Not So Nice Guy
Page 7
Just Ian is the biggest understatement of the century and Ashley knows it. He looks like a Hollywood actor trying to portray a normal teacher, and he’s not even doing that great of a job. Her gaze cuts to me and she frowns, deeply confused about how a man as handsome as him could have a modifier like “just” before his name.
“Do you know him?”
“Yeah. He and I are good friends.” Best friends.
“Oh, okay.” Her smile slowly spreads even wider, and it makes my stomach hurt. “Is he single?”
NO. No. Nah. Nope.
I look down at the table and force the truth out. “Yes.”
A record screeches to a halt as all eyes whip over to me. Forks pause midway to mouths. Gazes widen. Birds turn their heads to look and smack into buildings.
A chair grinds beside mine and I glance over my shoulder to find the Freshman Four staring in my direction. They’re the popular posse all grown up—the teachers who run the cheerleading and drill team programs at Oak Hill. They also have never met a Botox needle they didn’t like.
Their leader, Bianca, leans her eyelash extensions closer and hisses, “Wait, I thought you and Ian have been dating for like…ever?”
I turn in his direction, worried he can hear this conversation. Thankfully, the PE teacher has engaged him in some kind of discussion over near the microwave. She’s the only woman I’ve ever seen who could challenge him in the height department.
“Yeah. What are you talking about saying he’s single?” her minion, Gretchen, chimes in. “You’ve been dating for years!”
“What?” I shake my head adamantly. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow. “No we haven’t.”
“Are you serious?”
“We all just thought—”
Clearly, there’s been a misconception about us. Because we’re friends and we spend so much time together, everyone naturally assumes we’re an item. I am horrified to think this rumor has circled back to Ian. What if he thinks I perpetuated it?
“No, no, Ian and I are just friends.”
Gaping mouths shift into curling pleased grins. My words are a waving checkered flag. Game on.
Ian joins us a few minutes later and I want Ashley to disappear so we can talk in private. I need to tell him what just happened and make sure he knows the truth. I did not ever once tell people we were dating. I have no idea how the rumor got started.
Ashley introduces herself and her hair shines like sunlight. “I’ll be here for a few months. I’m subbing for Mrs. Baker while she’s on maternity leave.”
“Cool. Nice to meet you. Sam, what kind of trade package can I put together for that Hershey’s? I really need it today.”
“What? Oh.” I nudge the crinkly wrapper to his side of the table. “You can have it.”
“Really? I’m willing to part with these Cheez-Its—your favorite.”
I’ve lost my appetite and I can’t look at him, instead I shake my head and focus my attention on my spaghetti noodles. “Thanks, but I’m not that hungry. Just take it.”
“Where are you from, Ian?” Ashley asks with dialed-up enthusiasm.
“Here. Sam, why are you being weird?”
I laugh an octave too high, like ha-ha-ha what in the world are you talking about? I know I’ll have to meet his eyes so I can maintain plausible deniability. My gaze pings from my spaghetti, to Ashley, to the ceiling, to Ian, then back to my spaghetti. There. Nothing’s wrong.
“A hometown boy, that’s cool!” Ashley replies. “I grew up about an hour away in a small town called Frisco.”
“You’re hardly touching your food,” Ian points out to me.
I inhale a mouthful of spaghetti to prove him wrong. I chew and chew, but the food stays lodged in my mouth. I’m forced to wash it down with a dramatic amount of Ian’s water.
Ashley continues on, oblivious to the fact that no one’s paying her any attention. “Yeah, Frisco is okay, but Oak Hill is so much nicer. Maybe you can show me around sometime. So what do you teach?”
“Chemistry.”
Her hand hits his arm. “No way! That was my favorite subject in college.”
I want to ask her to name a single element from the periodic table. One. Also, I want to stick my fork in the back of her wandering hand.
A shadow suddenly falls over our table and I glance up to see the Freshman Four looming over us like vampires. They’re smiling at Ian, fangs out, ready to suck.
“Ian! Hey!” Bianca says like they’re old friends who talk all the time. “We were wondering—when’s your next soccer game?”
He frowns, deeply confused by the question. “Next Thursday.”
Bianca claps. “No way! That’s perfect. We don’t have cheer or dance practice that day.”
“We’ll be in the stands! Look for us!” Gretchen says a little too enthusiastically.
Bianca elbows her out of the way and smiles.
“Soccer? Are you a coach?” Ashley asks.
Bianca’s gaze slices to her. “And you are?”
“Oh, um, I’m Ashley, Mrs. Baker’s new sub.”
“Since when do we let subs into the lounge? Anyway, Ian, let us know if the team needs any snacks. We can bring those little orange slices and Gatorade!”
“I’ll make homemade granola bites!” Gretchen volunteers.
