Okay. A quick recap in case you've lost touch with the complete and utter trainwreck that is my life. I told Frank that I want a break and he took it as seriously as he takes me (not very much) and—points to him— he lured me to bed. Now to the less predictable part of the night, I decided to text Indrek (aka Henry Rockstar) then chickened out of it but later accidentally sent him a text. Which he read. Which, last I checked, he was typing back. Then Frank snuck up on me bringing us to this exact point.
I feel guilty for texting someone I slept with three years ago, especially because it's just a few hours after I just slept with my…ugh, shudder. Boyfriend.
"What's wrong Kayla?" He asks. " When I heard you scream, I thought someone had broken in,"
"Nah, it was just a cockroach," I say. "Sorry I woke you."
"You screamed because of a cockroach? Really?" He asks, arching an eyebrow.
I huff. "Would you put it past me?" I ask.
His mouth splits into a grin. "Fine, baby. You really are like a child, you know?" He asks, taking my hand in his.
I feel demeaned. Calling me a child feels demeaning now. It never did before.
I shrug. "You should go back to bed. I'll be with you in a bit," I say. It is a lie. I will not return to that bed until I can hear him snoring from the kitchen.
"Hurry, okay?" He says, letting go of my hand like a forlorn lover, as if we didn't just sleep together three hours ago.
I smile and nod, then turn back to my phone as soon as he's gone.
Luckily, I dropped it on the carpet, so the screen was perfectly intact. Thank God.
I see a new message on my screen. It's short enough that I don't have to enter the chat box to read it.
Finally got to your room?
My breath hitches. He still remembers me.
It's got me smiling giddily as I turn off my phone and walk back to my bedroom, Frank be damned. It's what I think about as I pull the covers over my body and swat away Frank's hand. It's what I think about as I fall asleep. He still remembers me.
********
"Where are you going all dressed up?" Frank asks as I tie my braids into a bun that hopefully screams professional.
"To Rutherford. I've got a scheduled tour of the school," I inform him, taking out my eyeliner to wing my eyes.
There. That looks hot, yet professional.
"You're still going to Rutherford?" He asks.
I give him a look from the mirror. "Of course I am," I say flatly. "Why wouldn't I?"
"What about me? And Nakuru? I told them to hold that position for you," he says.
"Thanks, but I already told you, I'm taking the job in Rutherford. I don't want to argue about this again with you," I say.
It's bad enough that he just expected me to drop such a high income job for him and his many personalities.
"Fine. Just, let me see you in that suit," he says.
Properly placated, I get up and twirl in my peach power suit and matching heels.
"Mmm. I love how well pink fits you," he says.
I don't bother to correct him because I learnt long ago that most heterosexual men and colors mix about as well as oil and water.
I smile instead and give him a kiss, which immediately turns into a make out which I don't really mind. When he begins to untuck my blouse and whisper in my ear how much he wants me now, warning bells go off in my head.
"I can't be late," I inform him, breaking the kiss.
He pulls me flush against him and I feel the evidence of his arousal poking against my stomach.
"Screw it," he says. "Stay with me,"
As much as I'd like to, now that I've realized the game he's playing, I decline. "Nope. Can't be late," I say, pushing him onto the bed. "Help yourself to breakfast, will you?"
I grab my phone and handbag and walk out of the room, straight to the front door. "Bye, Frankie!" I say, slamming the door behind me.
My stomach growls in protest and I decide to grab breakfast at the cafe in stead. Frank won't be there, trying to ruin my chances at Rutherford with something as trivial as sex.
I grab a to-go coffee cup and a Snickers bar and run to the bus. You know what's better than being on time? Being early.
As usual there are more people on the bus than there should be, but I don't let that deter me from devouring my Snickers bar and taking tiny sips of my coffee. Why do they serve it too hot? I'm going to have to talk to the barista about icing my coffee.
This time, I am paying attention as the bus stops as close to the school as it can. From there, I have to board a motorbike the rest of the way. I make a firm decision to get a car once I'm financially stable. It is quite embarrassing to be dropped off by a motorbike at an international school, where some students arrive by helicopter. Well, with the salary I'm getting, I can afford to take an Uber instead. That is less embarrassing. And less dusty.
Just the St. Rutherford school gate is enough to give all the schools I've been in (nine, including highschool and uni) a run for their money. I sign my name at the gate and I'm led to the Deputy Principal's office, where I quietly finish what's left of my coffee. Miraculously, I didn't spill a drop on the ride over. I should get a medal or something.
I take out my phone to inform Lily that I'm at Rutherford and how ant-like our old highschool looks in comparison when I see his message at the top, still unread since 10:58pm when it was delivered.
