Dad Spies On Sexy Neighbor Girl
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Dad Spies On Sexy Neighbor Girl
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It was dusk when my flight finally landed in Tampa, Florida. I stepped out of the bustling airport, and for the first time in months I felt heat. The warm air of the Sunshine State took me by surprise, sending ironic shivers down my spine. The weather here was nothing like the icy northern cold of Seattle, where I come from.
I felt a feeling of joy I have never experienced, and I felt I could do anything I wanted. My new life here was already beginning quite smoothly, and with my new job waiting for me, I was beginning to feel the dawn of a new era.
It amazed me that I finally had a safe job. Before now, most of my jobs included a frying pan and a silly little hat. And, of course, that’s only when I did work. Most of the time, I was lounging off my unemployment with a bowl of cereal and watching TV in my mother’s house. After 3 solid years of doing this, my mother suddenly fell ill.
I have always loved my mother. Even in my adolescence, where you aren’t supposed to even acknowledge your mom, I was always by her side. It just seemed like she understood me better than anyone else in the world. If I was going through a rough time, she was always there.
Sadly, my siblings never really felt the same way. My dad walked out when I was 5, so I never really knew him very well. My sister, Janet, was 15 when this happened. According to the stories, they had the same relationship that I had with my mother. Janet didn’t like our mother because she blames her for father’s departure.
It wasn’t really mom’s fault. Father met somebody else who he simply loved more. But Janet was always bitter about it, and her and mom got into really cutthroat arguments over it. I believe she’s living in Wisconsin now, happily married, but sure as hell she won’t try to support mother in anyway. I don’t really keep tabs on her or my brother, Gene, anymore.
Gene was always the smart one in the family. I was a decent student, B’s and C’s, but Gene would always get A’s, and it seemed to just come naturally to him. It looked like he had a promising future until the tenth grade. Gene got involved with real scum after failing to pay a debt he owed them. They made him his bitch. All of a sudden, Gene was into drugs, stealing, and I think he’s in jail for murdering a different scumbag over some drug thing. He is obviously in no shape to support our mother, being in jail and all.
In college I majored in psychology, which is how I ended up becoming a school psychologist. Can you believe I had to extend my search all the way to Tampa? That’s ridiculous. They interviewed me on the telephone, a business practice I never heard of and a flawed one at that. And they accepted me. It wasn’t an extravagant school, however, and due to the surplus of crime, I‘m guessing they were desperate for anyone to come in and work. It was an elementary school/middle school building with a population of only about 200, with kids all through eighth grade. I actually already found a place, a nice little apartment not 2 miles from the school.
Granted, I would have to bike to the school until my first few paychecks, which I’ll save for a little junky car. I arrived at my apartment a few hours after getting into town. I got my key from the landlord, nice guy but perhaps a bit unstable, and entered the room. It was sad that I was in my mid thirties and this was the first place I owned on my own. The only reason I could afford it for a few months was the money my sister lent me. Just because she won’t help mother doesn’t mean she won’t help me. It was a bit dark and a bit empty.
Luckily, the last people who lived there were kind enough to leave their couch, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep on it until I disinfected the thing. And, perhaps even more lucky, there was a little kitchen with a working fridge, stove, and oven. The kitchen will only be used to cook the noodles I’ll be living on for the next few weeks. Despite the otherwise emptiness, I liked this place. It felt like… me. Like I was meant to live here. This place was specifically designed for me to live in.
I met the neighbor’s girl as soon as I stepped out of my apartment (saying “my apartment“ gives me joy even to this day). She was just sitting there playing with a few dolls, which were frankly a bit disturbing. The girl seemed normal to me, and I should know. I‘m a psychologist. At first glance I would’ve guessed she was about 7 or 8, and I later learned that she was indeed 7.
She had medium length blonde hair, falling straight down on her back, just slightly past the shoulders. She looked about 4 foot and 2 inches from where I was standing, and she was wearing pink overalls (which were adorable, to say the least) over a blue shirt. She had a pale little face spotted with freckles, and on her ears were two little earrings that I believed were clip-ons. She spoke to me first.
“Are you our new neighbor?” She asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
“I would suppose so,” I answered, trying to sound as polite as possible.
“What’s your name?” She asked, after a brief pause.
“Um, Robin. Robin Baker. What’s your name?”
“Ummm…” She sounded generally confused.
“Can’t remember your own name? That’s interesting.” I said this trying to convey a feeling of humor and good heartedness.
“Yes, I can! I’m Cynthia! Cynthia Tyler!” She said this with sheer frustration.
“That’s a pretty name. Nice to meet you Cynthia.”
“Those are some nice dolls there. Do they have names?:
“Um, this one is named Gretchen, her name is Jacqueline,” she paused for a moment, “and her name is Carol, I call her Donna, and his name is… um … Jack. I hadn’t named this one yet, but I think I am gonna call it Robin. Like you.”
I laughed. “Wow, those are all good names! My mother’s actually named Donna.”
“Hmm,” she thought for a minute. “Do you like your mother?” She asked, the whole tone of her voice taking a swift turn from a perky to a macabre undertone.
“Of course, I do! I love my mother!” I was a bit taken aback by the question.
“Don’t say that. Of course you don’t.”
“I do! I really do!” She stood up. “I hate her!”
“She’s such a… such a… She’s a bitch!”
I was shocked at the language. “Where did you learn to speak like that?”
I felt like there was a serious problem here. I naturally switched to psychologist mode. “Now why would you say that about her?”
