Page 1 of Not My Type
1. STARE
Zara
I stare at the large building in front of me, gathering my thoughts. I have an assessment today at St. Jago High School, and here I am at the gate already freaking out.Ah bwoy!
Saying I’m nervous is an understatement—I’m practically dying. As my feet grace the pavement, inching towards the gate, a warmth spreads through me, painting a warm blush on my cheeks.
“Good morning sir,” I greet, my voice a gentle melody. The security guard, standing no taller than 5 feet, returns my smile with genuine warmth. Surely, he’s in his late twenties. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of him towering over anyone! My eyes twinkle with mirth as I wrestle with the urge to laugh, reminding myself to uphold my professional demeanor.
“Good morning teach,” he replies, extending a digital thermometer toward me. With a sweet smile, I lean in, offering my hand closer to his. The device beeps.Wah that mean now God!?
Noticing my startled expression, he offers a reassuring grin. “Some of them beep, some don’t. Nothing nuh do yuh mon!”
Burps. Thank God *Derrick’s voice*
An awkward laugh escapes my lips right after that thought. I’m truly anxious about this. Had it not been for his comforting words, I would’ve fainted I’m sure.
Okay, maybe I’m a little too dramatic now. Maybe? I tuck that thought away and focus on short man. After all, Jamaicans are pros at tossing out nicknames based on your looks or hustle.
So a nuh nuhn... right?
He splashes an apple scented hand sanitizer in my hand with a warm smile that could melt ice. Suddenly, I’m yanked back to reality.
“Mi wah yuh take care a yourself enuh,” he says, his voice as soft as a cloud. A bit too soft, if you ask me. I rub my hands together, wondering why he’s being so nice.
“I will, same to you,” I reply, keeping it cool.
A moment later, I stroll up to what looks like the admin office. With a gentle nudge, the door swings open, and I’m greeted by a delightful whiff of fresh air and a chill that wraps around me like a cozy blanket.
Whew! Den dis yah place yah cool and nice eeh?My inner chatterbox blurts out.
She’s always like this, popping up every now and then.
“Good morning, how can I assist you?” chirps a sweet voice before I can even open my mouth. An adorable elderly lady beams at me, her smile bright enough to light up the whole Admin office. Di light dem d’even needed.
“Hi, good morning! I’m here for my teaching practicum with Mrs. Adams,” I say. She patiently guides me, and I thank her profusely before making my exit, her directions firmly etched in my brain. First class on the left... up the stairs.
I approach the room and peek inside, clearing my throat playfully with a drop of formality. Mrs. Adams looks up, and boom! She’s rocking a light blue dress that hugs her curves like a best friend. It’s sizzling—she’s sizzling! Her dark blue blazer sways just right, and her natural short curly twists frame her honey brown eyes perfectly. She greets me with a radiant smile that could light up a whole stadium.
“You’re here early,” she chimes. Enthusiasm is her middle name!
“Mama woke me up 5 o’clock,” I tell her, and she lets out agleeful laugh. She’s a friend of my grandma’s. I laugh too, getting comfortable. “From I know Ms. Sandra, that’s the way she’s been. Neva late yet.”
After our chat, I take front row to watch her in action. I’m amazed. She’s really good at what she does and clearly enjoys it. She teaches English Literature, one of the most hated subjects in schools. While some would groan about the snooze-fest, hoping to escape, I was, and still am living my best life, proudly flaunting my shiny distinctions in both English Literature and English Language.
Back to Mrs. Adams though. Her classes are like a burst of color in a black-and-white world, having us hanging on to every word. Once her class ends, she drops the bomb!
“I think I’m gonna have you teach the next lesson,” she quips as we saunter out of class. Lawd Goddddd!
Mi nuh ready..
Yuh better ready like how you ready fi tek back Malik every 2 week when unuh lef!
I-
She reads my expression. “Don’t worry too much, I’ll be in the class. You can do this,” her words soothing. I nod. “I have a grade 11 class now; they’re a little more challenging than the grade nine students, but you’ll be fine.”
Even worst.
