Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go by Dale E. Basye

smuggler.”
    Cerberus twitched uncomfortably in Bea “Elsa” Bubb’s arms.
    â€œYes, I know, that means mingling with those filthy guttersnipes, but no one said that upholding all that’s wrong and vile would be easy.”
    She lovingly scooted Cerberus down the hall toward the classrooms. As the former dog bounded awkwardly away in its new body, Principal Bubb wiped away a speck of hard black crud that had oozed from her tear duct.
    â€œNow be a pet, pet, and I promise that whatever you catch, you can keep.”

16 · HATCHET JOB
    IF TEDIUM WERE, say, a hurricane, Marlo thought in the back of class, then home ec would definitely be a Category Five.
    Her teacher, Miss Borden, even looked dull: a round face with features that looked hastily sculpted in dough, a fussy hat pinned into mousy brown hair tied tight in a bun, and a dreary blouse buttoned up to her chin.
    The only unbland things about her were her eyes—dark and dangerous as an abandoned well—and the fact that she was cutting out a dress pattern with an ax.
    â€œLadies,” Miss Borden said with a voice like the crease in a freshly starched shirt, “to become a decent homemaker, you must look the part. And that means getting everything
just
right. Perfectly straight lines, and NO DANGLING THREADS!”
    She chopped the gingham fabric with a mighty whack. Marlo was dragged out of her daydream with a start. She wiped the spot of drool on her chin and pretended to be interested, or at least conscious.
    â€œI apologize for the rude awakening, Miss Fauster,” the teacher scolded. “But being a good seamstress takes precision and a pathological eye for detail. Likewise with other essential home economics skills such as interior design and cake decorating. How do you expect to make a tidy home if you don’t pay attention?”
    â€œI couldn’t care less about making a ‘tidy home,’” Marlo replied. “I already know how to sew, and I’m not interested in any of this happy-homemaker garbage.”
    The teacher glared at Marlo. “How do you expect to attract the attention of a potential husband? Certainly not with your charm and poise.”
    Lyon and Bordeaux traded wicked “Oohs” with each other. Marlo was beginning to feel like her old self: the source of class disruption. It felt good to be bad again.
    â€œI’m not interested in a husband. He’d only slow me down. Besides, what kind of husband did all this bunk get
you,
anyway?”
    Bordeaux whispered to Lyon, “I
knew
she didn’t like boys!”
    Miss Borden fumed. She seemed to be just a few snarky comments away from a meltdown. “I, to my eternal regret, never settled down with anyone other than my sister. I blame my parents. They were always…
in the way.
”
    She stared at her ax with faraway eyes. With a shudder, she went from bubbling rage to arctic chill. This disturbed Marlo far more. Miss Borden left her sewing area and walked over to a basket in the far corner of the room.
    â€œWell, future homemakers, in the event that you
do
one day meet Mr. Right, that will invariably lead to the ultimate fulfillment of every woman’s great purpose: motherhood.”
    The teacher picked out a dozen small sacks of flour from the basket and swaddled each in either pink or blue blankets, before pinning the blankets tight with a safety pin so that the corner stuck out like a pointy little head. Next she put tiny pale pink or blue socks, depending, over the corners so that they looked like little fuzzy caps.
    She stacked the lot in a wooden shopping cart and wheeled them down the aisle.
    The girls gazed at one another with bewilderment. Bordeaux, however, clapped her hands and grinned.
    â€œDollies!”
    Lyon elbowed her in the side as Miss Borden passed out the flour babies. The teacher handed Marlo a lumpy, gunnysack pouch wrapped in pink flannel. Lyon leaned into Bordeaux.
    â€œLook,