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3
WHO IS ROSE O’CONNOR
RYAN
Ipull up Rose’s file and see that she’s here on scholarship. The school offers ten tuition waivers to underprivileged public school students of high academic achievement each year as a condition of our Federal accreditation. As expected, she’s a straight-A student with no disciplinary demerits. Boring. Birthday, address, mother’s name, no father mentioned. Then, bingo! She has a counseling file. Students who have had a psychological evaluation in their history have these. It’s meant to provide us with insight into their emotional state should we ever encounter behavioral problems from them, but that’s not why I’m reading this one. I need to know how to get inside Rose’s head for my own personal reasons.
“Abusive father left when she was four years old. Raised by a single mother with a history of substance abuse. Bright but easily bored and prone to outbursts,” I read aloud and say. “Her outbursts have been replaced with a quick wit and sarcastic tongue.”
Closing the file, I stare at her student ID photo and stroke my erection through my pants. I need a reason to be alone with her again. Maybe a follow up meeting about the goat prank, but why? When my massive boner subsides, I go out in the hall hoping to catch a glimpse of her when she walks by. I’ve memorized her schedule and know what hours will bring her past my office. I see her and notice that she’s not watching where she’s walking, so I step right in front of her and wait for her to run into me. She faceplants into my chest, and I grab her elbows to keep her from bouncing off and landing on that sweet ass. Sparks ignite in my fingertips and run up my arms when I make contact with her flesh. It takes all the will that I can muster to release her from my grasp and she apologizes, thinking that she caused our collision. I want to tell her to come back to my office, but I haven’t had time to come up with a plausible reason so I’m forced to let her go.
I walk back to my office and pace the floor. I’ll be useless for the rest of the day, so I sit in the dark and search for her social media profiles on my phone. I find her easily and spend the afternoon learning her interests and gazing at her photos. Lucky for me, she likes to swim and has posted several pictures in her bikini. Her tits look amazing poking out from behind the tiny fabric triangles. Her taut stomach and tiny waist give way to hips wide enough to carry that lovely ass and athletic legs that make my mouth water.
As I continue my online voyeurism, I realize that she’s almost always alone. No group photos with friends, no parties, no boyfriends. I stare at a photo of her sitting on the beach looking off into the distance. There’s a solemness in her expression and I tell myself, “She needs me.” A girl like her should never be lonely. She needs to be protected and prized by a man who can appreciate her.
She has no bus assignment and hasn’t been given a parking spot in the student lot, so I deduce that she must walk home. I rush to my car minutes before the last bell and watch the doors. I see her come out, clutching her books to her chest, and turn right so I put my car in gear and inch out behind her. I follow her at a distance until we’re off the school grounds. The wind is whipping her hair, and she’s struggling to keep her shirt down with her free hand so I pull up beside her and open my window. She glances over, recognizes me, and stops walking.
“Would you like a ride home, Rose O’Connor?” I ask her.
She hesitates for a moment, but a gust of wind smacks her in the face and makes her step sideways.
“Thanks, Mr. Rogers,” she says.
I open the door and she slides into my passenger seat. I reach across her body and tug at the seat belt. “Buckle up, young lady,” I tell her.
“You’re not a serial killer or anything are you?” she asks me.
“Nope.”
“Good, I’d hate to die in this outfit,” she jokes. “Ghosts should be better dressed.”
I know exactly where she lives but I can’t let her know so I ask, “Which way?”
“Straight to West Main, then left,” she replies.
“Do you have a long walk?”
“If I’m taking you out of your way, you can drop me on West Main, and I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“No, I offered to take you home and that’s what I’m going to do. I just don’t like the idea of you walking all over town by yourself. That’s not safe.”
“Well, I wanted to get a job and save up for a car, but my mother insisted that I have to focus on my education.”
“What about the bus? If you live more than two miles from school, you should be on a bus.”
“I don’t want to ride the bus.”
“Might I ask why?”
“Because I don’t want the other kids to see where I live,” she answers and I feel a tinge of anger creep up in me. She doesn’t belong in a home that she’s embarrassed to live in. She should have everything these entitled little shits have and more.
We turn on to West Main, and she tells me to go seven blocks to Essen Drive and I grin, “You know, I grew up in your neighborhood. You have nothing to be ashamed of. None of us are responsible for our parent's lot in life. It’s our job to find inspiration in their struggles and use it to drive us to do better.”
“Really? Lower middle class? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a blue collar upbringing.” She grins.
“Why not?”
“You look like you work out and eat right. You’re the principal of a charter school, and you drive this fancy car,” she replies, running her fingers across the leather seat.
