Page 16 of Not My Type
We saunter along the hallway. We pass a few students–mostly
boys, that look so mature they could be mistaken for teachers. “Ms. Williams,” one whispers hauntingly. I don’t even look. We make it down the short flight of stairs. I sigh to myself and spot a movement in the side of my eyes. It’s Jordane and his friends, staring at us as we walk. I look away from him and focus on Mrs. Adams leading us to her office. She pushes the door open and I step inside behind her. She quickly puts her stuff on her desk, pulls out her register and hands it to me.
“The grades are in this book. Just record them in the school system,” she instructs, after she’d entered her computer password.
“Okay, will do,” I promise.
“I’m going to the principal’s office, I’ll be back,” is the last thing she says before she walks out. When she comes back, we work on the reports and she prints them. The majority of the grades are in the 80’s and only a few had an average below 60. I check the time. 2 PM.
“When is your next class?” I ask Mrs. Adams. She looks away from the stacks of reports that she’s organizing.
“Oh, there will be a concert now, so I won’t have any more classes today,” she tells me and I mentally scream. How mi love dis so?
“You can leave if you wish,” she adds. Instantly the girl in my head starts doing cartwheels. I gather my things.
“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes love,” she smiles and continue what she’s doing. I throw my bag over my shoulder, pick up my phone and make my way towards the door.
“Tomorrow again, Ms. Williams.” I hear her say from behind me and I flash her a smile. I decided to stop at Hilo and get some groceries for the house.
The cashier smiles at me. “$13,500,” I gasp. Fi wah? Dem likkle bit a sup’m yah!? I only have $5000 cash. Cya bother enuh, Jamaica a fi rich ppl... we poor people affi guh migrate. I pull the zipper and dig through my bag for my card and spot a hand stretching a card to the cashier.
“How much it come to?” A familiar voice asks and I look up surprised. Him again! I don’t even know what to say. The cashier’s cheek crimson. Why she a irritate me?
“U-um... $13,500,” she bats her lashes and I look at my fingers embarrassed. Why is he doing this? I can pay my own bill.
“I was... ” I start.
“Ah, tek it off a that,” he tells the cashier, ignoring me. I sigh, looking away. You a save $13,500 cheer up! My subconscious starts. I hate that I keep seeing him.
“Y-your pin?” she says to him and I finally look back at them. He takes the machine. My stare dips to the Rolex on his wrist and I can’t stop myself from wondering. What exactly does this man do? He randomly pays people’s grocery bills and he walks around with a 1.7 million dollar watch! It may be even more expensive! Is he crazy though? If his Rolex caught the wrong eyes, they would kill him for it. Or maybe... he’s the wrong eyes.
“Okay, thank you,” she tells him. It’s like she forgot that I am the one who bought the groceries. I mean—picked up the groceries. He takes the bags and walks away. Wah the—
“A yuh ooman?” The cashier asks. The thought alone makes me cringe.
He nods. “Yah.” Him delusional eeeeeeh?
And a weh him a guh with me bags?
“Hey thanks for paying for it but I could too. I have my card I was just reaching for it.” I follow behind him.
He ignores me.
His height distracts me for a moment. He’s so tall, with a walk that commands every and anything around him. A bit cocky too. He know he’s fine. He approaches a car that I assume is his, and a familiar stout man with long hair comes out, beard elongates his face. He takes the bags fromhim. I stare fixedly.
Nuh him same one took me out of Mr. Perry’s car? Wah really a gwaan? Wah dem wah wid me? Him not even would a answer me. The strange man puts the bags in the trunk of the car. My brain crashes to stop as I realize that it’s the same Mercedes c63 AMG that Jordane got into–
I freeze in my tracks and swallow. He’s the ‘Don’ Gary raved about. The one who kept staring...
“Get in the car,” he breaks my thoughts. I don’t move. He stares. Icy. A million questions swirl in my mind, but the look he’s giving me, traps them in my throat.
“Mi a bring yuh home, yuh cya walk wid the heavy bags,” he insists. I walk over to the back door. There’s no way I’m sitting in the front with him.
As if he could sense my impending defiance, the stout man opens the door to the passenger side of the car, and diligently holds it open as I gingerly make my way inside. Seemingly satisfied, Bigz— we’ll call him that for now, hops into the Range Rover next to the Benz.
I share my location with Gavin as soon as I’m seated. I’m putting on my seatbelt when he gets into the car with me. He starts the engine, and drives out behind the SUV. I look in the rear view and I spot another. What?
