Page 1 of Not My Type (Not My Type #1)

Zara

I stare at the large building in front of me, gathering my thoughts. I have an assessment today at St. Jago High School, and here I am at the gate already freaking out. Ah bwoy!

Saying I’m nervous is an understatement—I’m practically dying. As my feet grace the pavement, inching towards the gate, a warmth spreads through me, painting a warm blush on my cheeks.

“Good morning teach,” he replies, extending a digital thermometer toward me. With a sweet smile, I lean in, offering my hand closer to his. The device beeps. Wah that mean now God!?

Noticing my startled expression, he offers a reassuring grin. “Some of them beep, some don’t. Nothing nuh do yuh mon!”

Burps. Thank God *Derrick’s voice*

An awkward laugh escapes my lips right after that thought. I’m truly anxious about this. Had it not been for his comforting words, I would’ve fainted I’m sure.

Okay, maybe I’m a little too dramatic now. Maybe? I tuck that thought away and focus on short man. After all, Jamaicans are pros at tossing out nicknames based on your looks or hustle.

So a nuh nuhn... right?

He splashes an apple scented hand sanitizer in my hand with a warm smile that could melt ice. Suddenly, I’m yanked back to reality.

“Mi wah yuh take care a yourself enuh,” he says, his voice as soft as a cloud. A bit too soft, if you ask me. I rub my hands together, wondering why he’s being so nice.

“I will, same to you,” I reply, keeping it cool.

A moment later, I stroll up to what looks like the admin office. With a gentle nudge, the door swings open, and I’m greeted by a delightful whiff of fresh air and a chill that wraps around me like a cozy blanket.

Whew! Den dis yah place yah cool and nice eeh? My inner chatterbox blurts out.

She’s always like this, popping up every now and then.

“Good morning, how can I assist you?” chirps a sweet voice before I can even open my mouth. An adorable elderly lady beams at me, her smile bright enough to light up the whole Admin office. Di light dem d’even needed.

“Hi, good morning! I’m here for my teaching practicum with Mrs. Adams,” I say. She patiently guides me, and I thank her profusely before making my exit, her directions firmly etched in my brain. First class on the left... up the stairs.

I approach the room and peek inside, clearing my throat playfully with a drop of formality.

Mrs. Adams looks up, and boom! She’s rocking a light blue dress that hugs her curves like a best friend.

It’s sizzling—she’s sizzling! Her dark blue blazer sways just right, and her natural short curly twists frame her honey brown eyes perfectly.

She greets me with a radiant smile that could light up a whole stadium.

“You’re here early,” she chimes. Enthusiasm is her middle name!

“Mama woke me up 5 o’clock,” I tell her, and she lets out a gleeful laugh. She’s a friend of my grandma’s. I laugh too, getting comfortable. “From I know Ms. Sandra, that’s the way she’s been. Neva late yet.”

After our chat, I take front row to watch her in action.

I’m amazed. She’s really good at what she does and clearly enjoys it.

She teaches English Literature, one of the most hated subjects in schools.

While some would groan about the snooze-fest, hoping to escape, I was, and still am living my best life, proudly flaunting my shiny distinctions in both English Literature and English Language.

Back to Mrs. Adams though. Her classes are like a burst of color in a black-and-white world, having us hanging on to every word. Once her class ends, she drops the bomb!

“I think I’m gonna have you teach the next lesson,” she quips as we saunter out of class. Lawd Goddddd!

Mi nuh ready..

Yuh better ready like how you ready fi tek back Malik every 2 week when unuh lef!

I-

She reads my expression. “Don’t worry too much, I’ll be in the class. You can do this,” her words soothing. I nod. “I have a grade 11 class now; they’re a little more challenging than the grade nine students, but you’ll be fine.”

Even worst.

“Is it the same book?” I ask and she bobs her head.

“Yes, To Kill a Mockingbird,” she steps in the class and I follow her closely. The students are staring at me with wide, curious eyes.

Dem extra eeeh? Jeez

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams and... ” they trail off.

“Good afternoon students, I’m Ms. Williams.” I smile as anxiety eats me alive. I look over at Mrs. Adams, she seems impressed.

“Okay, so Ms. Williams is a student teacher. She’ll be leading your lesson today. I’m asking for you to be on your best behaviour! It’s her first time, so please be nice to her.”

A smile lingers on my face as she addresses the class.

“Am I clear?” she adds.

“Yes Mrs. Adams,” they retort.

“Miss, suh she a tell wi har age?” Asks a tall boy seated at the back of the class.

But a wah kind a bad pickney this?

“Excuse me!?” Mrs. Adams is furious. “Mark don’t start, have some respect, will you?”

Mark. Yuh mark him name?

“A nuff him nuff miss,” another student says from the back. He’s much taller and he looks rude too. “Okay be quiet,” Mrs. Adams walks to the back of the class and sits.

You’re on the floor now.

Jesus mi nervous.

I saunter to the white board, facing the 34—I think— students ogling me.

“Good afternoon again students, I’m Ms. Williams, I’m in my final year at St. Joseph’s Teachers College and I love linguistics–actually, anything associated with literature. What I—”

I’m abruptly interrupted by Mark, who insists on knowing my age. “I’m not too young,” I simply say before I revert back to my introduction.

“What I like to do before I dive in this amazing novel though, is to make fact files on each character...”

From the back of the class, Mrs. Adams nods in admiration.

It does wonders in boosting my confidence.

Before you know it, I’m teaching like a well-seasoned teacher.

