Page 5 of Roommate's Guide to Love

And then there’s my personal life. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I have no personal life. I don’t try and date because I’ve learned that trying to date as a plus-size woman is laughable. The closest thing I have to a relationship is the few times a year I go home and hook up with Porter. I do have my book club, but it’s slowly starting to dwindle down because everyone else has things they need to do with their families.

Needless to say, my soul needs this lesson. And this slice of pizza I’m about to scarf down. Because as a proud millennial, I grew up knowing that books and pizza go hand-in-hand.

The noise in the classroom is starting to get a little loud, but it’s quickly quieted by the alert sound through the P.A. system.

“Miss Banks?”

A chorus of “oooohs” fills the classroom as they recognize our principal’s voice. I wave my hands to shush them, but that only gets me snickers.

“Yes, Mrs. Hargrove?”

“After the final bell, can you please come to my office?”

Sounds serious. Wonder what I did this time. “Sure thing, Mrs. Hargrove.”

The students are silent until they hear the click of the intercom disconnecting. And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

“Bruh! You’re in trouble!”

I shoot a look to Antonio, the student who most teachers warn you about. He can be mouthy, disruptive, and knows his way around the detention room.

I know his type. Iwashis type.

“First off, you owe the Bruh Jar,” I direct.

“Worth it,” he says as he saunters up to my desk and drops in the quarter. An appropriate fine for the kids to maybe stop using that fucking word. Little do they know that jar is funding their end of the year party.

“Second, what makes you think I’m in trouble? Maybe she wants to talk to me about you.”

This is what Antonio and I do. He jabs me. I slightly jab him back. I let him think he’s the winner. In return, he does his homework, and I’m one of the few classes he’s passing.

“Nah, Miss Banks. I’ve been good this week. Haven’t been to the office yet. This is all you. Plus, you know that no one’s safe when they’re called down to Hargrove’s office.”

He’s right about that. No student is safe when a summons from Principal Hargrove is given. But that’s for students. I’m an adult. A teacher. A molder of minds. Voted one of the Teachers of the Year last year in the district. I’m not in trouble.

Probably.

Maybe.

I don’t think.

“I’m sure everything is fine,” I say. “Please make sure you clean up, and I’ll see you tomorrow. It’sWesting Gametime!”

The bell rings and all of the students grab their things and quickly exit my room. I follow behind them, bag and keys in hand so I can make a quick exit whenever I’m done with whatever this is about to be.

As I make the long walk to the principal’s office, I can’t help but have flashbacks to my time at Rolling Hills Middle School.

I was a frequent flyer in detention. I had a gift for prank-pulling and general rowdiness. What can I say? I’m the middle child. And a Banks, for that matter. Teachers should’ve known what they were getting into after having my brother Simon.

To say that I saw my fair share of detention is an understatement. Though now as I look back at those years, I know I was just bored. Not in the gifted sense so I’d act out. I was the farthest thing from a straight-A student. But nothing kept my interest. So I’d act out.

Then one fateful day I had detention in the library, and everything changed.

I didn’t have any homework, so I started browsing the shelves. The librarian—a wonderful woman named Mrs. Metcalf whom I think should be considered for sainthood—asked me if I’d like to read a book.

And she handed meThe Westing Game.

It was over after that.

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