Those feet.
The image was seared into Barbara’s mind. It was the first day of a brand new school year, at a brand new school, at a school named after her own grandmother. She struggled through a decade of gruelling education, bore the incredible burden and responsibility of being a Jacobs, and clawed her way to a well-deserved and well-earned position that was now about to begin. Yet Barbara couldn’t concentrate. Her office, a tidy and utilitarian affair, seemed as distant as the sky. Piles of letters sat on her desk, messages were filling up her voicemail, and the agitated buzzing of her blackberry was ignored.
Those gorgeous feet, Barbara thought, a smile growing on her lips. Over and over she replayed the scene in her head - remembering that skinny boy tumbling, revealing that stunning skin for all to see. What a surprise to see on the way to her office. She would trade in everything – her career, her name – to own those feet. And of course, the boy attached to them.
The Jacobs gene, as her father often called it, was borderline obsessive. It meant that they could achieve great things; for her grandmother and father, it was progress and humanitarianism. For Barbara, it was childhood education. At least, it was, until this morning. When she saw that boy, the neurons in her brain seemed to reconfigure themselves. I’m going to have him, she thought, her heart accelerating with the idea. The Jacobs gene, that tool which gave her family such glory, was going to give her something much more tangible.
Adjusting her glasses, she leaned in to look at her desktop. Finding him would be step one. He was of average height, with slight build, black hair, and of course, the most gorgeous feet she had ever seen. Methodically, Barbara went through every student photo she had on record. Nothing else mattered – not the inane faculty all around her, not the annoying tremble of her blackberry, nothing.
Soon, she found the face she was looking for. Jesse Cartier. She whispered the name, repeating it over and over. Cute, for a fifteen-year-old, she thought, her smile quivering at his beautiful blue eyes. Let’s see what kind of potential you have.
Barbara picked up her phone, and it instantly went to her secretary. “Hello, Susan,” she greeted, as warmly as she could. “I need you to send a certain boy to my office. There appears to be a discrepancy with his record, and I’d like to have it resolved before noon.”
Barbara said the name, and couldn’t help but bite her lip.
“Jesse Cartier.”
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