Not So Nice Guy
Page 30
I’m annoyed by how quickly we arrive at our final destination. I would have appreciated a bit more dillydallying, maybe a pit stop near the vending machines, a quick lap around the band hall, but Ian insists we have to be early.
“What’s that?” Ian asks as we wait outside Principal Pruitt’s office. He’s pointing to the hefty bag at my feet. Guess he didn’t notice when I grabbed it from underneath my desk back in my classroom.
“Oh, just baked goods.”
His eyes widen in wonder. “Why do you have so many? That bag is overflowing.”
“I couldn’t remember what Principal Pruitt’s favorite dessert was, so I made them all.”
“All?”
“Brownies, cookies, blondies, lemon bars, and mini pecan pies. When I bribe, I bribe hard.”
“Sam, we’re going in there for a meeting, not a bake sale.”
Oh, Ian. For such a handsome fellow, he can be such a dimwit. When we walk into Principal Pruitt’s office a few minutes later, I unveil my creations and our boss starts to salivate. His sausage fingers wriggle with impatience.
“I guess dessert was on your mind, heh-heh. How did you know I can’t resist lemon bars?” he says with a full mouth. Crumbs spill out onto his desk, but he doesn’t care because he’s so overcome with love for my treats.
I turn to Ian with a smug smile and silently say, See? Maybe before this he was going to fire us, but now we’ll be spared thanks to that flaky graham cracker crust he’s licking off his fingers. You can thank me later.
We sit patiently as Principal Pruitt munches his way through a second lemon bar, gives an enthusiastic shoulder-shimmying “Mm mm mm”, wipes his hands, and leans back, assessing us.
“I really hate to have to call you two in here for something so silly. Really, that picture was pretty funny, especially considering what came after it—well, except for…”
He doesn’t have to say it; we all know he’s talking about Pauline.
“Yeah,” he continues, frowning. “I had to put her on leave today. Not something we can tolerate here at Oak Hill.”
Oh god, he’s already fired one person? Maybe he got a taste for it and he’s ready to keep dropping the axe. Thinking quickly, I reach down and unzip the small cooler at my feet. “Cold milk to wash down those lemon bars?”
His eyes widen. “Is that two percent?”
“Good eye. Here, you can take the whole thing.”
He gulps it down, and when he speaks again, he has a frothy milk mustache decorating his upper lip. At least if we’re about to be fired, I’ll have this memory to take with me to the unemployment office.
“Anyway, listen—with everything else going on, I wouldn’t have called you in here at all, but the head of the PTA, Mrs. O’Doyle, caught wind of the whole ordeal. She got a few of the parents worked up and the only way I could get them to calm down was if I promised to see that the proper steps were taken. That’s why you two are here today.”
“What does she seem to think is the problem? We’re both adults,” Ian points out.
“That you are, but unfortunately”—he leans down to retrieve something from his desk drawer…two somethings, in fact—“the employee contract you signed during your orientation stated that neither of you could participate in a relationship with another staff member. You both agreed to the stipulation.”
He pushes the contracts our way and I’m dismayed to find he’s taken the liberty of tabbing the section in question with a neon yellow sticky note. My John Hancock is right there. Dried black ink glistens under fluorescent light. I don’t even think I read through the contract properly before I signed it. I was too focused on Ian. We’d only just met, and I was still 95% convinced he was a mirage.
Still, who cares about a signature? There’s a little tool I like to call Wite-Out—I even have some back in my classroom. Ian can run (he’s faster) and retrieve it in no time.
I smile extra sweet and lean forward. “Yes. Okay, I see that we signed, but can’t this all be solved now if we disclose that we’re dating and practice discretion?”
I wink-wink like c’mon, help a sister out. We’re buds, friends—lemon bar buddies.
His face hardens.
“Was that email your version of discretion?” he asks.
Oh okay. It’s going to be like this. We’re playing hardball.
I sit back in my chair and fold my hands over my lap dutifully, wishing I could go back in time and retrieve that wink.
“What about Karen and Neal?” Ian asks. “They both teach here and they’re in a relationship.”
“They’re married. It’s different.”
We all sit silent for a few seconds then Principal Pruitt sighs and pushes one last piece of paper in our direction. It’s a copy of the email Mrs. O’Doyle has been circulating among the other PTA parents. My embarrassing photo is enlarged up top, and below, it reads, IS THIS WHO WE WANT TEACHING OUR CHILDREN?
She acts like I’m holding a penis next to my mouth instead of an innocent can of whipped cream.
