Substituting for Mrs. Farley has been testing my patience. Only four years ago I was a teenager, but now teenagers pisses me off. In the span of one short weekend, Weston dumped Britany for Ginny, which caused a whole shitshow. Britany started dating Waylon Smithson, and the poor boy looks miserable as hell. Weston doesn't care though, he's finally happy.
This Wednesday was tough already, but now I find myself sitting across the table from him. My deadbeat sperm donor. His skin is as pale as a corpse, and his gray eyes are weak and glassy looking. God, I hate the fact that I have his eyes. Why couldn't I have been born with mom's sky-blue eyes?
A Hispanic waitress with big black eyes, raven hair, and olive colored skin, sets menus in front of us. "Anything to drink?" She asks.
"Sweet tea, please." I say politely.
"Water with lemon, please." He says.
As soon as the waitress disappears into the kitchen, I fold my arms across my chest. "Drop the act. Why did you call me here?"
"So, do you work anywhere? Seeing anyone?" He asks, attempting to be a dad. I could vomit from his mere presence.
Nervous, he taps his stubby fingers on the table. "I'm dying. I have Stage five Kidney failure."
"Ok." I reply harshly. He labeled me as "retarded" and abandoned me as a toddler, and I'm supposed to care?
"Look, I was hoping you'd get tested to see if you're a match. The Doctor says I don't have long left." He explains nervously.
Ire rises in me. This scum abandoned me and mom, making her life a struggle until my true dad came along. He labeled me "retarded", tossed me aside like trash, and now he has the gall to ask me for one of my vital organs.
My lips curl into a smile. Karma being the glorious bitch she is, has caught up to him. The bastard.
"First of all, I don't know if our blood types match. Secondly, if I ever donate a vital organ, it'll be to someone more deserving than you, like a dying child," I sneer.
Rage flashes across his face, and I relish in it. Good. Fuck him.
"As for your previous questions. I'm a substitute teacher, and yes, I'm seeing someone. Are we done here?"
"You realize, without me, you wouldn't exist, right?" He hisses.
"I know." I look back at him coldly. "You're what's called a sperm donor. Thanks." I say in a snarky tone.
Just when I think he can't get any worse, he lunges across the table at me. Adrenaline kicks in and I cock my right arm back and pop him square in the jaw. My real dad taught me how to defend myself. It makes my hand hurt, and part of me feels guilty for punching a dying man, but part of me feels vindicated.
People from surrounding tables flock around us.
"Ma'am, are you alright?" a young African American couple asks me.
My hands throbbing and blood bubbles from my knuckles. "Yes, just defending myself." I respond as I try to flex my hand. I grimace in pain. Hell, it may be broken.
"I am dying!" He hisses, clutching his jaw. "Don't you care?"
"Why should I? You didn't. You left mom and me out to dry. I'm not giving you a vital part of my body when you couldn't care less about what happened to me. Now, please, leave me alone." I say flatly as I grab my purse and leave.
One of the waitresses stops me and asks, "Do you want us to call the cops and have them press charges? We saw him try to attack you."
I coldly look over at him. Blood drips from his mouth, which means I got him good. "No, he'll get his eventually." I sneer.
My hand just throbs and throbs, sighing, I decide to go to Urgent Care. Lucky for me there's an Urgent Care across the street from the Mexican restaurant. I've never punched anyone in my life. I get the feeling that dad is smiling down from heaven, thinking that's my girl! As much as I loathe my sperm donor, I feel bad for punching a dying man. I also feel bad for not donating my kidney.
A Nurse Practitioner named Tisha Green numbs my hand with lidocaine. I wince in pain. Lucky for me I didn't break my hand, but unlucky for me a couple of my knuckles caught his teeth the wrong way, and now I have to get stitches.
She gives me a total of three stitches and wraps my hand in gauze. Tisha is a beautiful woman. Chocolate skin, black eyes, midnight black braids that hang down to her chest.
"Change out the gauze tonight and tomorrow. After forty-eight hours you'll be safe to stop wearing gauze. Don't let the stitches get overly wet. Pat dry. Avoid using soap on the stitches. These stitches are dissolvable and will fall out within a week or two." She explains.
"Thank you." I say shyly.
"No problem, sweetheart." She says, smiling sweetly.
Macey is waiting for me outside of Urgent Care. I climb into the truck, babying my hand.
"Well, dammit dude." She chuckles. "I got to know how this happened."
"Dick told me he needed a kidney. I basically told him he could go fuck himself because he didn't deserve it. He leapt over the table at me, and I punched him." I explain.
Macey laughs so hard she can't breathe. "Dammit, dude, good job. I'd never expect you to retaliate, because I've seen you run away from roosters."
Both Granny and Nana keep chickens, and several times throughout my lifetime they've had roosters that attacked me. I hate the damn things. I remember when I was seven, Pop had a rooster named Pecker Wood. One day Pecker Wood attacked me with his spurs and ran me up a tree. That night we had the best fried chicken Granny ever cooked. Regardless, I'm still terrified of roosters.
"Don't you have a date tonight?" She asks.
"Yeah. Want to help me pick out an outfit?" I ask.
"Bet." She chuckles.