The Love Simulation

Chapter One

What is it called when you know someone is playing in your face but you still manage to sit there and maintain your composure?

Etiquette? The height of professionalism? I’ve got it—a superpower.

When I took on the role of vice principal at Juanita Craft Middle School nine months ago, I knew I’d have my hands full with rowdy students and entitled parents. The years I spent as a guidance counselor prepared me for that part of the job. It’s taken a while, however, to get used to the teachers trying to butter me up whenever they want something they know I can’t give, and Angie’s been the main one out to test my patience.

Angie, Angie, Angie. Out here trying to get me to break school policy. Again.

I push my braids behind my back and suppress a sigh. “It’s true. In the grand scheme of things, one chair won’t make or break our budget. But if we get a new one for you, we’ll have to get a new one for every other teacher. I’d gladly place the order for a truckload to be brought in, but the budget has already been set, and unfortunately it doesn’t include room for chairs.”

“You know what, Miss Brianna? I might believe you if I didn’t know for a fact that you just ordered one for Mr. Torres in December. Now he’s got good armrests, wheels that don’t squeak, and can lean back without worrying about flipping over. You know whose chair doesn’t have all that?” Angie crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. Her actions are made even more dramatic with the way the armholes of her robe billow just past her elbows, where soft tulle meets down feathers.

Yes, our computer sciences teacher is serious about staring me down here in the teachers’ lounge, under the bright, buzzing fluorescent lights and eggshell-colored walls, while she’s wrapped in an article of clothing that looks like it belongs on the set of some old Hollywood movie about rich widows.

To be fair, today is Pajama Day, and I myself am in a footed one-piece. So while Angie’s outfit is a little over-the-top and will likely do more to distract her students all day than squeaky chair wheels ever could, it is school-appropriate with a silk pants set underneath, and to put it plainly, she looks fabulous.

Fabulous or not, she’s still not convincing me to break policy for her. I do wish I could buy all the teachers new chairs, but I already had to fight the principal tooth and nail until he agreed to include in the budget what the school desperately needed—a library upgrade. I’m not certain he won’t go back on his word at the slightest provocation. For some reason, it’s hard to drive the point home to Angie, even though she’s worked with the principal longer than I have.

“You know we didn’t replace Mr. Torres’s chair for no reason. In case you forgot—which I don’t see how you could since you reenacted it for everyone—his chair really did flip him over when he leaned back. Even then, he still had to provide a doctor’s prescription stating he needed a reliable chair for his bad back before the purchase was approved.”

“Oh yeah, I did forget about that.” Angie grimaces, then her demeanor shifts as she leans forward like we’re sharing a secret. “But come on. Brianna. Girlie. You know my back is bad too.”

Now I’m positive she’s playing in my face. I tap into my superpower again and don’t react, when all I want to do is bust out laughing. Because, bad back where? Back bad who? It certainly didn’t seem like Angie had a bad back at the spring dance. She was poppin’, lockin’, and droppin’ with more spirit than our little pep squad. She even tried to get me on the dance floor with her. When she showed up at school the following Monday, her complaints about the watered-down punch and bad lighting had been loud and clear, but there’d been no mention of any bodily aches and pains.

“If you really have a bad back, then get your doctor to write a prescription,” I say, hoping that will get her to drop it, at least for now. It’s the end of the school year, and I am done thinking about budgets and requests from teachers and maintaining a professional facade. Done. In my mind, I’m already aboard my fourteen-day cruise in the Caribbean.

Angie huffs, but the fight has left her, so she stands without another word. The robe cascades around her legs, train flowing, and she looks like an African goddess as she moves toward the other side of the room, where there’s a vending machine with sandwiches and cold pastries fit to feed royalty. When I’m sure she’s lost all interest in me, I finally allow a small smile to slip out.

Before I was a vice principal, I loved cutting up with the staff or complaining about spending too much of my own money on supplies I needed to do my job effectively. Now everything has changed. Even though many of the teachers are around my age, there’s a clear line between professional and personal I have to be careful not to cross. Especially if I ever hope to advance my career and catch up to my siblings.

