Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

  “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.

  My collection has been growing out of control over the last few days. At first, I assumed Sam was pranking me. It makes sense; the quartet isn’t all that funny anymore. I thought this year she had changed tactics, but then I started reading the accompanying notes.

  The gifts aren’t from Sam, they’re from other teachers around the school. Today’s lot is from Bianca and Gretchen. Bianca has even taken the time to kiss her card with red lipstick so when I open her note, it accidentally smears across my thumb. My face is a mask of disgust as I wipe my finger on the edge of my seat. Get it off, get it off.

  The choir student turns to leave but I grab hold of the back of his shirt. He stumbles and I right him.

  “How much longer is this fundraiser going on?” I ask, desperate.

  “Another week,” he replies, whispering out of respect for my students taking their quiz. “Hopefully we’ll meet our goal and then we can all fly to Disney for nationals and compete on the main stage!”

  He says “main stage” with stars in his eyes. He’s mistaken my desperation for curiosity.

  I nudge my chin toward the leftover roses and bears in his arms. “Who are those for?”

  He grins. “Abrams. We’re not suppos
ed to take notice of this sort of thing, but you two have the highest number of admirers so far this year!”

  “What? Who? How?”

  His smile falls and I realize I’m gripping his shirt so hard, I stretched out the collar. I let go and smooth it out. I should probably stop touching him now.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  He’s nervous. His wistful tears have turned into fearful ones.

  I lead him out of the classroom so our conversation isn’t overheard.

  “So those gifts are for her?”

  He nods slowly.

  “Let me read her notes.”

  His eyes are two round saucers as he clutches the gifts to his chest. “You can’t! I’m honor-bound to protect the sanctity and privacy of—”

  I pry one of them out of his shaky grasp. The kid will need counseling after this encounter.

  Roses are red.

  Violets are frilly.

  You’re the hottest teacher at Oak Hill.

  Let’s Netflix and chill-i?

  That scholarly piece of verse was penned by Logan, the defensive coordinator for the football team. I’m not too worried, because I know Sam well enough to be sure she won’t be wooed by an offer of sex and stewed meat.

  “Hand me the next one.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, please! Have you lost your moral compass?!”

  He checks back and forth down the long hallway, nervous to be caught as my accomplice.

  I rip it out of his hand. The next note is marginally better because it’s not masquerading as a poem.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, Samantha!

  Maybe you and I can grab coffee sometime if you’re up for it?

  That one is from the photography teacher, Malcolm. He’s Sam’s type, in that he barely reaches my elbows.

  “How many notes have already been delivered to her?”

  “I-I don’t k-know,” he stammers. “I was only put on delivery duty this morning!”

  Her collection is probably as full as mine.

  Shit.

  I know Sam has had her fair share of admirers at Oak Hill. She’s the perfect blend of sweet and sexy. She’s nice to everyone. She smiles and remembers birthdays. Her brand of humor is addictive, and it’s the combination of these qualities that puts her squarely on every male’s radar. For a long while now, there’s been a rumor going around that we’re dating, and I made a point to never confirm or deny it. It made my life a lot easier if people thought we were a couple. That all changed yesterday. I don’t know what she told Ashley during lunch, but since then, I’ve had three guys come to my classroom trying to glean information about Sam.

  “What’s her favorite flower?”

  “What’s her favorite color?”

  “Is she into chocolate?”

  What the fuck kind of question is that? Are there people walking around this planet who don’t like chocolate?

  “How much do you have left for your personal fundraising goal?” I ask the kid while he moans about probably being kicked out of the Cupid Corps.

  My proposition is understood immediately and he regains his composure so quickly, I’m convinced he has a future in Broadway.

  “$250,” he states with an even, no-nonsense tone.

  “That’s a lot of money to try to make the old-fashioned way. How good are you at keeping secrets?”

  He shrugs, feigning boredom. He inspects his fingernails.

  Good. He gets it.

  “Every time Ms. Abrams gets something from an admirer, deliver it to me instead. Every delivery gets you $20.”

  His brow arches. “I know you’re on a teacher’s salary, but I think you can do better than that.”

  I wish it weren’t against the rules to smack students.

  “$50.”

  He reaches out to shake my hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”

  I justify my actions by telling myself my monetary contribution is going to charity. Those pimple-faced kids will get to sing on the main stage because I can’t stand the idea of Sam having coffee with another man.

  By the time my free period rolls around, I have four more bears for myself and five for Sam. I have the accompanying love notes stuffed in my desk drawer. I feel itchy about my deception, especially when she walks in and eyes the collection amassed behind my chair.

  Her brows perk up. “Quite a few admirers you have there. I’ve only had one paltry rose delivered today.”

  What the hell? How did the rose sneak through? Kids these days can’t be trusted for shit.

  “Who was it from?” I ask, continuing to grade pop quizzes as if her answer doesn’t interest me.

