“Morning, Ms. Carver,” Garrett said, flinging open my door as he strode into the room. He always attaches a Gone with the Wind accent to my name, pronouncing it Caa-vah. “Man, it’s hot in here.”
“And that’s never going to change, so you might as well get used to it. You know I prefer a tropical climate.” I capped my red pen and put it back in its pen holster on my desk.
Garrett bowled his book bag into a spot along the wall that he considers to be his. “Will you buy me a moped, Ms. Carver?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He stopped mid-step. “Really?”
“Of course not. Why do you want a moped?”
He shrugged. “They just look like a lot of fun.”
I walked over to the board and began erasing yesterday’s lecture notes. “Well, they certainly can be. But it’s the devil when you wreck. I drove one for years in Malaysia.”
“You’ve lived everywhere.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Sure, for someone who grew up in small town America, I’ve seen a few places; but compared to even your hermit European, I’m woefully under traveled.
“You’ve been in America, Asia, Africa . . .”
That last one was news to me, so I paused in my Expo swiping. “Africa? I’ve never been to Africa.”
“You haven’t? Then where’d you get those giraffe heads?” he said, pointing at two three foot wooden masks, hanging on either side of my desk.
“Oh. Well, you’ve still been to a bunch of places.” He sauntered out, leaving me to wonder why the girl at the checkout line at Hobby Lobby had forgotten to stamp my passport on my last hunting expedition.
© 2013 – Traci Carver