by R.S. Grey
Emails continue flying in.
HillBianca@OakHillHigh: Not dating, huh?
MillerGretchen@OakHillHigh: Yeah, is this even allowed?
If I could afford to replace it, I’d fling my phone into the nearest volcano.
I’m crying now and students are looking at me like I’m weird. One of them speculates loudly about my Aunt Flo visiting. Another posits that I’m too old to still get my period. HOW OLD DO THEY THINK I AM?!
“Ms. Abrams, are you okay? Should we call the nurse?” one gentle, sweet student asks, and I stand, shake my head, and walk out of the classroom, mumbling at them to start reading chapter 11.
I make it to the women’s bathroom before the waterworks really start. I crash into a stall, tell the lingering students to scram, sit on a toilet, and cry. I cry and cry and resist the urge to bang my head against the stall door. This is a complete disaster. I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to have to move to another city. There’s no way I can show my face at another staff meeting. I’m completely mortified.
My phone vibrates in my hand and it’s Ian again. I press ignore and try to figure out what I need to do. Right now, I want to flee. I have to get out of this school.
Yes. YES. I’m leaving. It’s completely inappropriate to bail in the middle of the school day, but there’s a protocol in place in case an emergency arises. Valid emergencies include: you’re sick, or your kid is sick, or you accidentally sext all your coworkers and you need to get the hell out of Dodge.
I email our admin and ask him to pull in a sub ASAP, get Mrs. Orin to cover my first class, and then haul ass out of school. GOODBYE OAK HILL. HELLO AZERBAIJAN.
My first destination is a bridge about a mile away from school. I don’t think I’m suicidal, but this seems like a nice place to contemplate it. I park my bike, walk to the very center, and look down. I guess I thought the bridge was a lot taller—there’s no canyon underneath and there’s definitely no rushing river. It’s a trickling creek at best. If I jump, I’ll be lucky to twist an ankle. So much for a dramatic gesture. Instead, I keep riding to the froyo place down the street.
“Welcome to Fro-yo-yoyo!” the middle-aged pot-bellied man sing-songs as I walk in the door. His enthusiasm is worrying. The place is empty. It’s nine o’clock on a Monday morning.
“Do you allow samples?” I ask, dropping my purse on a table without pause and heading straight for the machines. If they don’t, I’ll just stick my mouth under one of the nozzles and hold on until they drag me out.
“Oh sure. Here ya go!”
He hands me a thimble-sized paper cup, and just as I begin to fill it my brain reminds me that dessert was what started this mess. My vision goes black as I replay the email over and over in my head. Sure, but what’s for dessert? Sure, but what’s for dessert?
“Lady, you’re getting it everywhere.”
When I snap back to the present, my hand is cold. I look down to see thick ropes of frozen yogurt piling onto the overfilled cup, my hand, and my shoes.
How long was I out?
After a quick apology and cleanup, I opt for the largest to-go tub they offer and start to fill it. When that’s done, I get another. I wonder how many mini M&Ms I’d have to force into my stomach before a doctor would determine my body is made up of more chocolate than water. I’d rather be remembered for that than be Email Girl for the rest of my life.
After I pay, I take my tub to a lonely table while Mr. Fro-yo-yo watches me like a hawk from behind the counter. He’s scared I’m going to cause another mess. As I eat in silence, Ian keeps calling me, but my phone is on silent and halfway across the table. There’s nothing he can say that will make this situation any better.
He did this is to us. Yes. Oooh, that feels good. Deflect. Put the blame on him. He decided we should explore this simmering need churning within us instead of leaving well enough alone. I was doing just fine! I had my dirty dreams and my fantasies and I could have used those to sustain me for another 1000 years.
This entire situation is exactly what I was afraid of. EVERYONE KNOWS. Everything is changing and I can’t go back to school without everyone staring and gossiping behind my back. The other teachers will make lewd jokes about whipped cream and I won’t have the strength to laugh it off—and oh god, the students are going to find out and we’ll never hear the end of it. This thing is so new—a baby bird of a relationship—there’s no way we’ll survive. This is the beginning of the end.
My phone lights up again and my gaze snaps to the screen. If it’s Ian, I’m going to have to answer and tell him to stop calling, but it’s not.
It’s an incoming email from Principal Pruitt.
I read it while holding my breath.
He wants to set up a meeting with Ian and me to discuss the “situation” and the “potential consequences”.
I slam my froyo tub on the table and dart to the bathroom, throwing up every sugary morsel I just stuffed down my throat. More tears spill out.
I can’t believe it. I’m in trouble. I don’t get in trouble! Back when I was in high school, I never served time in detention, and I never brought home a grade below an A-!
“Lady, are you doing what I think you’re doing in there?”
Froyo man pounds on the door, clearly sick of my shit.
“I’ll be—blughhh—I’ll be out in a minute!” I shout between heaves.