  “PE teacher.”

  “Mrs. Lawrence?”

  “Yup. You’re not the only one she’s into.”

  I smile, pleased.

  “Gonna go for it? You never struck me as someone who might play for the other team.”

  She picks up one of the bears and looks at it longingly. “You know what, Fletcher? I just might.”

  That weekend, we have to attend a housewarming party at Principal Pruitt’s place. It’s not our idea of a good time. Sam meets me at my house beforehand and when I open the door to find her wearing a red dress, I decide I need a shot of Fireball. I pour one and Sam insists she needs one too. I hope we don’t keep going shot for shot, because she’s about half my bodyweight.

  She’s extra smiley tonight, a real charmer. Everyone in our group at the party is hanging on her every word. She looks so hot in her dress. It’s not too low-cut, but even still, my mind fills in the gaps. I excuse myself to get us drinks and spot Principal Pruitt manning the grill. He’s wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt and a plastic lei around his neck. He tips his Corona in my direction, but under no circumstances will I be getting sucked into a conversation with him over the subtleties of different wood chips for grilling. I motion toward the drinks and he shoots back a thumbs-up.

  I’m surprised there’s alcohol at this party. It’s not a school-sanctioned event, but all the staff is here. I suppose it makes sense, though—with the Hawaiian shirt and free beer, Principal Pruitt is trying hard to be the cool dad of the administration.

  “Maaan, that superintendent is so stiff, but you can come to me about anything,” he said last week after a district meeting, clapping me on the shoulder. “I always want to have relaxed, open channels of communication between myself and my staff.”

  I should tell him saying phrases like “open channels of communication” makes him sound more like a suit and less like one of us.

  I’m popping the top off a beer when Logan, the football coach, steps into line behind me.

  “Hey man, cool shirt,” he says with a bro nod in my direction.

  I wasn’t going to come tonight, but Sam insisted we had to show our faces. While I napped on the sofa, she yanked clothes out of my closet for me. The simple blue shirt was her doing and doesn’t really warrant a compliment.

  “What’s the brand?” he asks. “Calvin?”

  “Who?”

  “Klein. Anyway, I saw you came with Samantha tonight. You two are just friends, right? That’s the word on the street.”

  I respond with exactly half a nod and half a shake of my head. The gesture gives me a believable story in case Sam asks me about this conversation later.

  “I don’t know how you do it, man. She’s so bangin’.”

  He says this while looking at her, and I have no choice but to follow his gaze. Her red dress is spaghetti-strapped and cuts off at the middle of her thighs. She brought a jacket with her but left it in my car since it’s unseasonably warm for early February. Maybe we should move north, somewhere with chunky scarves and puffy jackets you have to zip to your chin.

  Her red hair is piled high in a wavy ponytail and her cheeks have a rosy tinge to them. Her skin is glowing. She asked me in the car if she should add lipstick in her signature shade of red—side note: I now start drooling at the grocery store in front of the Red Delicious apples�
��and thankfully she listened when I responded with a gruff no.

  “Jeez, fine. No lipstick then. Why are you driving so fast? I thought you didn’t want to go to this thing.”

  I was driving fast because I had to keep my right leg straighter than usual to hide…well, she just looked great in the dress.

  Logan clears his throat, and it’s obvious he’s waiting for me to give some kind of response. He wants me to acknowledge her hotness, but I don’t.

  He doesn’t leave.

  I take a swig of my beer and he rubs the stubble on his jaw.

  “So yeah, anyway, could you help a brother out? What kind of food does she like, what kind of music does she listen to—y’know, insider information.”

  Abso-fucking-lutely.

  “She’s a big fan of that fermented shark stuff from Iceland, and her music tastes are pretty specific, mostly polka-pop and yodeling.”

  My tone is hushed like I’m in on a conspiracy.

  “Damn, freaky.” He grins. “What kind of guys is she into?”

  “Gentle. Meek. Don’t make her laugh. She wants a serious poet type.”

  His eyes light up. No doubt he’s considering the shitty stanza he penned earlier. It’s still stuffed in my desk drawer. I smell chili on his breath.

  “What else?” I ask.

  “If I ask her out, where should we go?”

  “The zoo. She adores seeing animals in cages.”

  She hates it. If she weren’t scared of the consequences, she’d figure out a way to set them all free.

  “Really? Isn’t that a little too kiddie for a date?”

  “Sam’s a kid at heart.”

  That’s my first piece of truth.

  He nods, taking in my information with a big smile. This guy really thinks he’s going to get Sam—my Sam.

  “All right, cool. Really appreciate it, man.”

  I’m on my way back to her when I get intercepted by another guy—the photography teacher, Malcolm. He really is small. He and Sam could fit together nicely on a twin-sized mattress, and there’d be room for a Husky at the very end.