“Stop being desperate, Gretchen,” Bianca hisses.
The rest of lunch is a complete shitshow. Ian barely has time to eat his food as he’s inundated from all sides by single white females. I always thought the idea of a guy needing to shoo women away with a stick was hyperbole, but Ian looks like he could use a broom right about now. I feel bad for him, but I feel worse for me. Before this lunch, Ian’s popularity was on a low simmer. Women still clambered for him, but they kept it at normal, restrained levels. I realize now it’s because they assumed he was off the market, and my stupidity might as well have just pasted a for sale sign over his right dimple.
What the hell have I done?
4
I A N
Every year the Oak Hill choir does a fundraiser in the two weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. For $5, they’ll deliver a single red rose to a student of your choice. $10 and they’ll deliver a rose and a candy bar. For $20, your unsuspecting crush gets all that plus a teddy bear, and for $50, they will assemble the jazz choir to serenade the person of your choosing smack dab in the middle of the school day.
It’s ridiculously disruptive.
Teachers aren’t supposed to get involved, for obvious reasons.
Still, Sam and I have abused the system for the last three years.
The first year, I had them sing “I’m a Barbie Girl” to her during her first period. She got me back with “I Like Big Butts”.
Last year, we mixed it up. She had them perform an original poem she’d written, mostly to amuse my chem students. It featured lines like Don’t be so Boron, Mr. Fletcher, or one day you’ll find all your students Argon.
For the kids, it’s fun and probably a little cringey, but also a bit confusing.
“Why are you and Ms. Abrams sending valentines to one another?”
Who cares. It’s the best $50 I spend all year.
Because of our knack for torturing one another, the choir kids know we’re easy targets. This year, I’ve already had a handful of them hit me up for a donation. I keep sending them away. I haven’t thought of the perfect song yet even though Valentine’s Day is only a week away.
During fourth period, another boy in an OHHS Choir t-shirt knocks on my door. He’s carrying two teddy bears and five roses.
“Another delivery, Mr. Fletcher!”
My students cheer.
“How many girlfriends do you have?” one bold teenager asks, sounding impressed.
I remind the class they only have five minutes left for their pop quiz. There are audible groans and then pencils start flying across paper.
The choir student gets the idea and tiptoes into my class to deposit my gifts discreetly. I brace for the worst, but fortunately, they’re not all for me—only half. I add the flowers to a coffee cup on my desk and the bears get tossed in the pile by my bag. To an unsuspecting passerby, it looks like I have a fetish for plush.
“Do you know him?”
“Yeah. He and I are good friends.” Best friends.
“Oh, okay.” Her smile slowly spreads even wider, and it makes my stomach hurt. “Is he single?”
NO. No. Nah. Nope.
I look down at the table and force the truth out. “Yes.”
A record screeches to a halt as all eyes whip over to me. Forks pause midway to mouths. Gazes widen. Birds turn their heads to look and smack into buildings.
A chair grinds beside mine and I glance over my shoulder to find the Freshman Four staring in my direction. They’re the popular posse all grown up—the teachers who run the cheerleading and drill team programs at Oak Hill. They also have never met a Botox needle they didn’t like.
Their leader, Bianca, leans her eyelash extensions closer and hisses, “Wait, I thought you and Ian have been dating for like…ever?”
I turn in his direction, worried he can hear this conversation. Thankfully, the PE teacher has engaged him in some kind of discussion over near the microwave. She’s the only woman I’ve ever seen who could challenge him in the height department.
“Yeah. What are you talking about saying he’s single?” her minion, Gretchen, chimes in. “You’ve been dating for years!”
“What?” I shake my head adamantly. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow. “No we haven’t.”
“Are you serious?”
“We all just thought—”
Clearly, there’s been a misconception about us. Because we’re friends and we spend so much time together, everyone naturally assumes we’re an item. I am horrified to think this rumor has circled back to Ian. What if he thinks I perpetuated it?
“No, no, Ian and I are just friends.”
Gaping mouths shift into curling pleased grins. My words are a waving checkered flag. Game on.
Ian joins us a few minutes later and I want Ashley to disappear so we can talk in private. I need to tell him what just happened and make sure he knows the truth. I did not ever once tell people we were dating. I have no idea how the rumor got started.
Ashley introduces herself and her hair shines like sunlight. “I’ll be here for a few months. I’m subbing for Mrs. Baker while she’s on maternity leave.”
“Cool. Nice to meet you. Sam, what kind of trade package can I put together for that Hershey’s? I really need it today.”
“What? Oh.” I nudge the crinkly wrapper to his side of the table. “You can have it.”
“Really? I’m willing to part with these Cheez-Its—your favorite.”