I decide to respond.
How did you know it was me?
It's the one question I had been asking myself since my alarm went off at four-thirty this morning. His last seen is at five am so I make my peace and twiddle my thumbs while I update Lily on my progress. I haven't mentioned the texting Indrek to her yet but I will once…I don't know, really. I'm just not ready to tell her yet.
A tall man in a blue shirt and pressed slacks walks in holding a messenger bag. He is wearing wireframe glasses and has a nice smile.
I smile back.
"Hello. I'm Ronald Mwangi," he says, stretching his hand out for a shake. "You're Kayla, I presume?"
"I am," I respond. He smiles at me again and I have to admit that is is so infectious it has me smiling back, more earnest than polite.
"I'll be conducting your tour today," he says, adjusting his glasses. It's an oddly endearing move.
"Oh? The Deputy is indisposed?" I guess, cocking my head to the side. It's either that or he thinks giving a guided tour to a new teacher with an undetermined contract is beneath him. Well, it's not undetermined per se, it's just common that new teachers don't get called back for a second year. Either way, I wouldn't blame him.
"Oh, not at all. You see, I am the Deputy Principal," Ronald says.
Crap.
I blink repeatedly. "Well, isn't that—"
"Surprising?" He prompts.
"I was going to say embarrassing," I tell him.
He chuckles for a minute, breaking enough tension for me to apologize.
"I'm so sorry. I did not mean to offend you. It's just that you look so…well, young," I say.
"I get that a lot. Shall we start?" He asks.
I figure this is an olive branch and take it before it's too late.
"Yes, please," I say.
The following hour and a half are spent touring the glamorously grandiose school until I'm begging for a break. It's either that or my heels file for a change in custody. Luckily, Ronald (he said I could call him that after I called him Deputy Principal one time too many) was done with the important part of the tour anyway.
"Are you a recent graduate?" He asks.
I nod, discreetly trying to release tension from my feet by wiggling my toes. The action, while giving me a brief reprieve, can only do so much. I need a footbath and a massage.
"Are you in need of accommodation? Because if so, we do have teachers' quarters just outside campus. They're not very spacious, but they're well designed, and their proximity to the school is advantageous," Ronald says casually.
My ears perk up at that. It really would save me a lot of time and money that I would have used on commuting, also, after the rat incident (don't ask) there's not a lot of love lost between me and my current apartment.
"How much do I pay in rent?" I ask, warming up to the idea.
"Only seven thousand. Water, wi-fi and electricity are paid for by the school," he says offhandedly.
"Woah," I say, completely shocked. I pay ten thousand for my place, excluding water and electricity; and it's a dump. "One more question."
"Shoot," he says, a smug smile on his face as he leans against his desk.
"Are there any rodents? Specific but not exclusive to rats?" I ask.
"Kayla, I haven't seen or heard of any rodents in my four years of living at Rutherford Suites," Ronald responds. And just like that, he has me.
Ronald insists on dropping me off at my building and I'm not the type to refuse nice gifts that save me from hiking in my heels.
"Hey Frankie," I say once I'm back in my apartment.
I'm greeted by silence. I take off my heels and place them on the tiny show rack when I find Frank's shoes missing. I shrug and walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. There is an array of dirty dishes waiting for me at the sink and I groan at the idea of cleaning up after Frank. I put it off for later, deciding to make myself a PB&J for lunch.
I groan again when I notice that the labels on my jars of peanut butter and jam respectively have been scratched off. I ball my hands into fists. It seems dramatic, but I like my things orderly. I never gnawed on my ball point cap in school, I never gnawed on my pencils, I never let my uniform tear and I never tore off the labels from jars. Because that's juvenile behavior. Frank and I have had a discussion about this before after he messily tore off the label of my bottle of lotion. I told him it was okay to do it to his things, not mine.
I am near panting with pent up rage. I have no outlet for it and the one causing my rage has fled from the scene. Looking at those now ugly jars makes me feel like I want to puke and cry at the same time. I'd rather he had just torn them clean off, not left me this mess to clean up too. I remember what he said to me the day I caught him tearing the label from my lotion. He said, "I look at a label that hasn't been torn off and it feels wrong. I feel like I have to remove it or scratch it, or I won't have peace of mind." Funny enough, he doesn't even do it to his stuff, just to mine.
Before I know it, I'm pouring tap water over the jam jar and scrubbing off what's left of the label. I do the same with the peanut butter jar. I do it because it's what I do. When Frank comes into my life and creates a mess, I clean it up and hope he doesn't do it again. But he always does. And I'm always the one to clean it up.