"Finger painting is fun she said. The kids will love it. What can go wrong?" I mimicked the words of my best friend Tamara as I poorly attempted to dab away the tiny green handprint on the front of my brand new slacks.
"Fan-fucking-tastic," I growled, realizing that my constant dabbing was only worsening the problem. With a heavy sigh, I tossed the damp paper towel in the trashcan and made a mental note to keep a pair of spare clothes in the classroom from now on.
I tiptoed to my desk, stepping over tiny bodies, contemplating how I would spend my next twenty minutes of solitude before the paint-covered monsters woke up for their nap.
Hell, who am I kidding? They may act a little bratty at times, but I wouldn't trade a single munchkin for anything in the world. I felt blessed when I was hired as a kindergarten teacher at Creekmoor Elementary School after completing a stint of student teaching and graduating top of my class. To say my parents are disappointed in me is a gross understatement. My parents were distraught when I revealed I had absolutely no desire to further my education at the time. Even though teachers are the stepping stone to developing our young future leaders of America, my parents still believed being an elementary teacher was a lowly job, and at the minimum, I should have aspired to be a nose in the air, stick up the ass professor.
Fuck all that.
I would consider my family upper-middle class but let my parents tell it, and they would argue they belonged in the upper echelon. They weren't shit. All they are is a bunch of uppity people with a little bit of money trying to keep up with the Joneses.
I fished for my tablet out of my briefcase and continued reading the latest Marshall Lane novel until the mini alarm clock on my desk shrilled, signaling the end of nap time. Groggy eyes peeked at me hesitantly before I flipped on all the lights. Sometimes I chuckle to myself as I watch them squint their eyes at the sudden blinding fluorescent lights.
I'm an evil bitch. I know, and this is why I'm single. I only have one friend, and my family can't stand me. Luckily, I don't give a damn and don't lose one second of sleep over it.
My parents, Timothy and Danita Thomas are well-known psychiatrists and are adamant that I'm a sociopath. I don't too muchly care for labels, but maybe I am. I blame my cold demeanor on my upbringing. I grew up in a house void of laughter, hugs, and smiles. You know, all that gooey shit that's essential to healthy child development. I don't believe my parents are capable of displaying genuine affection. I couldn't for the life of me recall my parents ever hug or kiss each other, let alone me and my sister Olivia.
Ho-livia is my gold-digging older sister who swears up and down she's a high society debutante and spends her days and nights prowling high-end bars, lounges, and other establishments trying desperately to prey on her next victim.
She likes her men with deep pockets, and age ain't nothing but a number to her. All she wants is a man that will indulge her every whim and desire, shower her with diamonds, designer clothes, and hand over their black card, no questions asked.
I have zero friends beside Tamara because I don't sugarcoat shit. Look, if you're looking a hot mess, I'm gonna let you know. If I think your boyfriend's a scrub and you're wasting your time, I'm gonna let you know. Apparently, people don't take too kindly to hearing the truth. They rather you lie to them to spare their fragile feelings. Fuck that. I'm too grown for fake friends.
As far as a man goes, well, that's what Tinder is for. A good hump and dump suffices when the mood strikes. No feelings involved, no phone numbers exchanged, and I definitely don't give them my real name. My Tinder dates all know me by Monica.
I've never been in a relationship before and will probably leave this earth as single as the day I was born. I'm not relationship material and learned this a long time ago. I detest commitment, lack patience, and compromise is as foreign to me as ancient Hebrew.
I don't know if I'm capable of truly loving another individual. Romances like the Notebook only happen in the movies, and can't nobody tell me otherwise. After all is said and done, I rather be alone than mistreated.
The rest of the afternoon flew by sans paint, and before I knew it, the bell rang, and parents began to shuffle into the classroom to collect their grimy little spawns.
"Miss Thomas?" Ah shit. This fool has been trying to shoot his shot at me for a hot minute, but I'm not fucking my student's dad. Time to put on a show, I thought to myself as I plastered a fake smile on my face.
"Mr. Lane! How are you doing today?" I asked almost through clenched teeth.
