Chapter 5
chapter
five
We have a situation.
Jesse’s ominous text message glows up at me from my phone. Once again, I choose to ignore it, pivoting back to my students. Just in time to catch one of the senior boys attempting to give his seatmate a wet willy.
“Dylan, we keep our fingers out of our study buddies!”
The kid in question grouses as he follows my direction and takes his finger out of his neighbor’s ear.
With the retractable shades down and a cloudy afternoon brewing outside, Orange Blossom High’s library is dim apart from the glow of my Smart Board.
On it, a cartoon sperm swims his (or her) way to the golden egg awaiting fertilization.
I note all the queasy looks on my students’ faces and choke down a snort.
Teaching a supplementary sexual health course to a room of hormone-addled upperclassmen wasn’t my first choice for the semester, but someone had to do it.
Plus, I already had this hilarious uterus hat from the Walk For Reproductive Rights I organized last summer. When else am I going to get to wear it?
The school board threatened to cut this course unless they found a teacher who would take it on without requiring extra pay. I knew it had to be me; I have enough money from the guys. And someone has to help these kids before they go off to college.
I mean, really. Last week, I asked the class what labia were, and one guy thought I was talking about a designer dog bred from a Labrador and an Akita.
Your tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen .
Only, not really. Because they don’t actually pay me for this.
I glance around the library while my last class of the day scribbles notes from the most recent slide.
Pondering the fact that if someone made a pie chart of my life, a good slice of it has occurred in this large, airy room.
With its vinyl floors and laminate bookcases.
The faded inspiration posters with random nature scenes in the background.
And of course: the books .
Most of them are crap. Stained, dog-eared, covered in smudged plastic or penis doodles. But they’re mine —and each one is dear to my book-loving, librarian heart.
My eye drifts to the clock hanging over the entrance. Damn it. The bell will ring in ninety seconds and I’m not done with this lesson. Especially since they always have questions afterward.
“So,” I go on, rushing, “the sperm swims through the uterus to reach the fallopian tubes, where the egg is waiting, anddddd….”
I tap a key on my keyboard and a loud burst of gold confetti fills the screen with a BAM. The students laugh, and I smile to myself.
Some topics just call for glitter. I don’t make the rules.
Our bell goes off and everyone slams their textbooks shut, shuffling their backpacks on. I call out the homework for our next session and remind them about the upcoming project info scrawled on the portable whiteboard beside my screen.
Most of the kids nod along or pull out their phones to snap pictures of the assignment, but one in particular sneers.
Ugh.
Linus .
Listen, I know every human is an individual gift with their own innate value and all that… but some kids make me wonder.
Linus doesn’t show up for half of his classes.
The administration lets him get away with his epic slacking because he’s some sort of star athlete?
I wouldn’t know because I don’t follow school sports, but either way, he’s been in my classes for years and has some sort of beef with me being a single, plus-sized omega.
At least, that’s what the insults he hurls at me every day imply. I don’t pay much attention anymore. Not since I reported him to the administration and was told to “let it go.”
Normally, Linus tosses in his line of the day and shuffles off to do whatever high school students do instead of attending class.
Today, though, the senior takes a longer route to the exit just so he can knock his shoulder into my arm, deliberately sending the stack of quizzes in my hand all over the floor.
This gangly young alpha loves showing off how much bigger and stronger he is than his omega classmates. And teachers, apparently.
With a smarmy smile, he starts to back toward the library doors. “Good luck with those quizzes. It must be hard for a virgin to grade sex-ed tests.”
See?
Little shit.
Rolling my eyes, I gather the papers and start to clean up the rest of my stuff. In ten minutes, the whole place needs to be clear for study hall, and I don’t have time to?—
“Oh, by the way,” Linus adds, his grin taking on an edge of menace. He nods at my hand. At the engagement ring. “I knew that had to be bullshit. Who the hell would actually want to marry you ?”
Static fills my ears as heat floods my face. A chill of horror shoots through my veins, freezing my blood into muck so thick that my heart can barely pump. The organ flips and flails, its beats stuttering before breaking into a sprint.
“ What did you just say?” I demand.
But Linus only chuckles, shoving the exit open with his shoulder. “The truth is all over TikTok, Miss Woods. Or should we just call you The Fake Fiancée?”