Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Every girl’s plaid skirt is inched far higher than the dress code allows.
Annoyed, I stick in my AirPods and start my new “My Teacher Sucks” playlist.
After moving up a few spots, I notice Mr. Donovan has a system: He turns on a blinking “available” sign, welcomes in the next person, and entertains small chat for a few minutes. Then he asks, “Do you have any concerns about my course this semester?”
There’s a giggle and a “None at all” every time, and then he offers a small compliment about their work. With every positive affirmation he serves, it’s clear that he gave me that ‘F’ out of spite.
“Mind if I skip you, Genevieve?” Someone taps my shoulder from behind.
“Huh?” I turn around to see Rachel. “You’re the teacher’s aide. Why are you here?”
“I could say the same to you.” She crosses her arms. “You’ve never made anything less than an ‘A’ in your life.”
“I just have a few course questions. That’s all.”
“Hmmm. Okay.” She takes her place in front of me without saying anything else.
By the time my Airpod batteries are down to five percent, no one has lined up behind me, and Rachel’s session has been over for at least fifteen minutes.
Unable to wait another second, I twist the doorknob and step into his office.
“I haven’t switched my sign to ‘available’ yet, Miss Edwards,” he says, focusing on his writing. “Please wait outside until I’m ready.”
“I’ll be waiting until the new year at that rate.”
“I might make you wait longer than that…” He pauses his pen to push up his shirt sleeves, revealing a trail of black tattoos on both arms.
“With all disrespect,” I say, my voice cracking. “Fuck you, Mr. Donovan.”
“Come again?” He immediately sets down his pen and leans back in his chair.
“I know we didn’t start this school year on the best terms, but I refuse to let you affect my grades or my scholarship.” I narrow my eyes. “I’ve never made an ‘F’ in my entire life.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Not for things like this.” I slam my essay onto his desk. “I’m not accepting it, so kindly adjust your mistake so I can get back to my life.”
“I didn’t make a mistake,” he says. “And with the same disrespect, I gave you the score you deserved. I’d already graded your paper, weeks, long before I ever met you as ‘Rebecca.’”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
Silence.
We stare at each other for several seconds, our stalemate stretching and twisting against the palpable tension.
He taps his fingers against the desk, and as much as I want to stay focused on the subject at hand, I can’t help wondering what those fingers would feel like inside me. How deep they could go, the words he would whisper in my ear while thrusting them in and out until I come…
"Do you believe in letting me devour your pussy until you come while dripping all over my face?"
“Miss Edwards,” he says, shattering our silence, “I’ve never had to explain why I decided on a particular grade.”
“Then I guess we’re both learning that there’s a first time for everything.”
“Fair enough.” His lips curve into a smile. “If any other student had turned in your essay, I might’ve given it a B plus.”
“So, you’re admitting to making my life difficult?”
“I would’ve suggested an expulsion if that was the case,” he says, “I’ve read a lot of your other work, so I know what you’re capable of writing. That’s why I left a very generous note at the end, giving you a chance to rewrite it for a re-grade. Anything else, Miss Edwards?”
“No.” I snatch the essay off his desk.
“In that case, you can leave my office.” He turns around in his chair before I can answer.
What the… “I have a few questions about your syllabus.”
“Email them to me.” He keeps his back turned. “Leave, Miss Edwards.”
“You sat in that chair for hours and answered questions about your favorite breakfast food and music, but you can’t talk with me about some actual work?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Fine.” I head toward the door. “Thanks for your ‘generous’ help, Mr. Donovan.”
“Shut the door behind you,” he says without turning around.
I’m honestly tempted to throw something at the back of his head, but I don’t risk it.
At least, not today.
I’ll try it next week.
10
LIAM
Later that evening
“Sir, for the umpteenth time, this phone call is not about butt plugs, colon cleansing, or bowel surgery.” The telemarketer sighs over the line. “I’m trying to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime deal on life insurance.”
“What if I know someone else who wants to buy butt plugs from you?” I ask. “Can you sell me those?”
“Okay, fuck this job.” He finally hangs up, and I laugh.
Annoying telemarketers whenever they call has become my sad form of entertainment. On my worst days, whenever I was struggling to piece together a plan to restart my life, I could always count on them for a quick distraction.