"I'm great now that I've seen you," he replied, making me mentally gagged. I didn't know how to respond, so I didn't. "Anywho," he announced, clapping his hands together. "What did you think of the new book?"
Oh God, I was praying this fool didn't ask me this. I bit my lip, trying to keep my wild tongue caged and not tell his shit was mediocre at best. I really hated that I couldn't tell him how I really felt out of fear of losing my job.
"Honestly, I just got around to downloading the book last night before bed. I'm on the second chapter, so I don't have a lot to go on. Maybe you should ask me again in a week?" I suggested. I fucking lied. I'm halfway through the book, waiting on that shit to pick the fuck up. Definitely a suspense novel... It keeps me suspended in boredom.
His soft green eyes seemed to light up at the invitation to speak with me again in the future. Damn it to hell. Now he thinks I want to talk to him. His eyes traveled up and down my slim figure, drinking me all in until he reached my lips. I will chop this son of a bitch in the throat if he gets any closer to me. I took a noticeable step back, wishing this sucka would say what he had to say and dip because all this damn fake smiling had my fucking cheeks on fire.
I know I'm coming off as a bitch...and I am, but this fool is the only thing standing between my couch, Netflix, and Chick-fil-A. It'll be a cold day in Hell before I allow a man to come between my Chick-fil-A and me. But I needed to give credit where credit's due. Marshall Lane is fine, and if he weren't my student's father, I'd let him hit, but I'm not trying to be his son's teacher during the day and his mommy at night.
I stared back into his eyes and watched him run a hand through his chocolate locks, no doubt going through multiple scenarios in his neanderthal brain trying to figure out how to ask me out. I continued to check him out while he pussyfooted around. Straight nose, perfect white teeth, stubble covering an almost perfect jawline, and I'm sure a tight body underneath that suit jacket. I wonder how big his d-
"Miss Thomas, would you like to go out for coffee next Saturday?"
I loudly exhaled, maybe too loudly before turning him down. "Thanks for the offer, Mr. Lane, but I don't fu- date my student's parents." Shit, he almost caught me slipping.
"Oh, come on, and live a little. It's just coffee. What's the worst that can happen?"
Uh, I accidentally sit on your face?
"It's just two professionals drinking hot beverages while discussing literary works of fiction," he reasoned with a grin on his face.
I can already tell Mr. Lane won't take no for an answer. "Okay, fine. I'm available next Saturday, and a slice of cake better be included in this deal as well," I huffed.
"Perfect! I'll see you on Monday," he promised as he gathered Charlie's backpack. I subtly rolled my eyes and walked them to the door. "Bye, Charlie. I'll see you on Monday," I called out and waved.
"Bye, Miss Thomas!" they both cheerfully exclaimed. Fucking chump. The father, not the kid.
Charlie is actually one of my favorite students and is quite adorable. He must take after his mother personality-wise. And here comes that nosy bitch power walking to my classroom looking parched for tea.
"Tamara, what do I owe the pleasure?" I drawled.
"Did my ears deceive me? Did Mr. Lane, the Marshall Lane, ask you out on a date??" My neck instinctually rolled out of habit. This bitch must have antennas or something because her damn classroom is three doors down!
"First of all, it's not a date. It's just coffee. Second of all, I don't date parents and lastly, mind your fucking business. I'm just gonna go out with him, he'll realize how much of a bitch I am, and will leave me alone. Tamara smiled at me, completely unfazed by my ranting and raving.
"So, where y'all going?" she asked as I locked the classroom door and exited the building with Tamara hot on my heels.
"I don't know. I didn't bother to ask. Now I have to finish reading his lame-ass novel."
"Girl, I don't know why you're tripping. A New York Times best-selling author is trying to be with you, and you could care less." I side-eyed her...hard. "Not to mention he's hot as hell! The things I would do to him if he gave me a chance," she groaned as she flipped her silky blond hair over her shoulders. I sighed as I listened to Tamara ramble on. I have a soft spot in my heart for this girl. She drives me up the fucking wall most of the time, but I rather live with her than without her.