I’ve lost my appetite and I can’t look at him, instead I shake my head and focus my attention on my spaghetti noodles. “Thanks, but I’m not that hungry. Just take it.”
“Where are you from, Ian?” Ashley asks with dialed-up enthusiasm.
“Here. Sam, why are you being weird?”
I laugh an octave too high, like ha-ha-ha what in the world are you talking about? I know I’ll have to meet his eyes so I can maintain plausible deniability. My gaze pings from my spaghetti, to Ashley, to the ceiling, to Ian, then back to my spaghetti. There. Nothing’s wrong.
“A hometown boy, that’s cool!” Ashley replies. “I grew up about an hour away in a small town called Frisco.”
“You’re hardly touching your food,” Ian points out to me.
I inhale a mouthful of spaghetti to prove him wrong. I chew and chew, but the food stays lodged in my mouth. I’m forced to wash it down with a dramatic amount of Ian’s water.
Ashley continues on, oblivious to the fact that no one’s paying her any attention. “Yeah, Frisco is okay, but Oak Hill is so much nicer. Maybe you can show me around sometime. So what do you teach?”
“Chemistry.”
Her hand hits his arm. “No way! That was my favorite subject in college.”
I want to ask her to name a single element from the periodic table. One. Also, I want to stick my fork in the back of her wandering hand.
A shadow suddenly falls over our table and I glance up to see the Freshman Four looming over us like vampires. They’re smiling at Ian, fangs out, ready to suck.
“Ian! Hey!” Bianca says like they’re old friends who talk all the time. “We were wondering—when’s your next soccer game?”
He frowns, deeply confused by the question. “Next Thursday.”
Bianca claps. “No way! That’s perfect. We don’t have cheer or dance practice that day.”
“We’ll be in the stands! Look for us!” Gretchen says a little too enthusiastically.
Bianca elbows her out of the way and smiles.
“Soccer? Are you a coach?” Ashley asks.
Bianca’s gaze slices to her. “And you are?”
“Oh, um, I’m Ashley, Mrs. Baker’s new sub.”
“Since when do we let subs into the lounge? Anyway, Ian, let us know if the team needs any snacks. We can bring those little orange slices and Gatorade!”
“I’ll make homemade granola bites!” Gretchen volunteers.
“Stop being desperate, Gretchen,” Bianca hisses.
The rest of lunch is a complete shitshow. Ian barely has time to eat his food as he’s inundated from all sides by single white females. I always thought the idea of a guy needing to shoo women away with a stick was hyperbole, but Ian looks like he could use a broom right about now. I feel bad for him, but I feel worse for me. Before this lunch, Ian’s popularity was on a low simmer. Women still clambered for him, but they kept it at normal, restrained levels. I realize now it’s because they assumed he was off the market, and my stupidity might as well have just pasted a for sale sign over his right dimple.
What the hell have I done?
4
I A N
Every year the Oak Hill choir does a fundraiser in the two weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. For $5, they’ll deliver a single red rose to a student of your choice. $10 and they’ll deliver a rose and a candy bar. For $20, your unsuspecting crush gets all that plus a teddy bear, and for $50, they will assemble the jazz choir to serenade the person of your choosing smack dab in the middle of the school day.
It’s ridiculously disruptive.
Teachers aren’t supposed to get involved, for obvious reasons.
Still, Sam and I have abused the system for the last three years.
The first year, I had them sing “I’m a Barbie Girl” to her during her first period. She got me back with “I Like Big Butts”.
Last year, we mixed it up. She had them perform an original poem she’d written, mostly to amuse my chem students. It featured lines like Don’t be so Boron, Mr. Fletcher, or one day you’ll find all your students Argon.
For the kids, it’s fun and probably a little cringey, but also a bit confusing.
“Why are you and Ms. Abrams sending valentines to one another?”
Who cares. It’s the best $50 I spend all year.
Because of our knack for torturing one another, the choir kids know we’re easy targets. This year, I’ve already had a handful of them hit me up for a donation. I keep sending them away. I haven’t thought of the perfect song yet even though Valentine’s Day is only a week away.
During fourth period, another boy in an OHHS Choir t-shirt knocks on my door. He’s carrying two teddy bears and five roses.
“Another delivery, Mr. Fletcher!”
My students cheer.
“How many girlfriends do you have?” one bold teenager asks, sounding impressed.
I remind the class they only have five minutes left for their pop quiz. There are audible groans and then pencils start flying across paper.
The choir student gets the idea and tiptoes into my class to deposit my gifts discreetly. I brace for the worst, but fortunately, they’re not all for me—only half. I add the flowers to a coffee cup on my desk and the bears get tossed in the pile by my bag. To an unsuspecting passerby, it looks like I have a fetish for plush.
