Page 1 of The Love Simulation

Chapter One

What is it called when you know someone is playing in your face but you still manage to sit there and maintain your composure?

Etiquette? The height of professionalism? I’ve got it—a superpower.

When I took on the role of vice principal at Juanita Craft Middle School nine months ago, I knew I’d have my hands full with rowdy students and entitled parents. The years I spent as a guidance counselor prepared me forthatpart of the job. It’s taken a while, however, to get used to the teachers trying to butter me up whenever they want something they know I can’t give, and Angie’s been the main one out to test my patience.

Angie, Angie, Angie.Out here trying to get me to break school policy. Again.

I push my braids behind my back and suppress a sigh. “It’s true. In the grand scheme of things, one chair won’t make or break our budget. But if we get a new one for you, we’ll have to get a new one for every other teacher. I’d gladly place the order for a truckload to be brought in, but the budget has already been set, and unfortunately it doesn’t include room for chairs.”

“You know what, Miss Brianna? I might believe youifIdidn’t know for a fact that you just ordered one for Mr. Torres in December. Now he’s got good armrests, wheels that don’t squeak, and can lean back without worrying about flipping over. You know whose chair doesn’t have all that?” Angie crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. Her actions are made even more dramatic with the way the armholes of her robe billow just past her elbows, where soft tulle meets down feathers.

Yes, our computer sciences teacher is serious about staring me down here in the teachers’ lounge, under the bright, buzzing fluorescent lights and eggshell-colored walls, while she’s wrapped in an article of clothing that looks like it belongs on the set of some old Hollywood movie about rich widows.

To be fair, today is Pajama Day, and I myself am in a footed one-piece. So while Angie’s outfit is a little over-the-top and will likely do more to distract her students all day than squeaky chair wheels ever could, it is school-appropriate with a silk pants set underneath, and to put it plainly, she looks fabulous.

Fabulous or not, she’s still not convincing me to break policy for her. I do wish I could buy all the teachers new chairs, but I already had to fight the principal tooth and nail until he agreed to include in the budget what the school desperately needed—a library upgrade. I’m not certain he won’t go back on his word at the slightest provocation. For some reason, it’s hard to drive the point home to Angie, even though she’s worked with the principal longer than I have.

“You know we didn’t replace Mr. Torres’s chair for no reason. In case you forgot—which I don’t see how you could since you reenacted it for everyone—his chair really did flip him over when he leaned back. Even then, he stillhad to provide a doctor’s prescription stating he needed a reliable chair for his bad back before the purchase was approved.”

“Oh yeah, I did forget about that.” Angie grimaces, then her demeanor shifts as she leans forward like we’re sharing a secret. “But come on. Brianna. Girlie. You know my back is bad too.”

Now I’m positive she’s playing in my face. I tap into my superpower again and don’t react, when all I want to do is bust out laughing. Because, bad back where? Back bad who? It certainly didn’t seem like Angie had a bad back at the spring dance. She was poppin’, lockin’, and droppin’ with more spirit than our little pep squad. She even tried to get me on the dance floor with her. When she showed up at school the following Monday, her complaints about the watered-down punch and bad lighting had been loud and clear, but there’d been no mention of any bodily aches and pains.

“If you really have a bad back, then get your doctor to write a prescription,” I say, hoping that will get her to drop it, at least for now. It’s the end of the school year, and I am done thinking about budgets and requests from teachers and maintaining a professional facade. Done. In my mind, I’m already aboard my fourteen-day cruise in the Caribbean.

Angie huffs, but the fight has left her, so she stands without another word. The robe cascades around her legs, train flowing, and she looks like an African goddess as she moves toward the other side of the room, where there’s a vending machine with sandwiches and cold pastries fit to feed royalty. When I’m sure she’s lost all interest in me, I finally allow a small smile to slip out.

Before I was a vice principal, I loved cutting up with the staff or complaining about spending too much of my ownmoney on supplies I needed to do my job effectively. Now everything has changed. Even though many of the teachers are around my age, there’s a clear line between professional and personal I have to be careful not to cross. Especially if I ever hope to advance my career and catch up to my siblings.