Angie begins hitting the side of the vending machine while yelling about her stuck granola bar, but I turn away to glance at the clock mounted above the TV to see how I’m doing on time. About fifteen minutes before the students begin arriving, which means he will show up at any moment.

I readjust myself in my seat, straightening my back without making it so stiff that my body language screams “the kids aren’t around, but I’m still judging you for not poring over lesson plans at your desk.” My aim is to look respectable yet easy-breezy, so I pull out my phone too. If any staff members glance my way, it should look like I’m taking advantage of the quiet of the teachers’ lounge before the students storm in and not like my presence this morning—along with every other morning for the past nine months—is all for show.

As I pull up my email, he walks in, and the rhythm of my heart changes, beating to a cadence that chants Roman, Roman . I clench my stomach muscles tight to maintain my posture and keep still.

Brown eyes on brown skin in dark brown plaid pajama pants—I swear the monochromatic color scheme has never looked so good.

When I first met him, I thought he was one of the gym teachers. No one can look at him and think he does anything but work on that lean, athletic physique all week. But I was wrong. He teaches eighth-grade science. Assuming Roman was the gym teacher was my second mistake where he’s concerned. The first was landing the vice principal role over him.

“That’s a Black king right there,” Angie says above me, and I almost jump out of my seat.

I play it cool though, looking up and frowning like I have no clue what she’s talking about. “What was that?”

Angie smirks. “Girl, you know what I’m saying. I heard you humming and everything while checking him out. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone our little VP isn’t immune to the magnificence that is Major Pain Jr.”

Was I really humming while looking at Roman? Because she’s read me like a text in all caps. Hell. I hope it wasn’t something obvious like Hamilton ’s “Helpless.” And double hell. These are the kinds of moments I miss having with teachers. If I wasn’t the vice principal, I’d raise my hands in agreement and shout “ I know that’s right! ” But there’s no way I can do that here, where half a dozen teachers are within earshot, without looking highly inappropriate.

I elect to remain silent, and Angie shakes her head in disappointment. Then her eyes soften and she bends closer to me. “I want you to know that I’m really going to miss you. I know you won’t say it back because you’re not supposed to have favorites or anything, but, well, I know I’m your favorite anyway.” She winks and sashays out of the teachers’ lounge, and I’m left shaking my head again.

Once the last of her robe disappears through the door, I turn my gaze back toward Roman. He’s standing by the single-serve coffee maker with the English teacher, Kareem. They always meet here in the morning before the students begin arriving, though, admittedly, it usually takes me a while to notice Kareem. For all I know, today he could have walked in doing the “Cha-Cha Slide” or cartwheels and I completely missed it, only able to see Roman. Even though Kareem is the more talkative and outgoing of the two, that’s the only area where he’s got Roman beat. Everything else about Roman’s presence is just so much more . More commanding. More distinctive and arresting. More irresistible. Not that it’s a competition between the two, and not that I should be noticing anyway.

Roman scans the room and stops when his gaze lands on me. Our eye contact is brief, lasting two, maybe three heartbeats, then I’m the first to look away. It’s back to emails, but now I’m not focusing on the actual messages. My attention is divided between the words on my screen and what my peripheral sees at the coffee maker as Raven, another English teacher, walks in. She greets first Kareem, then Roman with a hug. Why she needs to hug them every single morning, I can’t say. Not that Roman seems to mind. As the three stand there chatting, I can’t help but notice how Roman’s eyes are always a tad softer when Raven is talking. The observation makes my stomach twist with jealousy every time. And yet here I am, every weekday morning, watching their interactions.

After a few minutes of them all catching up, Raven and Kareem turn in my direction. I hold my breath and wonder if they’re about to say something about me watching them, but they don’t. They offer me small, almost sad waves before leaving for the language arts wing. Um, okay. That was so weird, I almost get up to ask them what’s going on, but seeing Roman now standing alone keeps me in the teachers’ lounge. I’ll find out what’s up later. Right now it’s time for our little dance. I turn my phone screen off, get up, and head to the coffee maker.