“Gah, and I just put the mop up.”
I stumble weakly to the bathroom door, yank it open, and sear him with my eyes. “My life is over.”
He doesn’t look very sympathetic. “Well can you take it somewhere else? And for the record, I’ve never seen someone so little eat so much frozen yogurt.”
If this were any other day, I’d take that as a compliment.
I have no clue where I’m going when I hop on my bike a few minutes later. I’m saddled with a metric ton of frozen yogurt. My breath smells like a wrestler’s perineum. My eyes are swollen and red. It’s only 9:35 AM. I have an entire day of despair ahead of me, and I need to pace myself. All I want to do is call Ian, but I can’t. Usually, if something like this were to happen to me, I’d run straight to him. He’d distract me with a horribly embarrassing story of his own, but that won’t work this time.
My friend Ian is gone.
I take off on my bike and my froyo slips out of my hand immediately after I make my first turn. My M&Ms scatter across the pavement.
Even the candy gods have forsaken me.
I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
15
I A N
I’ve called Sam 34 times. When I try for 35, my phone rolls its eyes and gives me an alert that just says, Dude, it’s not going to happen. This day has been one of the worst on record, especially in comparison to the days that came before it. Taking Sam to breakfast, making out in my car, flirting over email—life was going according to plan and then she had to accidentally send that photo to the entire school. Fuck. I wish it’d been me. Sam tries to act strong and resilient, but she’s made of marshmallow fluff. She won’t be able to laugh this off and move on. To her, it’s mortifying, and she proves that fact by bailing during first period. I went to her classroom to force her to talk to me and there was an elderly woman sitting at her desk. My first thought was, Wow, stress really does age you. Then I realized it was Mrs. Orin, standing in until Sam’s sub arrived.
I’m pissed at Sam for ignoring my phone calls and shutting me out. I want to help share the burden. She’s not the only one going through this.
But then, I get it. There’s a double standard. If she’d stayed, she would have been ridiculed and mocked mercilessly. Meanwhile, all day at school, male teachers and coaches bump into me in the hallway and offer congratulations. I sidestep countless high fives, fist bumps, and shoulder claps. The next guy who grunts or winks in my direction or tries to make a joke about Sam and whipped cream will have to get their shattered jaw wired shut.
At the end of soccer practice, I skip a shower an
d head straight for Sam’s apartment. I knock on her door for so long, her neighbor shouts at me to go away.
I ask him if he’s seen Sam and he says, “Never heard of him.”
Right—we’re each other’s only friends.
When I get back to my car, I try to call her again and it goes straight to voicemail. I have no choice but to drive around town to all the destinations where I could possibly find her. I check the bakery where she likes to get cupcakes, the other bakery where she likes to get cookies, the third bakery where she likes to get banana pudding. No one has seen her. I check out the ice cream shop, the popsicle shop, and then finally, the frozen yogurt shop.
The man there shakes his head angrily.
“Petite thing? Red hair? Yeah, she was here—almost had to kick her out. She was high on drugs, came in and made a mess of the place.”
What the fuck?
“Did you see where she went when she left?”
“Probably to get more horse tranquilizers.”
I go back outside and try to think like Sherlock Holmes. I look for clues in the parking lot, try to put myself in her shoes, but even in my head, they’re so small they don’t fit.
I’m fresh out of ideas and then I decide it can’t hurt to check her parents’ house, even though she’s not that close with them. They’re snobby and judgmental and I doubt she’d turn to them on a day like this, but sure enough, her bike is lying in their driveway.
I park and head for the front door, but my first few knocks go unanswered.
The downstairs is dark and the shades are drawn, but I hear voices inside. Someone’s definitely home. I jiggle the door handle and it opens. It was unlocked the whole time.
I step inside and call out, but no one answers. The voices I could hear outside are coming from a radio in the kitchen. Creepy.
Her parents clearly aren’t home, but I know Sam’s here. I’ve only been here a handful of times, but I remember her room is the first one on the right upstairs.
Sure enough, that’s where I find her, splayed out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
I pause in the doorway as a slow smile spreads. It feels good to have found her, to know she’s okay…sort of. I mean, she’s lying there wearing her dorky band uniform from high school. The stiff red and black material completely drowns her. On her head, she’s wearing the band hat with red plumage. It makes her look like a rooster. Her parents’ cat is toying with it like it’s a mouse.
Her eyes are red, her cheeks are flushed. I wonder how much she’s cried today.
I take a hesitant step inside and her gaze stays rooted above, like she’s gone comatose.
“Where are your parents?”
“On an Alaskan cruise.” Her voice is calm.
Makes sense.
“They leave NPR on while they’re gone?”
“They want to make sure burglars are informed on current world events while they’re burgling.”
My smile widens.
I want to kiss her, but I get that it’s not the right time.