“Ever since my dad died, she’s been so mad. All she does is yell at me. I wish she would’ve died instead.”
Her dad died. This was definitely in my job description. Me to the rescue. “Now don’t say that. Your mother loves you just as much as your dad, I’m sure.”
“You don’t know my mom.” She said, with a tone so upset and a single tear rolling down her face. “I have to go inside now.”
Neither said goodbye to one another.
Fast forward to my first day at my new job as a psychologist. I hadn’t seen much of Cynthia since our meeting, but I knew she would be going to this school, and with the events of the conversation in mind, I knew I would be seeing her in my office (I got an office!). Let me be the first to say that this school was no Harvard. The walls were a peeling turquoise green, and the coffee stained tile floors were missing about a tile a row.
There was various debris all over the ground, and the walls had distinct stains of mustard, horse radish, marker, and blood. I feel bad for the principal. I met him first thing, before I did anything else in that school. He is a big fellow, who I learned wore the same flannel shirt and pants combo every day. He was not a man to wear a tie. I feel bad though because he obviously cares about the school and the students. “We are the forgotten school,” he has said time and time again.
While meant as a joke, there was a reality in this. This school gets granted almost no money, ever. All the other schools in the district do, but the government either really did forget us or they just didn’t care. I would honestly have to lean towards the latter. I do really admire Mr. Miley (the principal) though.
Although he works at a school turned to shit by vandals and unruly students, he’s always positive and he always gives a friendly “good morning” to everyone he passes, even the known troublemakers who he has problems with time and time again. On the first day, he showed me around the school, I met the different teachers, and then he showed me to my office.
It really took no time at all after I settled in my office for a student to come in for examination. It was a neat little place. The walls were painted with blue, and on the floor was a nice, big rug with various patterns and designs on it. On one side of the room was my desk, and on the other side was a comforter, which is where the kids sit during our interviews. Anyways, this first person to come in was a little 8 year old girl in the first grade, just like Cynthia.
I already felt bad for the girl when she walked in. She was not a film star beauty, and it looked as if there was not hope for her unless she went under the needle. She had curly red hair, with a face so freckled it looked like her natural face color. She was a chubby little thing, and her cheeks stuck out far enough to look like she was intentionally doing this. Her name was Gretchen.
The name Gretchen was oddly familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. She was in here for physically attacking another girl, which I thought was more the job that a principle or counselor should handle, not a psychologist. I interviewed her anyway. This was my one and only interaction with her, as she will be moving a week from that day.
“Hello,” I said in my most calming voice.
“Well I…” she began, but realizing what she had done, she quickly covered her mouth.
I laughed. “I almost had you there for a second, didn’t I?”
The girl flashed a little grin, but she still wouldn’t speak to me.
“Well, I got you smiling. That’s something.”
“Well, I normally give out prizes to the people that talk. You wouldn’t be interested in that though, would you?”
“Unless, maybe you would enjoy this Hershey bar I got in my desk…” I wanted that Hershey bar. But my job was more important.
“I’ll talk! Gimme!” She suddenly yelled.
“No, not yet. You gotta answer some questions first!”
She looked disappointed. “What kind of questions?”
“I just need to ask you a few questions about yourself, ok?”
She pondered this for a moment, until she finally said “Ok.”
“I got into a fight.” She answered almost immediately.
“I don‘t normally deal with people just because they‘ve gotten into a fight. Are you sure that’s the only reason?”
She looked confused. “What do you mean that’s not what you deal with?”
I stumbled around looking for an answer that won’t offend her. “I normally deal with… other things. Never mind that.” Smooth, Robin.
“I already saw Mrs. Irwin…” Uh oh. Mrs. Irwin was the school counselor. That most likely means she got stuck in here for something else.
“Ok. Ok. Let’s talk about your fight. Can you tell me about it?”
She waited before she answered. “She called me ugly,” she finally spit out.
I believed that was an appropriate answer. “That was an appropriate answer. Then what happened?”
“I attacked her with scissors,” she said with a certain playfulness that was really disturbing to me.
Although I was actually kind of offended, I let it slide. “Then what did you do?”
“I got her. Right in the back. She’s in the hospital now.”
“Who did you get into a fight with?”
Cynthia! The little girl I met! The poor devil was in the hospital because of a scissor wound to the back! That was the climax of the conversation. A few weeks later, Gretchen got shipped off to God knows where after some interviewing with someone who wasn’t me (I never told you, I’m not actually very good) and I never truly saw her again.
A boring two weeks went by. It wasn’t till the end of those two weeks where my first incident happened, the first in a long line of many. I arrived home from work after a tedious day of doing nothing and looking at YouTube videos. I walked in the door of my apartment building, and I immediately noticed that something was off. The building had a different… atmosphere. It was differently lighted and something was changed about the… sound. It was the kind of deathly quiet where you truly could hear a pin drop. “Hello?” I shouted, trying to make sure I wasn’t the only one here. There was no response. I proceeded cautiously up the stairs, and with each step I began to hear more and more. At first, all I could hear was the faint whisper of… something. Somebody, some creature, I couldn’t tell. As I continued, I began to hear that it was a little girl’s voice… singing. I couldn’t hear the words at first, but I could distinctly tell that the tune of the song was to “Ring Around the Rosy,” which was always creepy if you did it just right. I slowly began walking up more stairs. I started to begin to make out the words.
Gretchen…. School again…. Don’t like her…
The rest was inaudible. I ve
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