“Good morning, Roman,” I say.

Roman selects a random K-Cup, never caring about the flavor as long as it’s not decaf, sets it into the coffee maker, and closes the lid with a snap. He presses the start button and turns to me. “Vice Principal Rogers,” he greets in turn, his deep voice already pulling at everything in me.

Where Angie is overly familiar, Roman is painstakingly formal with everyone, even when the students aren’t around. Instead of first names, it’s Mrs. This or Mr. That. For me, it’s always Vice Principal Rogers. I figured out pretty early on in the year he wasn’t doing it to show everyone he’s better than them, but to erect a buffer. And in that regard, we’re similar. Only, I keep my distance from everyone so the lines between admin and teachers aren’t blurred. Roman, the son of a principal who isn’t well-liked or trusted by the teachers and staff, does it to protect himself. With the exception of Kareem and Raven, the teachers aren’t falling all over themselves to share the latest gossip with him or air their grievances, afraid he’ll tell his dad.

I open the cabinet and am not surprised when I see my favorite tea flavor set too high for me to reach without climbing on the counter. I look at Roman in silent question and he springs into action like he was waiting for his cue. He takes a step closer, and I breathe in his scent, which is rich, sweet, and masculine. It overpowers the smell of the coffee brewing right in front of us, but not in an obnoxious way like our struggling eighth graders who drench themselves in Axe body spray, hoping it will cover up a multitude of sins. Then again, if I could bottle up Roman’s scent, I’d be tempted to forgo the water-and-soap route and bathe in nothing but it.

I inhale deeply again, then tip my head back and watch as first he reaches for the lemon ginger. When I deliberately clear my throat, he sets it down and grabs the rectangular box of blueberry-flavored tea. When he hands it to me, I take the box’s opposite end, as always, leaving no opportunity for our hands to touch. Even though there’s no skin contact, the eye contact is all there, leaving me almost breathless.

“Thank you,” I say.

Roman doesn’t say “You’re welcome” or offer me a smile, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because every time we do this little morning dance, I’m sliding a toe over the line between teachers and administrators I’m not supposed to cross. If anyone ever noticed how we meet in the same spot every day and began spreading rumors that something else was going on, it would spell trouble for my career, and I’m sure Roman would gain no goodwill from the teachers who already treat him differently. But it’s also a curse because he’s got a great smile.

I first saw it when we were chaperoning the fall dance. We stood on opposite sides of the gym when “Back That Thang Up” by Juvenile came on. Millennial teachers, led by Angie, weren’t able to resist the call. They stormed the dance floor while students, suffering from secondhand embarrassment, cleared out. I stayed on the sidelines and watched, wishing I had someone to turn to in that moment who could laugh with me and appreciate that the DJ had at least used the nonexplicit version of the song. Then I looked ahead and found Roman’s eyes on me. He was standing alone like I was. Rather than the flat look he normally sported, his eyes were lit up with humor. He shook his head like I did, and our silent conversation commenced.

Can you believe them?

They are way too old to be acting like this.

Who chose the DJ anyway?

I’m pretty sure Angie’s three seconds away from snatching her wig off and whipping it around her head like a lasso.

By the time the song was over, we were both grinning like fools, and some inappropriate obsession had taken root.

More than anything—how sexy he is, his amazing smile, or how good he smells, which is incredible—it’s that memory and the feeling of the connection we shared that’s continuously drawn me to him. This morning routine where my day doesn’t truly begin until I see Roman has always been a dichotomy of knowing it’s highly inappropriate and unprofessional to feed into my crush and yet hoping the fact that he shows up every morning and plays along means it’s not one-sided. I haven’t begun to scratch the surface of who he really is outside of being a teacher and the principal’s son, but there’s something about him that fills me with longing.

Roman pauses mid-stir with a wooden stick in his hand and lifts an eyebrow to me in question. I turn my head back to the microwave so fast I almost give myself whiplash from the weight of my braids swinging over my shoulder and landing on my chest. This part of our morning ritual is supposed to be a simple exchange of greetings while I wait for him to make his coffee then take my turn. It should not involve me getting caught staring like a creeper.

