Page 28 of The Matchmaker's Choice: A Lesbian Romance
countless times she’s worked out solutions to many of my
dad’s problems.
I purse my lips and shift in the uncomfortable chair
behind the big metal desk in the lab. I stretch my arms above
my head and roll my head from side to side, trying to both cut
off the distracting thoughts that have nothing to do with the
tests I’m trying to grade, and work out the painful cramp at the
back of my neck.
This task sucks even more because it’s summer. I
thought I’d give teaching the summer classes a try this year.
They’re much more compressed and surprisingly full. The
school is huge and there are a lot of kids who just can’t focus
during the regular semester. I think it’s much easier for them to
redo a class they’ve failed during the summer when it’s a little
bit quieter around the place. I barely get paid anything for the
extra time, but that’s not why I do it. For some kids, it means
the difference between never graduating or managing to have
their science classes so they can go to college.
I’ve been sitting here since class let out for the day at
two, and it’s now just after five. I’ve graded maybe three tests.
They’re not long either. Ten pages. Mostly multiple choice. I
should have been finished an hour ago. I’m normally very
focused. I don’t daydream. I don’t just drift off into outer
freaking space.
It must be the profile. Someone else is finding matches
for me and writing responses. I gave up that control because
I’m busy, and also think I’d be a disaster at trying to filter out
who to respond to and then actually writing stuff. I don’t even
have a better word to use. I hate that word. My mom hates that
word. I think it’s ingrained in me to hate stuff. Stuff is not
