Page 9 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“She’s not, though. She’s actually kinda weird.”

“Then why are you going out with her?”

I grin. “It’s agoodkinda weird.”

“Whatever. You ready?”

I follow my sister out of the store, my eyes glancing in the direction Raya just disappeared in.

Something about her lingers in my mind, poking at the edges, telling me something I don’t understand yet.

It’s probably just lust.

I tell myself that, but my gut says otherwise.

5

Raya

I’ve become convinced that little kids keep you young.

Like right now, I’m running around the playground with a bunch of four-year-olds. They insisted on chasing me, and I needed to get my steps in, so around and around I go, dodging their dirty little hands as I periodically check my Fitbit.

I’m already at 4,299 steps for today.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is, I’m back at work.

Ordered Steps Children’s Learning Center is hell. Not the fiery, eternal damnation kind of hell. It’s the kind where sticky fingers, nap-time rebellions, and toys that squeak for no reason conspire to drive you insane.

I see why that Toy Story bear crashed out.

The daycare sits next to my aunt Tori’s church. She hooked me up a few years ago when I needed a job, and it’s been downhill ever since. I have plans to move on soon, but in the meantime, I tell myself I’m a teacher at a private school. In my head, I teach third grade because…well, I don’t know why. Eight year olds seem like a better age than these assholes I’m dealing with now.

Most of these kids here are okay, but there’s this one girl in my class. Aniya. I can’t stand that little heffa. If she was my kid, I would have listed her ass on Facebook Marketplace by now. She looks sweet with her perfectly symmetrical afro puffs, pink chucks, and dimples that could sell a thousand of those brittle ass “Please donate to my dance team” candy bars, but her cuteness doesn’t fool me. That girl is the spawn of the devil.

She’s about four kids behind me, running around giggling like shit is funny. Probably back there leading a mutiny against me. I’m not sure what her endgame is, but she’s rallying her troops faster than I can dodge their grubby hands. It’s bedlam. I’m weaving through the swings, running laps around the jungle gym, ducking under the slide, my Fitbit chiming happily with every step.

“Ms. Raya, I’m gonna get you!” she shrieks, her little legs pumping behind her.

I turn around and point a finger at her, smirking at her as I say, “Sweetie, you willnevercatch me.”

Then I dart off, leaving her in the dust. She screams and runs after me, and I wonder why she thinks I’m playing.

I take small wins where I can get them, though, and it’s delightful to see her storm off in frustration when she sees the space I’ve created between us.

As I make my way toward the door, I slow to catch my breath. When I glance back to make sure she hasn’t snuck up behind me, I see her little fists balled up, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in determination. Something about her expression hits me like a slap across the face.

It’s familiar.

Toofamiliar.

That same stubborn set to her jaw. The same refusal to back down. She’s fierce, and too much for people to handle sometimes. Just like I was.

Just like I still am.

I shake the thought away, determined to stay on my Michael Jordan.

---