Angie begins hitting the side of the vending machine while yelling about her stuck granola bar, but I turn away to glance at the clock mounted above the TV to see how I’m doing on time. About fifteen minutes before the students begin arriving, which meanshewill show up at any moment.

I readjust myself in my seat, straightening my back without making it so stiff that my body language screams “the kids aren’t around, but I’m still judging you for not poring over lesson plans at your desk.” My aim is to look respectable yet easy-breezy, so I pull out my phone too. If any staff members glance my way, it should look like I’m taking advantage of the quiet of the teachers’ lounge before the students storm in and not like my presence this morning—along with every other morning for the past nine months—is all for show.

As I pull up my email,hewalks in, and the rhythm of my heart changes, beating to a cadence that chantsRoman,Roman. I clench my stomach muscles tight to maintain my posture and keep still.

Brown eyes on brown skin in dark brown plaid pajama pants—I swear the monochromatic color scheme has never looked so good.

When I first met him, I thought he was one of the gym teachers. No one can look at him and think he does anything but work on that lean, athletic physique all week. But I was wrong. He teaches eighth-grade science. AssumingRoman was the gym teacher was my second mistake where he’s concerned. The first was landing the vice principal role over him.

“That’s a Black king right there,” Angie says above me, and I almost jump out of my seat.

I play it cool though, looking up and frowning like I have no clue what she’s talking about. “What was that?”

Angie smirks. “Girl, you know what I’m saying. I heard you humming and everything while checking him out. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone our little VP isn’t immune to the magnificence that is Major Pain Jr.”

Was I really humming while looking at Roman? Because she’s read me like a text in all caps. Hell. I hope it wasn’t something obvious likeHamilton’s “Helpless.” And double hell. These are the kinds of moments I miss having with teachers. If I wasn’t the vice principal, I’d raise my hands in agreement and shout “I know that’s right!” But there’s no way I can do that here, where half a dozen teachers are within earshot, without looking highly inappropriate.

I elect to remain silent, and Angie shakes her head in disappointment. Then her eyes soften and she bends closer to me. “I want you to know that I’m really going to miss you. I know you won’t say it back because you’re not supposed to have favorites or anything, but, well, I know I’m your favorite anyway.” She winks and sashays out of the teachers’ lounge, and I’m left shaking my head again.

Once the last of her robe disappears through the door, I turn my gaze back toward Roman. He’s standing by the single-serve coffee maker with the English teacher, Kareem. They always meet here in the morning before the students begin arriving, though, admittedly, it usually takes me a while to notice Kareem. For all I know, today he could have walked in doing the “Cha-Cha Slide” or cartwheelsand I completely missed it, only able to see Roman. Even though Kareem is the more talkative and outgoing of the two, that’s the only area where he’s got Roman beat. Everything else about Roman’s presence is just so muchmore. More commanding. More distinctive and arresting. More irresistible. Not that it’s a competition between the two, and not that I should be noticing anyway.

Roman scans the room and stops when his gaze lands on me. Our eye contact is brief, lasting two, maybe three heartbeats, then I’m the first to look away. It’s back to emails, but now I’m not focusing on the actual messages. My attention is divided between the words on my screen and what my peripheral sees at the coffee maker as Raven, another English teacher, walks in. She greets first Kareem, then Roman with a hug. Why she needs to hug them every single morning, I can’t say. Not that Roman seems to mind. As the three stand there chatting, I can’t help but notice how Roman’s eyes are always a tad softer when Raven is talking. The observation makes my stomach twist with jealousy every time. And yet here I am, every weekday morning, watching their interactions.

After a few minutes of them all catching up, Raven and Kareem turn in my direction. I hold my breath and wonder if they’re about to say something about me watching them, but they don’t. They offer me small, almost sad waves before leaving for the language arts wing. Um, okay. That was so weird, I almost get up to ask them what’s going on, but seeing Roman now standing alone keeps me in the teachers’ lounge. I’ll find out what’s up later. Right now it’s time for our little dance. I turn my phone screen off, get up, and head to the coffee maker.

“Good morning, Roman,” I say.

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