“I feel like I’m partly to blame for this,” Principal Pruitt says with a heavy frown. “She might have left well enough alone, but she also got word that you two ran the sex-ed course the other week, and if you remember that one student who had opted out but ended up catching the first half…that was her son.” Ian and I both audibly groan. “Exactly. Not only did we accidentally—and I quote—‘offend the goodliness and godliness of her little boy’, she also thinks you two were in there teaching sex tips from the Kamasutra or something.”
Her email’s not good. This lady is out for blood. She demands our jobs, declaring that she won’t stop until we resign, move, change our names.
I glance over at Ian, expecting to see him sitting there looking as hopeless as I do, but his eyes are narrowed on me. He looks determined—excited, even. He’s got ideas churning under that thick head of hair. I sigh in relief. He’s going to get us out of this mess. I know it.
After the meeting, Ian doesn’t ask, just drives me straight to Sonic. He pulls up to the drive-through, orders a Blast with extra Oreos for me and a plain vanilla milkshake for himself. We sit in the car and eat in silence. I’m trying to give him space to finish formulating his master plan. Meanwhile, my brain goes wild with possibilities: we kidnap Mrs. O’Doyle, or we hack into her computer and send a follow-up email full of praise about Ian and me, or we break into Principal Pruitt’s office after hours and insert devious loopholes into the contracts. I think I have a black ski mask in my apartment somewhere. It’d be useful for all three options.
I slurp down my ice cream, and by the time my blood sugar hovers in the pre-diabetic range, I’m not even a little bit worried.
I turn to Ian and smile.
“So what’s the plan? I mean, I’ll be honest, during that meeting, I was convinced one of us would have to move to another school or something, or we’d have to go back to being just friends and pen some bizarre-o apology letter to the entire school.” I sigh dramatically. “Ugh, please tell me we aren’t going to have to do that.”
He swallows the last of his milkshake, sets the cup down, and turns to me. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and smiles. He looks thoughtful and adorable. His brown hair is mussed up and the setting sun is shining in, brightening his blue eyes.
“There’s only one option, and I thought you would have figured it out by now.”
I breathe in deeply and nod with a steady seriousness. “Yes.” I exhale. “We kidnap her.”
“What? No,” he says, nonchalantly reaching out the window and pushing the order button again.
“Yes, may I take your order,” crackles the speaker.
“Small order of onion rings for the road, please.”
When he’s done paying, I demand answers.
“If we’re not going to kidnap that crazy lady, what’s your big plan?”
“Why do you think I ordered those rings, Hot Lips?” He smirks. “We’re going to have to get married.”
17
“What’s that?” Ian asks as we wait outside Principal Pruitt’s office. He’s pointing to the hefty bag at my feet. Guess he didn’t notice when I grabbed it from underneath my desk back in my classroom.
“Oh, just baked goods.”
His eyes widen in wonder. “Why do you have so many? That bag is overflowing.”
“I couldn’t remember what Principal Pruitt’s favorite dessert was, so I made them all.”
“All?”
“Brownies, cookies, blondies, lemon bars, and mini pecan pies. When I bribe, I bribe hard.”
“Sam, we’re going in there for a meeting, not a bake sale.”
Oh, Ian. For such a handsome fellow, he can be such a dimwit. When we walk into Principal Pruitt’s office a few minutes later, I unveil my creations and our boss starts to salivate. His sausage fingers wriggle with impatience.
“I guess dessert was on your mind, heh-heh. How did you know I can’t resist lemon bars?” he says with a full mouth. Crumbs spill out onto his desk, but he doesn’t care because he’s so overcome with love for my treats.
I turn to Ian with a smug smile and silently say, See? Maybe before this he was going to fire us, but now we’ll be spared thanks to that flaky graham cracker crust he’s licking off his fingers. You can thank me later.
We sit patiently as Principal Pruitt munches his way through a second lemon bar, gives an enthusiastic shoulder-shimmying “Mm mm mm”, wipes his hands, and leans back, assessing us.
“I really hate to have to call you two in here for something so silly. Really, that picture was pretty funny, especially considering what came after it—well, except for…”
He doesn’t have to say it; we all know he’s talking about Pauline.
“Yeah,” he continues, frowning. “I had to put her on leave today. Not something we can tolerate here at Oak Hill.”
Oh god, he’s already fired one person? Maybe he got a taste for it and he’s ready to keep dropping the axe. Thinking quickly, I reach down and unzip the small cooler at my feet. “Cold milk to wash down those lemon bars?”
His eyes widen. “Is that two percent?”
“Good eye. Here, you can take the whole thing.”
He gulps it down, and when he speaks again, he has a frothy milk mustache decorating his upper lip. At least if we’re about to be fired, I’ll have this memory to take with me to the unemployment office.
