Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
A few of the girls lean closer, intrigued.
“We met in the bathroom of all places, struck up a quick conversation of why I was someplace I didn’t belong, and he had no idea he was speaking a double entendre.”
I glance at Mr. Donovan, noticing him swallowing his anger, but I continue.
“He was the sexiest man I’d ever seen in my life, and I wanted him to kiss me in the middle of our four hour conversation, to show me what a night of passion would be like with someone experienced, someone who understood me on a level that boys at school couldn’t.”
“I was nearly granted my wish when he leaned forward and promised to taste my pussy, to leave me dripping wet after an orgasm. He was that confident and willing to show me how far into ecstasy his tongue could drive my body.”
“That’s enough, Miss Edwards,” Mr. Donovan interrupts, his voice terse.
“But our night was cut short.” I ignore his warning. “He received an urgent call and there was someplace he needed to be. Someplace that wasn’t with me.”
“He asked for my phone number, told me he’d call the next day so we could pick up our story on the very page we’d last writen together, but I’m still waiting for us to get to the next chapter…The end.”
The room remains silent for several seconds, until a high pitched squeal breaks out from the rear.
“Waitttt!” Elizabeth Smith rushes down the steps. “Did he ever call you?”
“He did,” I say. “But not the next day.”
“Have you talked to him since?”
“A few times,” I say, “but I think he’s trying to get rid of me since he’s older.”
“Or maybe he’s realizing how immature you really are.” Mr. Donovan is glaring at me.
“My cousin dated an older man once,” Chelsea Hastings says from behind. “It worked out really well for them.”
“I like older guys,” Britney Kline chimes in. “What was the last conversation you had with him? Perhaps I can give you some charitable help to get him back.”
The conversation derails, and Mr. Donovan doesn’t attempt to steer it onto the tracks.
At the end of class, I leave without looking his way, and he finally sends me a text.
Mr. Donovan
Thank you for showing me exactly why whatever we had is DONE.
5
LIAM
“We don’t accept returns on prepaid phones, sir.” The Walgreens employee pops her gum the following Saturday.
“I’m not asking to return it,” I say. “I’m just asking if there’s another way to unfreeze the screen, so I can delete my browser history.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
I’m tired of her asking me these questions. “Can I speak to another employee, please?”
“The last guy that came in here with this question was arrested for kiddie porn a few weeks later.” The manager steps next to her, eyeing me with suspicion. “If that’s what you’re trying to do, save us the time and turn yourself in today.”
“Thank you both very much for your lack of help.” I step away from the counter. “I appreciate it.”
They laugh as I leave, and I make a mental note to go to CVS from here on out.
I’m running on fumes and my eyes are bloodshot from staying up night after night, scouring Reddit boards for all things about jail, prison, and plea deals.
Somewhere between me reading “I Slept with My Professor in High School Decades Ago: I Now Regret It,” and the questionably drafted (and of course anonymous) “If High School Students are Having Sex with Each Other, Why Can’t They Sleep With Their Teachers,” the burner phone flamed my delusions with a sudden malfunction.
Despite my attempts to rewire my brain with fear and punishment, it still isn’t enough to keep thoughts of Genevieve at bay.
I’m finishing that two weeks notice this week. No matter what.
A garbage truck rounds the corner, and I hail the driver.
“Wait! Wait!”
“Something wrong, sir?” He steps out of the truck.
“No, I just forgot to throw this away.” I open a can and toss the prepaid phone inside.
He nods and presses a button, sending the can up in the air, emptying its contents into the truck.
Crunch! Crunch! Crunchhhh!
The satisfying sound of the compactor is music to my ears.
He drives away with my delusional problem solved.
As I walk back to campus, something hits me.
I forgot to take out the fucking SIM card…
* * *
Don’t answer her
Seriously? You MAILED ME BACK the gift I gave you without even opening it?
I’ve shown up to your office during your allotted hours all week. You haven’t been there.
It’s kind of hard to have a “mentor” when he keeps cancelling our sessions.
You’re really not talking to me anymore?
Nope.
I hit ignore on another one of Genevieve’s text messages and walk onto my porch. Today’s plan is simple: Whiskey. Writing my resignation. Waiting for my brain to get the “She’s a goddamn student” memo.