“Can I write about Kim—”
“No.” Looking at Stacy over my shoulder, I shake my head.
“But—”
“No.”
“But she—”
“All events must have taken place before you were born.” I look at the fairly young faces of my students. “That should eliminate a lot of popular topics,” I say pointedly at Stacy.
“Fine,” she grumbles.
They busy themselves writing down the assignment, whispering amongst each other about potential subjects. Everyone, that is, but Ollie.
Ollie’s head is down on his desk, his arms stretched out and dangling over the edge. The mop of hair that used to be kept cut short is a wild array that somewhat resembles a broom.
Last spring, he was one of my best students. Bright as fuck. Engaging. A charisma that reminded me of my cousin Peck. As the year went on, his clothes became wrinkled. His face more blemished. The edges of his papers more frayed.
“We have a game tonight, Mr. Gibson,” Lottie says from her chair. “Can we work on this today in class? Please?”
“How are your extracurricular activities any fault of mine?” I scoff playfully, snapping the cap back on the marker. Glancing down at the stack of papers needing grading, I decide to give in … eventually. After all, I can’t let them think I’m easy. They aren’t the right demographic for that.
“I’ll dedicate my first goal to you tonight,” Lottie offers, smiling a mega-watt grin.
Sighing for effect, I slip into my chair and kick my feet up onto my desk. “You need to do better than that.”
“We won’t try to negotiate a lower word count,” Kyler offers.
I pretend to consider this.
“I won’t tell Ms. Malarkey you stole a cupcake from her office.” Stacy raises a brow, her lips pursed together. “I saw it on your desk.”
“She gave that to me, thank you very much.” My voice is smug, as is the look on my face. “She gave me two, actually.”
“You two have a thing going on? She’s single, you know. And freaking pretty,” Stacy shrugs. “Just saying.”
I begin to object, to point out Mariah just told me she wasn’t single. Before the words can escape my lips, I stop.
“I’m just saying,” I say, pulling my feet to the floor, confusion wracking my brain, “which staff members are single is none of your business.”
“Since you’re too old for me, at least for another couple of years, you should consider—”
“Enough,” I say over top of her.
The room breaks out into a fit of giggles and I give up.
“Fine. You win.” My hands thrown up in the air in defeat. “Work on your papers now. But if any of you start talking, I’ll lecture. I can talk all day about the Revolutionary War, kids.”
Much to my surprise, they pull out their notepads. I refrain from pacing around the room and making sure they’re writing what they’re supposed to because I’m certain they aren’t and I don’t have it in me to argue with them today. I’m just happy they didn’t press their luck because my brain is stuck solidly on Mariah’s dating life and not a war that took place in the seventeen hundreds.
With a final glance at Ollie’s napping frame, I move to grab a paper off the pile. My arm hits the discarded cupcake wrapper.
A soft, half-laugh finds it way past my lips as I grab the wrapper and toss it into the trash. Mariah is too easy to mess with, too easy to rile up. Her predecessor in the library was a senile old woman who never used the office. The first day Mariah walked in and caught me in a conversation that straddled the line of acceptable in a high school building, she ripped my ass. I, in turn, wanted hers. Beneath me. My hands cupping each round globe of her ass cheeks.
“Shit,” I mutter, adjusting my cock as discreetly as I can and forcing all thoughts of a naked Mariah Malarkey out of my mind.
The bell rings, assisting my efforts for once. “Have a good night, everyone. Stay out of trouble.” The kids leap to their feet, grabbing book bags and making plans for the weekend; it’s a scene of complete chaos. “Ollie, can you stay for a minute?”
He gathers his things and waits for the room to clear out. Once it’s just the two of us, I sink back against my desk. “How are things?” I ask.
His shoulders rise and fall. “Good. Fine. Why?”
There’s a hesitation in his voice that causes me to hesitate too. If I push, he’ll close up. It’s the code of teenagers.
“I have a younger sister and two younger brothers. It’s a thing when you’re the oldest kid in a big family—you notice things. And I’ve noticed you sleeping a lot in class lately.” Ignoring the rest of what I’ve observed, I tread a little deeper. “Things okay at home?”
“Yeah. It’s all good.” He shuffles his feet, his t-shirt hanging loose around his middle. “I appreciate you checking on me, Mr. Gibson, but I’m just tired. I can’t miss the bus.”