Glad that my hair is now blocking my face so he can’t see my embarrassment, I stifle a sigh while opening the cabinet above me to grab a Styrofoam cup. Roman is rummaging next to me, and I know now he must be putting the lid on his cup and preparing to leave. He’ll go to his classroom to get set up for first period, and I’ll go on about my duties having given my brain the serotonin boost it needed.

“So what are your big plans to celebrate getting out of here?” I hear Roman say.

I look around to see if he’s talking to one of his friends who has come back, but no. He’s looking directly at me.

“After everything is wrapped up for the district, I’m going on a cruise.” After that perfectly normal response, I grab my K-Cup. “We’re stopping in Cozumel, Yucatán, Puerto Costa Maya, and Belize. It’s a fourteen-day cruise, which is on the long side, but I know it’ll be worth it. Oh, and I say ‘we,’ but I really mean me . It’s a solo trip, but I’m sure I’ll meet other people there.”

Ugh, and there I go. I try to channel that same superpower I use when teachers, students, or the principal says something outlandish and I have to stay cool, but for whatever reason it doesn’t work around him.

Roman looks at me, eyes shining in amusement. I know his smile is there, trying to break through, and my heart answers in a gallop.

“Good morning!” a chipper voice says beside us.

“Oh! Good morning, Mrs. Bland,” I say, greeting the social studies teacher and taking a step back. I don’t want her getting the idea there is something going on between Roman and me.

“Don’t mind me. I just need some creamer.”

Her arm stretches between us, and she grabs a small cup of half-and-half. She smiles at me, though it falls flat when she glances at Roman. Roman doesn’t seem to care or notice her as he stands there and takes a gulp of his drink.

“In case I don’t get a chance to tell you later, it’s been great working with you this year,” she says.

The whole interaction is uneventful and only lasts about ten seconds, but when she’s gone, the air coming off Roman is noticeably chilly, despite the fact that we’re in the beginning stages of a heat wave and the AC is finnicky. Is he upset Mrs. Bland didn’t speak to him? On the same token, he didn’t speak to her. Other than Kareem and Raven, he rarely speaks to anyone else. Did I somehow hurt his feelings by stepping away? I would have done the same with any other teacher I was speaking to if someone else had come up. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t have stepped away from any other teacher like they were on fire and I was afraid of getting burned, but there definitely would have been some foot-shuffling going on.

Roman’s gaze is flat when he looks at me, and I know he’s about to head to his classroom.

“What are your plans for the summer?” I ask, wanting to drag this interaction out a little longer. Why not? It’s almost the end of the school year and I’m feeling a bit reckless.

He looks at the door a second, then back to me before he shrugs. “Nothing special. I signed up to teach summer school.”

“Nothing special? The kids absolutely love you. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them sign up just to take your course for the fun of it. You’re great at what you do, Roman.”

He looks almost bashful when I stop talking, and I tuck a braid behind my ear. My response might have been a little over-the-top and could be misconstrued as flirting, but I told him the truth. Even if the teachers don’t welcome him with open arms, the students love him. As a teacher, he knows how to be serious but not rigid. Engaging and fun without letting the lessons fly off the rails. It’s obvious so many of the boys look up to him, and on more than one occasion I’ve had to pretend not to hear a few of the girls going on about how much “drip” he has. I’m only too aware that he would have made a great vice principal.

This morning, however, the fact that we’ve been circling around each other all year—Roman maintaining a respectful and aloof distance, and me admiring how amazing he is at his job while also wishing he’d simultaneously look at me and ignore me to force me to maintain proper distance—doesn’t seem to matter.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

Roman nods and begins to walk away, but stops, and instead takes a step closer to me. He’s a head taller than me, about six feet, and I tilt my head up to look at him.

“Before summer starts, the teachers get together at Big Lou’s to celebrate making it through another year. Raven and Kareem finally convinced me to check it out. You should come through too.”

