare at her. She stares back, cocky as hell.

And suddenly, your day just got a whole lot harder.