Page 18 of Not My Type
“You’re welcome,” he smirks when he realizes that I have no intention of thanking him. His dimples make themselves known.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I roll my eyes again. At this point, yuh yiy dem soon roll out a yuh head.
“Mi know but a me want do this b,” he retorts. I try opening the door again—it’s still locked. Watch yah?
“Open the door please,” I sigh. He doesn’t budge. I feel naked under his stare. I look down at my phone, feeling painfully shy. I sigh and look at him again.
“My grandma is already curious about the car dropping me off, don’t make her wonder what’s taking me so long to get out too,” I say feeling defeated. You really can’t win when it come to da’ bwoy yah.
“Ah,” he chuckles. He unlocks it, I reach for the door handle and he flicks the lock again. I glare at him. He unlocks it. Finally.
I grip my bag and reach for the door, just in time to see that he locks it again. I don’t have the time for this. I narrow my eyes at him. He licks his full lips and unlocks it—he’s enjoying this a little too much. I’m annoyed. He realizes and picks up a cup from the holder to take a sip—just before putting it back down, his brows, a sharp arch, I envy his full lashes, slightly curled. He’s a pretty boy... but his dark, low eyes, tired, but alert, they’ve been through the ugliest things.
His gaze undressing me. I gulp and he slowly glides his finger towards the button. I shudder for an unknown reason. I ignore it. Mi just want come out. The door opens and I get out immediately. Once I’m out, I realize that everyone is staring in my direction. Of course they would be staring.
“The bags,” I sigh.
He opens the trunk from inside and I take my bags, sauntering away. He toots the horn at me and I sigh to myself, preparing myself to pull the grill. As usual, it gives me a hard time—even worse now that Mama is giving me that ‘Wi need fi talk look.’
I could already hear her questions.
Ughhh!
8. FEELINGS
Zara
“Who that?” Mama asks. I inwardly groan and put the bags on the table. I sigh to myself. I hate lying but I don’t have a choice. Besides, what am I gonna tell her? ‘The same criminal who nearly killed us is somehow targeting me.’ Pfft. She would a faint!
I can’t even tell her the real reason for us coming in late that night much less tell her who just dropped me off! I have to take the cowardly way out. “Just a teacher from school,” I lie.
“Mine enuh, some a dem a perver–” she starts.
“She offered me a ride.” I add, packing out the groceries. Now that she thinks it’s a female, it’ll limit her questions. Maybe.
“Michelle send money?” is her next question. Her brooding eyes set on the two bags of groceries.
“No, she said she’ll send me Monday,” I retort and she nods—her focus shifts to the bags. I assist her, in no time we’re done.
“A which teacher?” she asks after a while, catching me off guard. I can’t say Mrs. Adams.
“Mi nuh remember har name,” I lie. My words slip out shakily. Shit! You can’t even lie to save your life!
I’m no professional liar like Gavin and Sash. In reality, I’m a bad liar— probably worst than Malik. Why mi even a think bout that dutty bwoy? “Ms. Sandra!” someone calls from outside. We both look. It’s Mama’s
friend Vicky.
“It look like Janet gone a foreign,” she starts and my grandma meets her halfway, chuckling. She know everybody tory.
I heave a sigh and head to my room to take a shower. Showering has always been a time for me to reflect on my life or my day and I just can’t help but think about that criminal. What is his motive? Am I putting myself and my grandma in danger? Did he purposely bring me home just to see where I live? Could be. I cup my hand with water and splash my face.
After my shower, I dry myself and got comfy in a pair of spandex shorts and a Tupac graphic tee which swallows my small figure. Then I curl up in my bed, watching the last episodes of Pretty Little Liars while snacking on Plantain Chips. Get me these, and a Fiji water? I’ll love you forever!
The next day, I get to St. Jago high, and find Mrs. Adams surrounded by parents and students waiting for their report cards. I approach her.
“Good morning Mrs. Adams,” I greet.
“Oh hey, Ms. Williams! Handle those report cards for me please.” She points to a station to her left and I walk over to it. I place my bag on the table and take a seat, observing the scene. Then I spot the stack of report cards and a file docket. I take my cellphone from the pocket of my skirt, and place it in my bag. Then my eyebrows knit together as I stare at the I-cool water sitting on the table. That’s for me? I appreciate the gesture, but I only like Fiji water. I breathe heavily and look away. Then she joins me.