I try not to do that thing when I smile—the thing where I end up grinning so hard my normally full upper lip disappears and I’m nothing but gums and shiny teeth. But I can’t help it. And I know I’ve spent all school year actively trying not to get too close to the teachers, but no one ever invited me out somewhere with the promise that Roman would be there. I think it would be feasible to hang out with everyone for one special occasion.

“I was going to order pizza from Big Lou’s for all of the teachers on the last day,” I say. “But meeting up with everyone there sounds a lot better.”

There it is—a small tilt of Roman’s lips letting me know he’s pleased I took him up on the offer. His smile isn’t quite as generous as the one he gave me at the school dance, and it’s nowhere near as wide as the one I’m still sporting, but it’s there, and its very existence puts my reputation at risk as wild, foolish ideas begin racing through my head. Like the idea that he wouldn’t mind if I were to stand on my toes and touch his juicy curved lips. With mine.

“Brianna, there you are!”

I’m jerked out of my Roman-induced haze by the librarian, Mrs. Yates. She’s rushing over, obviously upset about something, with her face flushed like she wants to cry. Or strangle something.

I clear my throat, and this time the distance I put between Roman and me is more than warranted. “Mrs. Yates, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Is it true that you’re leaving?” she demands.

I frown. “I’m going on a cruise in a few weeks.” That’s hardly anything to cry over.

“No. I mean here. Craft Middle School. Is it true that you’re resigning so you can take up the vice principal position at that new arts school?”

All I can do is blink at her. The possibility never even crossed my mind. “Mrs. Yates, no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Wait, what do you mean, no?” Roman cuts in.

I snap my head to him. What’s up with his outburst? In fact, what’s up with both of them? How does my going on a cruise to Mexico translate to leaving the school for good? And leaving for a new position at that?

“I mean ,” I say to Roman, “I’m going on a trip for two weeks, then I’m turning right back around to prepare for the new school year. Why would you think otherwise?”

Roman runs a hand over his head but doesn’t say anything, so I turn to Mrs. Yates for answers.

Those same delicate fingers Mrs. Yates uses to caress book spines and turn pages with the gentlest of touches are wielded like a weapon as she points to Roman. “He told me.”

I understand why the library has so few books returned late, and it’s not because the kids aren’t reading as much. They’re probably afraid to see this side of Mrs. Yates. For a second, I’m ready to sprint to my office and make sure I don’t have any library books on my shelf. Then her words hit me with the force of a sledgehammer, and I realize I’m not under attack. Roman is.

“Roman,” I begin, almost at a loss for words, “why did you tell her that I’m leaving?”

He looks uncomfortable, running a palm over his head again, and I swear, under that fine melanin complexion he’s blushing. But I can’t get distracted by how good he looks even when flustered. I need answers, and his demeanor is quickly veering from flustered to guilty.

“My dad told me you were,” he finally says, and lets out a heavy sigh. “But your reaction is telling me that’s not the case.”

Hell no, it’s not the case. And I have no idea why Principal Major would even say that.

I glance from Mrs. Yates, who seems relieved, to Roman, who’s once again closed off. Is that why he was open and friendly only moments ago? He thought I was leaving and was obviously ready to waltz right into the vacant vice principal spot? Whatever I thought I read in that half smile was the product of foolish hopeful thinking.

The worst kind of heat spreads from my ears downward, making my stomach cramp, and I can no longer bring myself to meet Roman’s eyes.

“That explains so much of this morning,” I mutter, trying to breathe through the embarrassment and hurt stinging in the backs of my eyes. Now I see why the teachers were acting weird, and I especially see why Roman was acting out of the norm. Like he was happy to talk to me. I guess he was just happy to think the vice principal spot was about to have a vacancy.

“It’s not like that, Bri—” Roman starts, but gets cut off by Mrs. Yates.

“If you aren’t leaving after all, does that mean the money for the library isn’t really gone?” she asks.

I snap my head up but don’t ask Mrs. Yates to repeat herself. I heard every word loud and clear, and now there’s a sour churn in my stomach that seems to make an appearance every time Principal Major is up to something.

I stare straight at Mrs. Yates with my best game face on. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I promise you, I’m going to find out.”