Page 9 of Not My Type (Not My Type #1)

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.

“They’ll sign here,” her French tip nail taps the line, just before she moves it to the bottom right. “And you sign here.”

“Okay,” I nod then she ambles toward the crowd of people.

“The pandemic might seem over, but parents, please spread out a little bit!” I hear her say. Most of the parents honour her request, while a few display their bad attitude— one woman in particular grabs my attention. She crosses her thin arms as her legs shake vigorously in her pencil foot pants.

“A muss prank!” she blurts out. Everyone turns their head in her direction. One thing with Jamaicans.

“A how long me fi wait lady?” her tone is sassy. Her dark brown eyes piercing through Mrs. Adams.“Mi need fi go open the shop,” she continues. That’s a you problem, the girl in my head retorts with her nuff self.

“We are working by the numbers,” is the only thing Mrs. Adams says. Cool like cucumber.

“Mi in a rush! mi fi wait fi everybody yah so get through!?” She questions. Yes lady, who tell yuh fi come late?

“It would be unfair if I gave you your child’s report before others who are here before you,” Mrs. Adams’s voice calm. The woman looks at me. Not here.

“Mi can go to deh teacher deh?” she asks, pointing at me.

“What grade is your child in?” Mrs. Adams asks.

“Grade seven,” she tells her and Mrs. Adams shake her head no.

“I have seven to nine, Ms. Williams has upper school.” She hisses in response. “Cya tek foolishness enuh,” she drops her hands to her side and cross them on her chest. Mrs. Adams stares at her intensely and speaks coldly.

“If you can’t conform, then leave the school immediately,” her calm voice gets hostile, “Cause mi nah tolerate your behavior!” To my surprise, Ms. hot pepper sauce remains silent. I finally look away. The moment I do, my phone starts ringing.

“Yes Gavin?”

“We a guh a Sash man, uncle dead yard lata. You a come?” he asks.

“Yes,” I hesitate, thinking of better things I could do. I’m honestly a home baddie kind of girl. While I do like to go out and go on excursions; I love to have some time to myself at home— buying expensive things with money I barely have and watch Netflix. Why Gavin want carry me go a nine night?

“Yuh deh over school?” he questions.

“Yes.”

“Oh that’s why the backgrou—” is the last thing I hear when I spot him. This must be a joke. Everyday so? How me a see him so often, wah him want with me?

“Zara,” Gavin calls because I zoned out.

“Yes, mi ago call you back later,” I hang up. I try to force a smile.

“Yuh teach yer?” his raspy voice asks in a rich Spanish Town accent. No doubt, he’s from around here. Me with my nice Portland self.

“Yes,” I respond and shift my gaze to Jordane who’s almost as tall as this guy. I notice their uncanny resemblance too. “What’s up Ms. Williams?” he smiles.

“Trying to find your report card,” I say, trying to sound casual. Me well wah find it so dem can leave. “What’s your last name?” I ask Jordane.

“Jacobs,” he answers. I find it quickly, the average is 68%—Not bad for someone like him. He looks at it, then I slide the book to his brother. He’s too young to be his father. I watch as he signs his signature: N. Jacobs.

“Sign here Jordane,” I try to take the book from his brother but he holds onto it purposely. Our eyes lock together and my legs get weak. Whew. The chemistry. Zara, you feel that?

I don’t even know what’s happening. I look away from him. I had to. That was so weird and whatever that was? I don’t want to ever experience it again. Getting butterflies for the bad guy? He smiles at me. “Yuh Gov?” I probably look like I’m about to pass out.

“I’m okay,” I take the book and hand it to his brother. “Sign here.” He signs his signature and I smile: J.Jacobs. I sign mine but it’s more like the kind you can’t make out. Just incase anyone is being nosey.

“Gwaan a the car bro mi soon fawud,” he tells his brother, surprising me.

He’s staying? I sit, drinking the bottle of I-cool water that Mrs. Adams has here for me.

Such a torture... But I need it right now.

He leans over casually, but everything is awkward to me— especially after that strange feeling.

“Yuh asthmatic?” he asks, and I stare at him blankly.

“No, I’m not.” I breathe.

“How you sound like yuh tired a me so?” he smirks at me.

I stay quiet. He’s right. A chuckle leaves his lips and I take him in.

Once again. He’s actually quite handsome behind his badman demeanour.

He’s around 6’3 with a warm, fair complexion, dark brown eyes, and a straight nose with the juiciest pair of lips. Oh, and the prettiest lashes.

He has low, full beard that grew around his chin with neatly trimmed sideburns.

My eyes continues to roam over him, admiring the sharp, clean fade at the front and along the sides.

His plaits pulled back neatly. My gaze drops to his attire.

Suh’m bout him wearing all black sends tingles between my thighs.

I squeeze them together. Wah deh get inna me?

“Mi right?” he asks again.

“My grandma always say if I have something bad to say I should just stay quiet,” I tell him. He smirks.

“I like that. What’s your name?” he asks me.

“Ms. Williams,” I purposely say. A lady comes by the table and he moves over.

“Excuse me, I’m here for Jessica Davis,” she smiles. As I search for her daughter’s report card I feel his eyes on me. I’m kinda nervous. I take a deep breath and find it then I hand it to her after we signed our signatures.

“Yes, the name weh mi a go call when mi want breakfast and them thing deh,” he says as soon as she walks away. I laugh at that.

“What?” I continue to laugh. “What are you implying?” I ask. He shrugs.

“Just mek me get your name.”

“Sara,” I lie, and the way he tilts his head, as if I’m the most enchanting girl he’s ever seen, sends a thrill through me. His eyes glimmer, swirling with desire.

“So easy?” he counters. “Mi nuh believe yuh.”

I smile, the air thickening with tension. His phone rings, and he takes my hand in his, sending my heart racing. This is too much at this point.

“Mi soon fawud mamz, mi just collect the man report... ahh... nuh say 40,” his voice low and husky. I look around and no one is looking at us suspiciously. It’s good that everyone is minding their business.

“I have a boyfriend! You can’t just hold my hand like that, and this is not the place for this kind a convo,” I tell him matter-of-factly.

He shakes his head, he’s annoyed. I couldn’t care less.

“Arite big up yuhself same way mi teacher,” I look at him as he walks off and find myself smiling.

Oh My God. He’s not exactly my type. He’s too thug for me.What Zara!

? Are you admiring that man? Why am I even thinking like this? I must be crazy.