The Neat Edge

Mariza pushed up the floor panel with both hands. Paper dust puffed into her nose.

“Ugh. Tastes like old homework,” she muttered, brushing her red-and-black sleeves.

The hallway at Fundamental Paper Education smelled like glue sticks and pencil shavings. A poster said, in cheerful bubble letters: NO RUNNING. A smaller note under it said: Unless a teacher says so.

Mariza padded to the supply closet and stole one clean worksheet page. She folded fast—corner to corner, crease, pinch—until a little red flower sat in her palm.

Alice waited by her own door, leaning against the wall like she belonged there.

“You made it again,” Alice said. Her voice sounded tired, like a stapler that had been used too much.

Mariza slid the flower through the gap. “If you toss it, I’ll be mad forever.”

Alice didn’t toss it. She held it carefully.

From far down the hall, someone screamed. Feet slapped paper floors.

The lights blinked once, and stayed dim.

The Box That Wouldn’t Sit Still

Mariza grabbed Alice’s wrist and pulled her toward the smell of bread glue.

The “bakery” classroom sat behind swinging paper doors. Inside, the ovens were just big craft boxes with fans taped on. A tray of flat, frosting-colored dough sheets waited on a table.

A phone alarm blared from the corner.

“Do teachers bake with phones?” Mariza whispered.

Alice, the pale demon with black eyes and small horns, stepped closer. “No.”

A taped cardboard delivery box sat by the mixer. It bumped once, like something inside had rolled over. The phone kept screaming.

Mariza read the label out loud, her mouth dry.

“TO ROOM UNDER FLOOR.”

Alice’s fingers tightened around the paper flower Mariza had made.

The box thumped again. Dark smears seeped from the bottom, sliding across the paper tiles like spilled ink.

Mariza reached for the tape.

A metal click sounded behind her.

“Hands off,” said Ms. Crimp.

The teacher held a big hole-punch in both hands like it was made for more than paper.