Page 10 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

That was how I felt about it, anyway. It was possible that the students of Piedmont Latin Academy might feel differently.

This was how I spent every morning, Monday through Friday. Watching the kids scatter into their respective classrooms, some with more urgency than others, a mug of steaming coffee flavored with seasonal creamer in my hands. For September, that meant cinnamon apple, in honor of the orchards dotting the road, now heavy and fragrant with fruit. I was looking forward to pumpkin spice in October.

Seasonal creamer was one of those simple, silly indulgences that made my whole day brighter just from sheer gratitude, because this was my life now. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, there had barely been enough money for necessities, much less luxuries. And yeah, when dinner consisted of a bowl of store-brand Cheerios, a five-dollar bottle of creamer was absolutely a luxury.

It wasn’t until college, when I had a full ride to the University of Southern California and full control of my paychecks from waiting tables, that I realized I could just…buy some fucking creamer. No one could stop me. It was Christmas, and all my classmates would get gifts from family. I didn’t have family. Hell, I barely had friends. No one was going to buy me a gift that year or any other year.

But I didn’t need someone to buy me shit. I could buy things for myself. Not, like, a new laptop or the latest iPhone.

But I could buy myself some damn peppermint mocha creamer.

So, I had.

And now that I was no longer a college student on a tight budget, seasonally flavored creamer was on my weekly grocery list.

“Good morning, Principal!” The words came out in a rush, tossed over the shoulder of a student running to class, dark hair streaming behind her.

“Walk, Jessica!” I called after her.

“But I’m already here.” She grinned mischievously before disappearing into her classroom, calling over her shoulder, “Say hi to my mom for me!”

I nodded at the reminder that I had a meeting with Mrs. Gonzales, Jessica’s mother, that afternoon. School had only been in session for a week, but already things were going a little sideways. My schedule was packed with meetings, my least favorite part of the job.

Something about the girl’s smile brought to mind another smile, blooming just before I lost a smackdown over a pair of queens. I frowned and pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

It had been a week since the night at Goat’s Tavern. I needed to focus on the school and my students, not my ill-fated hookup with a stranger. The problem was, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like a sore spot on your tongue. No matter how much it hurt, I couldn’t stop poking at it.

“You have thirty minutes until your first meeting,” said a voice at my elbow.

I turned and found Patricia Anderson, the short Black woman who ran the front office with alarming and awe-inspiring competence, looking up at me with narrowed eyes. If I had to guess the source of her displeasure, it would be my presence in this hallway, rather than in my office where I belonged, a full two minutes after the bell rang. I was aware, because Patricia had told me, that my predecessor had made it a point to be seated at his excessively large walnut desk at 8:30 a.m. sharp, a full thirty minutes before the bell rang, in order to go over the day’s schedule with Patricia.

When I had told her I intended to spend the half hour before school greeting students, she had sniffed and said, “Hmph. We’ll see.” I took that to mean it would be Patricia, not me, who decided whether the new arrangement was a success.

I grinned at the memory. I had liked the woman immediately. But she had put me on notice that she had not yet made up her mind about me.

I followed her into my office and settled into the burgundy wingback chair with a barely disguised grimace. I hated that chair. The back required me to stay ramrod straight at all times, the lack of wheels was inconvenient, and the leather squeaked every time I shifted position, sounding exactly like a fart. Not exactly the opportunity I wanted to give teenagers.

Next year, maybe I would redecorate. Modernize.

If I stayed, that is.

Patricia remained standing. I listened closely as she went over the day’s events, even though I knew she had already input the information into my phone calendar, with helpful reminder bells to keep me on track. There would be discussions on the new math syllabus and a targeted walk-through of foreign language classes and calls with parents.

“And, of course, you have the meeting at one o’clock with Mrs. Gonzales,” Patricia noted.

“Right.” I nodded. It had taken a lot of back-and-forth to find a time that worked for both of us, which didn’t bode well for requesting that she give even more time to the school than she already did. But it didn’t hurt to ask. “Do you think she’ll agree to help?”

“Oh, she’ll find a way,” Patricia said complacently. “Mrs. Gonzales is one of our most involved parents. She’s a sweetheart.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame.”

Before I could ask what she meant by that, Patricia bustled out of my office to answer the ringing phone at the front desk.

It was time to get to work.

Chapter 5

Kate

The principal’s office of Piedmont Latin hadn’t changed a bit in the fourteen years since the last time I had been summoned there—a meeting that hadn’t ended well, a fact I had neither forgotten nor forgiven. The wood-paneled walls were still as dark and brooding as ever, giving the office a cave-like feel. Portraits of the principals lined the office in a ring of unrelenting disapproval.

---