Page 8 of Savage in the Sweets
“I think we need to reach out to some local businesses to see what they have to offer,” a school board member says.
Mr. Tracksuit grins. “I already have, and Don Sashimi from down the street would love to do business here.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” Stacy says, joined by several other voices in agreement.
Principal Bailey eyes me sympathetically, finally saying, “Maybe we could invite both Mr. Sashimi and Ms. Savage to events.”
“We’re already pressed for space,” a school board member says. “I say we try inviting Don to the next board meeting.”
In the course of five minutes, I’ve become a pariah to the people I thought genuinely liked me. I can barely hold back my tears.
Not to mention, without the school’s business, I might not be able to stay afloat.
But I won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how broken they’ve made me.
Instead, I grab my purse and turn to leave, yelling over my shoulder, “Enjoy your ass worms!” on my way out the door.
Fuck, this couldn’t have gone any worse.
Colin
Almost done.Just a few more weeks, and we’ll be open to the public.
And more importantly, the children.
Wilson’s Grove Elementary is failing its students. From its lackluster sports teams to its helicopter-parent mentally.
But that’s about to change because I’m not about to let our impressionable youth fall between the cracks.
I tear off the wrapper to a Mounds bar, taking a bite and savoring the sweet coconut flavor.
Thinking back to last night, I realize I may have been a little harsh toward Lacy Savage. She looked sweet and innocent enough. In fact, she looked good enough to eat, and I gladly would have if she had been a patron at my gym and not a peddler of detestable goods to our youth.
Still, she looked damn good in her yoga pants and oversized shirt. It’s clear she is in peak physical condition by her curvy backside her pants did little to hide, and if anything, accentuated. It’s a wonder how she stays in such good shape working at a candy shop.
I stare down at my own dirty addiction, popping the last bite into my mouth and savoring the sugary-sweet flavor.
There is no room for women like her in my son’s school. In any child’s school.
“Dad?” Michael’s voice comes from the open door.
I turn away and crinkle the empty wrapper in my hand, shoving it into my pocket.
“Dad?”
I swallow the last illicit morsel and turn to face my progeny. “What’s up?”
“Today’s the day of the birthday party.”
Birthday party?I think back to the dozens of fliers and announcements that have been sent home over the two weeks Michael has been in school, vaguely remembering an invite to a party.
“Oh, yeah. Guess we better go get ready.”
“It’s at the beach, Dad. I was hoping we could paint some ab muscles on me.”
Huh? He’s got to be joking.
“What are you talking about?”
