Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.
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I was painting the living room when the phone rang. Setting my roller down, I dug into my jeans pocket to retrieve my cell, looking down at the screen to see it was my son Derek's school calling. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Vasquez? This is Susan Johnson, Principal Borth's secretary at Cristo Rey High."
"This is Ms. Vasquez speaking." My heart started to pound loudly in my ears, and I felt uneasy. "Is Derek alright?"
"Yes, yes, he's fine. I do need you to come to the school this afternoon, though. Principal Borth needs to see you regarding a disciplinary matter involving Derek."
"What happened?" We'd only moved from L.A. to Philadelphia a couple of weeks ago. This was the first week of ninth grade for my son. He'd never been in any trouble in California.
After a pause, Mrs. Johnson said. "Would you be able to come in today at 2 p.m.? It's probably better that Principal Borth explains the issue to you."
I looked down at my paint-speckled clothes and arms and figured I could change clothes and clean up in time for the meeting if I hurried. The school was just a couple of blocks away. "I can be there by 2."
"I'll let Principal Borth know." With that, Mrs. Johnson hung up.
I put my phone in my pocket, stripped off my splattered t-shirt, and tossed it aside, imagining what trouble Derek could have gotten into. I pulled open a drawer, looked through the t-shirts, and pulled out a clean tank top. I tugged and smoothed the tank top over my breasts, the outline of my bra visible through the almost sheer fabric and peeking out at the sides under my arms. After some tugs back and forth, I was finally satisfied with the fit.
I had been pretty busty in high school and had gotten more so as I grew older. I was glad that what weight I did gain didn't seem to go to my waist. It was as trim as when I was younger. I was less pleased with how weight seemed to sprint to my ass and hips. This seemed to be both the blessing and curse of my Hispanic heritage. Getting blouses and clothes that fit well was a never-ending struggle with my ample bust and hips separated by a thin waist. I had toyed with the idea of a breast reduction or liposuction but had been talked out of it by my friends and co-workers. As a television news person, I was told my breasts were an asset. What fan mail I occasionally read seemed to be in agreement. And a breast reduction without doing some work on my ass would make me even more out of balance. At the time, I had put my energy into working out and being fit as I grew older and curvier. Now, I had neither the time nor money for that since the divorce began. I could feel my clothes getting more snug and presenting yet another worry for me as my first day at the new job in a couple of weeks grew closer.
I wished the movers would arrive with the belongings from California as I looked through the small pile of clothes I had brought in the car. Having better clothes to make a first impression at the school would have been nice. The movers should have been here days ago but had been delayed by heavy rains and flooding in the Midwest. I looked around and found a pair of clean jeans in the pile of clothes I was unpacking. I quickly swapped my shorts for pants. I pulled my sneakers back on even though they were paint-splattered since I would walk to the school.
I moved to the bathroom to check that I had no paint on my face or hair. I'd pulled my hair back into a high ponytail to paint and decided to leave it like that for the meeting. There wasn't time for much else. I wore my black hair long for the same reason I hadn't gotten the breast reduction. I needed every advantage I could get to stay attractive and competitive in the television industry. As an over forty-year-old mother, it had more gray every year. Maintaining my hair, wardrobe, and looks was costly but an investment I had to make as I was about to start a new job here in Philly. And there was also the fact that I got older each year, but my competitors were always in their mid-20s and could work for a fraction of what I needed as a single mother.
My mind continued to race with imagined worries about the meeting at school as I finished getting ready. Maybe a bully had tried picking on Derek, and he had fought back, getting into trouble? As only a mother can, I imagined all sorts of trouble while I put on some makeup and smoothed my hair. I gave myself a last check in the mirror and sighed. As ready as I was going to get, I decided.
I grabbed my purse, locked the door, and walked to the high school. A light sprinkling of rain began to fall from the gray skies. Parking in urban Philadelphia was a nightmare, especially around the time school got out. I decided to walk the few blocks as it would be quicker than fighting the traffic with school so near to being out for the day. I didn't live in the best neighborhood, but it was the middle of the day, so I felt safe enough. Gang graffiti covered the walls of most buildings. Bags of trash piled up next to trash cans. Animals and homeless people had torn open some of the bags. The streets and sidewalks had a blanket of garbage embedded into the ground by the weather and time. Grass and weeds struggled for life in the uneven, cracked sidewalk surface. Despite the gloomy surroundings, the light rain felt soothing after painting most of the morning.
I was too distracted with my various worries to pay much attention to the poverty and filth of the neighborhood as I walked. I guess I was blocking it out as a coping mechanism. I really didn't need anything else to deal with right now. The transition from L.A. to Philadelphia had been one issue after another. I'd soon be starting a new job as a reporter for WFIC 17, a return to my beginnings as a reporter. I tried not to consider it a massive demotion from being a national evening news anchor. I was still tied up in the divorce and child custody proceedings. The moving truck with my belongings still had to arrive. I had bills, rent, and Derek to care for. It was all I could do to remain positive for Derek and not worry continually.
I had struggled ever since separating from my ex, Jorge, even before the move. He's a professional baseball player for the Dodgers. We'd met when I started in television as a sports reporter. I loved him so much. I still do, really. Jorge loved Derek and me but had also been having a series of affairs as the team traveled around. He was on the road half the year between spring training and the baseball season. That is a hell of a lot of time away from home when you are married to someone hard to trust. So, now I was here in Philadelphia trying to start over, balance my television career with being a single mom, and raise Derek.
The rain got heavier just as I arrived at the high school, so I jogged the last few steps into the shelter of the front office. I moved to the desk and saw Mrs. Johnson waiting. She looked just like she had sounded on the phone: an older, slightly plump black woman with glasses, wearing a bland floral print dress and very practical black shoes. "Hi! We spoke on the phone. I'm Ms. Vasquez. I'm to meet Principal Borth at 2 p.m. regarding my son, Derek."
