Chapter 2: Lettuce, Lies, and Labels

The guy’s eyes widened, totally thrown. “Wh-what?”

He sounded like someone catching their dog in the act. I was squatting by the fence, still munching away.

I caught my own reflection in his silver-rimmed glasses: wild hair, mustard on my lip, busted Crocs. Peak disaster.

We just stared at each other through the fence links. The moment froze—just us, divided by rules and, apparently, cafeteria law. It honestly felt like a scene from ‘Orange Is the New Black’—only I was in thrift-store chaos, and he looked like the lead in a teacher appreciation PSA. I half expected dramatic theme music.

I was about to repeat myself when the lettuce in my mouth shot out and landed squarely on the fence.

The lettuce dangled there, limp and accusing. I could hear the distant squeak of sneakers on the gym floor, and my face felt like it was on fire. A heavy silence hung between us.

Mortified, I watched as he frowned, pulled out a napkin, carefully pinched the lettuce off the fence, and tossed it in the trash. He was oddly gentle, like this was just another day at the office.

Me: ......

I had no words. Just pure, burning embarrassment. I wanted to crawl inside my backpack and never come out. There are a lot of ways to die, but social death—especially lettuce-based—definitely ranks near the top.

I hadn’t even gotten his contact info yet and my dignity was already in shreds. Like, couldn’t I at least get his number before totally wrecking my reputation?

I was about to sneak away when a sharp voice barked behind me.

The sound cracked across the parking lot, making me freeze like a raccoon caught in headlights.

“Stop!”

Maybe it was the ingrained fear of teachers, or maybe just his commanding tone, but I froze, sandwich still clutched like a security blanket.

A minute later, he strode over from inside the fence—moving with that classic teacher stride: part stern, part exhausted, all business. The kind of walk that says, ‘Don’t waste my time.’

Up close, he looked even better—handsome in a rugged, real way. He had that look of someone who’s pulled too many late nights grading, but made it look cool. Sharp features, clean jawline, messy hair, thick brows, and—surprisingly—gentle eyes. Those glasses, long lashes, and a tiny mole by his Adam’s apple (which, yeah, was oddly hot) completed the package.

He fired off three questions, rapid-fire:

“Which grade are you in?”

“Are you from our school?”

“Why aren’t you wearing a school ID?”

His voice was crisp, all business—the human version of a detention slip.