It’s unbelievable. I’ve captured their attention, even the rude ones.

I’ve earned laughter from them too. A really me dis, Michelle one daughta?

Sure is! Ayye, a farrrrr mi a come from enuh.

“Yow deh teacher yah cute enuh, mi affi get har number,” Mark says and I look up in surprise. What a likkle mood killer. Mrs. Adams doesn’t hear him.

Weh dem pickney yah come from mon? My subconscious asks, clearly upset.

“Bad man know yuh place nuh,” I look over and notice a boy at the side. I hadn’t seen him at first. He’s looking like trouble, the type of student you wouldn’t want to be around. Good looking too, hazel eyes, that explains why the girl next to him can’t stop blushing. Why him bleach him skin?

Nosah, dem pickney yah too big fimme.

“Students!” Mrs. Adams shouts, eyes piercing daggers through them. “Jordane! Mark!” She’s frustrated. Who wouldn’t be though?

No mon, dem set dem fi mad wi.

NICKOI

“Nick yuh phone a ring,” Lorie says from behind the wall, followed by the clanking of the gate as she opens it. My eyes dart back to the juvies playing football in the street.

My older brother, Junior, and our friends are in the road too cheering them on. I exhale the smoke from my spliff. Regula day a John’s Road. Lorie’s slim figure appears in my view. Her relaxed hair is dyed ginger and pulled into a messy bun, with stray strands framing her face.

She’s wearing my Amiri shirt, a tiny pair of shorts and my Kappa slides. She glances at the screen, then hands me the phone.

“Look like a yuh brother.” I take the phone, my eyes the iciest brown. How deh gyal yah suh fass mon?

“Nick?” it’s Jordane, his background noisy.

“Yow?” I answer, Lorie rolls her eyes and walks away. I hiss and avert my attention to my phone. “Yuh deh pon the road?” he asks, he’s my little brother.

I’m like a father figure to him. “Deh a we base wid Junior dem a wah’m?” I ask. He didn’t sound like he was in trouble, but I was curious.The way mi live mi affi expect anything. Cya drop mi guard.

“Just a leave school, fawud nuh,” he says. I hop off the wall. I would never make myself available if it was someone else.

“Ah,” I hang up.

I curl my fist, my hand connecting with Junior’s. The dawgs aren’t far behind, I dap them up, jump in my Benz and floor the gas pedal to Monk Street. I pull over at Jordane’s foot. “Yuh reach fast eeh bruhhh?” he muses as he gets in the car. As per usual, we bun up speedometer pon a daily.

“Nawmal, yuh done know how my thing guh a’ready,” I chuckle.

He laughs, leaning in to say. “Mi see a nice pretty teacher over school today enuh... a your type,” nuh askk if dat nuh grab mi attention.

Ye mon, that would a affi grab yuh attention.

“Weh yah seh?” my lips curling into a smirk. The yute love woman enuh mon, but mi nah seh nuttn’ stillz cause a same way mi stay.

Yuh even worst Nick, yuh try nuh catch AIDS else yuh goose cook.

Ah sah.

“Mi affi rush a idiot bwoy inna class today weh a try disrespect har,” he tells me. I let out a throaty chuckle. Him only care because him think the teacher pretty.

“Rookie dem mo-”

I spot a teacher walking out and fall silent. So does Jor. Her deep, golden brown skin glistens in the sun. I rock my legs. She has a pair of innocent eyes, pulling me in like a magnet. Challenge accepted, I’m more than ready to drag the demon out of them.

“A she this... ” he grins, his stare following mine. I lean on the door, tilting my head as I watch her saunter through the gate.

She’s petite, with an hourglass shape. The way she strides, like the street is her personal runway, sets something off in me. My gaze travels down to the brown fabric of her teacher’s college uniform— clinging to her body like it was stitched on to her skin.

Mumma barely have waist.

Jah Jah. One look and all mi can say is, big up har mother anyweh she deh fi mi wife.

Jor’s grin wider than the toll. This is entertainment to him.

My eyes narrow as I follow her every move. With every small step, her skirt rides up, exposing glimpses of her nut-brown thighs. Thickaz. She nuh see say dat too short?

That would a affi concern yuh.

The wind gently whips at her hair. It cascades all the way down to her lower back like a thick, dark waterfall.

At first glance, it looks like a wig, but something about the way it bounces, makes me think otherwise.

She looks exotic, her eyes, like Hennessy poured in low light, so rich, they almost seem black until a hint of warm brown slips through.

Har eyes ‘em still innocent to yuh?

Well...

Then just like that, Jor confirms my thoughts.

“Bredda? All a dat a har real hair enuh!”

I smirk at her ass, ‘round like an English pound. No flaws? She must be a mad gyal. Her gaze lands in the direction of my car. I adjust myself, trying to get a better look at her. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but.

.. Shawdy is a ten. I sink my teeth in my bottom lip.

Too perfect for my liking. She licks her plump lips and laugh.

That man she had on that phone didn’t even know this was his last day with her. A day dawwg? I ask myself.

Ah, mi o’ gi ’em a week.

She quickly walks across the busy road. She nice eeeh mon? Nah lie a long-time mi nuh see a ooman suh nice. Batty big so! My subconscious smirks, palms spreading with the notion.

I jerk my legs involuntarily and switch my vape from one hand to the next, just before biting on my bottom lip once again. I look over at Jordane and he’s still staring too.

“Mi nuh tell yuh say a your type?” he asks rhetorically, a smirk forming on his lips. I press my head against the headrest, my eyes settling on her.