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Chapter Two
Cherry
What do you get when you jiggle Santa’s balls?
A white Christmas.
This is my worst nightmare.
If I have to answer one more question, I’m going to scream.
“Jade. No more, pleaseeee,” I whine, slumping in my seat like a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum.
A few strands of my multi-colored hair fall into my face.
“Only a few more questions, I promise,” she says, her acrylic nails tapping away on my phone. “Okay, the next one is: If you could describe your perfect man, who would he be?” she asks me.
“Henry Cavill.”
“No, you idiot. You need to describe him.”
“Umm… in TheWitcher, he has that long white hair, golden eyes, and the growl he does. Oh my lord, it makes my bean tingle, I swear,” I groan, still slumped in my seat but more interested now in my potential matches.
“You need therapy…” Jade trails off, “And lots of it. I can’t put down a fictional man.”
“Sex with Henry would be the best therapy.”
“Did I hear you mention Henry?” Mrs. Donovan says.
Our old elementary teacher approaches us while I desperately try to hide by slumping further into my seat.
Something that didn’t work in school and doesn’t work now.
She’s deaf as fuck, but still wouldn’t hesitate to try gossiping with us about the people surrounding us, even if they can hear every word she says from how loud she shouts.
“Yes, Mrs. Donovan, you did,” my best friend shouts at the old teacher, who smiles in response.
“Henry is the best, isn’t he? So handy and great suction, too.”
“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper to my former best friend as mortification burns through my body.
“You can’t live without me, so let’s stop with the silly threats and finish these questions.”
“Fine,” I pout, “my perfect man would be fit, a bit muscly so he’d be able to throw my ass around the room like his personal sex doll.”
“Not asking for much, are we?” Jade laughs, her nails clicking on the screen as she fills out my answer.
“To be fucked like he hates me and loves me at the same time? No, I don’t think I am.”
“You have issues,” Jade manages to get out through her laugh.
Even though she isn’t wrong, I won't give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s right.
“I do not,” I huff.
“Ah, you both haven’t changed since school,” Mrs. Donovan says, her wrinkled hand gently clapping me on the shoulder as she walks past to her table.
“Bye, Mrs. Donovan!” I call after her, even though she can’t hear me.
