Cracks in Anchors

pas encore, de toute façon

“So, the new French teacher, huh?”

“What new French teacher?”

“You know, the totes hot one. The one who is a Brit.”

“Ohh, I haven’t seen him yet, is he that good?”

“Oh, more than good. He’s like, ugh I’d totally f-”


Gag. I mean, sure the French teacher - Mr. Styles - was hot and all, but taking it to the next level of fucking him? I’d rather not. But I liked to listen to schoolhouse gossip, so I stayed put in the corner between the cafeteria doors and a strip of lockers. The two girls who were swapping stories like spit were from my French class - the girls who tried to be friendly. I didn’t remember their names and frankly, I didn’t care enough to remember them anyway. They were just faces in the clusterfuck of teenagers trying to get a head-start in life, though I doubted most of them really cared about life after high school.

I remembered hearing a group of kids once talk about their futures or lack thereof. Some of them, the girls and boys who got good grades, said they wanted kids and good jobs and nice houses and all that typical bullshit everybody thinks they want. The other kids, the stoners who could care less about school, said they’d go to community college if they could but worse case they’d just crash with their parents. Which, at that moment in time, I scoffed at and thought yeah, okay, you’re parents will totally let you live with them for the rest of their lives.

I wondered, did they actually understand that, yes your parents love you and all, but do you really think they want to see you grow up to be one of those people; the ones who never get a girlfriend and play video games and collect fucking Star Wars action figures? I don’t think so.

But back to my gossip-listening.

Those two girls were still yapping about Mr. Styles and the things they’d do to him, which made me frown and deterred me from going into the cafeteria to eat. So instead I went into the cafeteria to sit by myself and read, or even possibly write a letter to my 13-years-in-the-future-self. I would write about my shit-tastic day, about the two girls who shamelessly talked about having illicit affairs with older male teachers, and said older male teacher - Mr. Styles.

Image


Yes, I love me some good ol’ coffee in the afternoon. I was sipping on a pumpkin-spice flavored cup of joe as I slung my feet on top of the ottoman. It was currently 4:45 on a Thursday and Hocus Pocus was playing on the TV screen. I sighed, letting steam cascade into my face and blur the three witches brewing a potion. Pumpkin coffee + Halloween movies = the best way to spend an October evening with no homework.

No homework, now that was a foreign sentence. Homework, sure, that was a common word, but when you add the ‘no’ in front of it? Well you might as well be shitting bricks, for that sentence barely gets constructed once you hit high school. Every night is a homework night, and it severely limited my TV-watching time. Granted all I did was watch TV, I still had a routine and planned out schedule of which shows were on at what time.

But instead of getting to watch TV in peace, my mother stomped through the door with windblown hair and golden leaves falling from her clothes. She shrugged off her jacket, threw off her shoes and dropped her briefcase onto a kitchen chair. She circled the island, grabbed two sodas from the fridge, and then went back around to where I sat. She handed me the soda, which I took after I placed my mug on the table.

“Thanks, I was getting tired of this coffee anyway.”

She smiled like she always did when she already knew what I was thinking, and sat down beside me on the couch.

“Hocus Pocus, huh? One of my favorites.” She put her feet up next to mine and popped open the can, taking one big gulp and smiling at me.

And that’s what I liked best about my mother - she was funny and more like me than I could have imagined. She acted the same and thought the same and knew what I wanted before I even knew what I wanted. But then she said something I wished she really didn’t say, for I had already heard it so many times before that it was literally etched in my skull.

“So I heard you got a new French teacher. British, young and handsome from what the people at work have said.”

Even adults were talking about Mr. Styles? Adults who should know better, adults who probably already have husbands and kids and can only dream about being with men younger than themselves. I just rolled my eyes and took a sip of the soda.

“I guess he’s okay, I don’t know, I’m not obsessed with him like everyone else seems to be.”

She smiled coyly and I knew she was about to say something that’d get me annoyed.

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Mom, okay, stop. He’s good looking but that’s it. I wouldn’t like - dream about him or want to date him or anything.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

And how oh-so right she was.
♠ ♠ ♠
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Chapters should be getting longer soon, I promise. And Harry will start appearing more often from now on.