“Anyway, listen—with everything else going on, I wouldn’t have called you in here at all, but the head of the PTA, Mrs. O’Doyle, caught wind of the whole ordeal. She got a few of the parents worked up and the only way I could get them to calm down was if I promised to see that the proper steps were taken. That’s why you two are here today.”
“What does she seem to think is the problem? We’re both adults,” Ian points out.
“That you are, but unfortunately”—he leans down to retrieve something from his desk drawer…two somethings, in fact—“the employee contract you signed during your orientation stated that neither of you could participate in a relationship with another staff member. You both agreed to the stipulation.”
He pushes the contracts our way and I’m dismayed to find he’s taken the liberty of tabbing the section in question with a neon yellow sticky note. My John Hancock is right there. Dried black ink glistens under fluorescent light. I don’t even think I read through the contract properly before I signed it. I was too focused on Ian. We’d only just met, and I was still 95% convinced he was a mirage.
Still, who cares about a signature? There’s a little tool I like to call Wite-Out—I even have some back in my classroom. Ian can run (he’s faster) and retrieve it in no time.
I smile extra sweet and lean forward. “Yes. Okay, I see that we signed, but can’t this all be solved now if we disclose that we’re dating and practice discretion?”
I wink-wink like c’mon, help a sister out. We’re buds, friends—lemon bar buddies.
His face hardens.
“Was that email your version of discretion?” he asks.
Oh okay. It’s going to be like this. We’re playing hardball.
I sit back in my chair and fold my hands over my lap dutifully, wishing I could go back in time and retrieve that wink.
“What about Karen and Neal?” Ian asks. “They both teach here and they’re in a relationship.”
“They’re married. It’s different.”
We all sit silent for a few seconds then Principal Pruitt sighs and pushes one last piece of paper in our direction. It’s a copy of the email Mrs. O’Doyle has been circulating among the other PTA parents. My embarrassing photo is enlarged up top, and below, it reads, IS THIS WHO WE WANT TEACHING OUR CHILDREN?
She acts like I’m holding a penis next to my mouth instead of an innocent can of whipped cream.
“I feel like I’m partly to blame for this,” Principal Pruitt says with a heavy frown. “She might have left well enough alone, but she also got word that you two ran the sex-ed course the other week, and if you remember that one student who had opted out but ended up catching the first half…that was her son.” Ian and I both audibly groan. “Exactly. Not only did we accidentally—and I quote—‘offend the goodliness and godliness of her little boy’, she also thinks you two were in there teaching sex tips from the Kamasutra or something.”
Her email’s not good. This lady is out for blood. She demands our jobs, declaring that she won’t stop until we resign, move, change our names.
I glance over at Ian, expecting to see him sitting there looking as hopeless as I do, but his eyes are narrowed on me. He looks determined—excited, even. He’s got ideas churning under that thick head of hair. I sigh in relief. He’s going to get us out of this mess. I know it.
After the meeting, Ian doesn’t ask, just drives me straight to Sonic. He pulls up to the drive-through, orders a Blast with extra Oreos for me and a plain vanilla milkshake for himself. We sit in the car and eat in silence. I’m trying to give him space to finish formulating his master plan. Meanwhile, my brain goes wild with possibilities: we kidnap Mrs. O’Doyle, or we hack into her computer and send a follow-up email full of praise about Ian and me, or we break into Principal Pruitt’s office after hours and insert devious loopholes into the contracts. I think I have a black ski mask in my apartment somewhere. It’d be useful for all three options.
I slurp down my ice cream, and by the time my blood sugar hovers in the pre-diabetic range, I’m not even a little bit worried.
I turn to Ian and smile.
“So what’s the plan? I mean, I’ll be honest, during that meeting, I was convinced one of us would have to move to another school or something, or we’d have to go back to being just friends and pen some bizarre-o apology letter to the entire school.” I sigh dramatically. “Ugh, please tell me we aren’t going to have to do that.”
He swallows the last of his milkshake, sets the cup down, and turns to me. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and smiles. He looks thoughtful and adorable. His brown hair is mussed up and the setting sun is shining in, brightening his blue eyes.
“There’s only one option, and I thought you would have figured it out by now.”
I breathe in deeply and nod with a steady seriousness. “Yes.” I exhale. “We kidnap her.”
“What? No,” he says, nonchalantly reaching out the window and pushing the order button again.
“Yes, may I take your order,” crackles the speaker.
“Small order of onion rings for the road, please.”
When he’s done paying, I demand answers.
“If we’re not going to kidnap that crazy lady, what’s your big plan?”
“Why do you think I ordered those rings, Hot Lips?” He smirks. “We’re going to have to get married.”
17