Instead, I take a seat at her desk—or at least I try to. Her chair is very small and my hips barely clear the armrests. I manage eventually, and we sit in silence for a while as I take in her room. I’ve never had the chance to really inspect it before today. She was too shy to let me poke around the last time we were here, but now I get my fill of teenage Sam. Her walls are painted lime green. CDs line an entire bookshelf. There are band trophies and UIL journalism awards arranged on top of her dresser. Where other girls would have a framed picture of a boy band, she has a photograph of Jean-Luc Picard on her nightstand.
I love her.
She makes a sound like an animal caught in a bear trap and I jerk my gaze to meet hers. She tries to readjust her position on the bed, but the stiff material of her band uniform makes it hard for her to move.
“What’s with the getup?”
She looks down as if just now remembering she has it on. “Oh, yeah. I’m going back to a point in time before I sent that school-wide email. I think in the psychiatric world, they call this regression.”
I tip my head to the side and wait for her to meet my eyes, but she won’t.
“I totally get not wanting to be at school today, but just so you know, this is not a big deal. There’s no rule against sending funny pictures.”
When she speaks next, her words drip with sarcasm. “Oh, goodie. I’m so glad there’s no rule against public humiliation—but wait, if there’s no rule against it, why did we get called to the principal’s office?”
“You’re not ‘called to principal’s office’ as an adult. You’re summoned for a meeting.”
“Either way, we’re fucked.”
She picks her arms up and then lets them flop back down dramatically. Her flute cartwheels to the ground.
“He just wants to meet to talk about the email.”
“And tell us we’re fired.”
“He’ll probably just have us sign some kind of HR disclosure concerning the relationship.”
“Relationship? I’m 15-year-old Sam. I haven’t met you yet. Now, please leave so I can go back to watching TRL. MTV Cribs comes on after and I don’t want to miss it.”
All right, I’ll let her do this. She’s had a rough day.
I turn and start snooping around her desk. I want to look in every drawer, flip open every book. In her desk I find a purple Game Boy, a Blink 182 CD, and a handwritten list of her Myspace Top 8. Names are scratched out and new ones have been added below. I wonder where I would have fallen.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
She groans and moves off the bed, too curious. My ploy worked. She comes to stand right beside me, trying to close the drawer. I don’t let her. Instead, I pull out a worn paperback that has its cover torn off.
“What’s this?”
“NOTHING! IAN LET ME HAVE THAT!”
Her over-the-top reaction ensures I won’t give it back to her any time soon. I stiff-arm her so she can’t reach me and then I read the spine.
“Pirate’s Hidden Treasure.”
Oh, this is too good.
“Did teenage Sam like to read romance novels?”
“Ian, c’mon.”
“Let me just read one page.”
With a growl, she sneaks under my arm, wrenches the paperback out of my hand, and flings it across the room. It splats against the wall then crumples to the ground.
My jaw is slack. Sam’s breathing is hard. After a moment, she rights her hat and tugs down her uniform top. Then she admits coolly, “My mom wouldn’t let me read anything but Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I had to steal that book from my friend just to…y’know, see what it was all about.”
I act like I believe her. “Oh, so you only had it for curiosity’s sake? ’Cause that spine looked pretty worn.”
She groans. “Listen, yes, I read that book incessantly. Teenagers these days have Kindles and high-speed internet and I had PIRATE’S HIDDEN TREASURE, so leave me alone.”
I reach out for her hips and tug her onto my lap. Her ancient wooden desk chair groans in protest. At any moment, our combined weight will prove too much and we’ll go crashing to the ground.
Sam tries to wriggle free, but I have too good of a hold on her. When she finally gives in and settles on top of me, I reach up and yank off her hat. It falls to the ground and I smooth my thumb across the angry red line it left on her forehead. Her blue eyes catch mine and it’s the first time she’s had the courage to hold my gaze. I’ve never seen her look so dejected.
My brows tug together in a sad, angry furrow.
“I’m sorry about today.”
She closes her eyes and her bottom lip juts out. “No. God, I’m the one who messed up. I should be apologizing to you.”
Her eyes flick to the ceiling and I see tears collecting within. She tries so hard to keep them from falling as my hands tighten on her waist. My thumb barely slips under her band shirt, and her s
oft skin feels so good I dip my entire hand beneath the material then slide it around to cradle her back. It’s not much contact, but it makes my heart thud in my chest to have her this close.
I watch as a tear finally breaks free and then Sam leans forward and plops her head on my shoulder. Her knees tuck in and now she’s a ball in my lap. I pull her even closer. I think if my shirt were stretchier, she’d try to burrow underneath it and hide there forever.
“This is silly. I’m not just crying about what happened today. There’s been a lot of change lately, and I’m not equipped to handle it. It’s too much.”
I already know this. Sam’s a creature of habit, which means the last few days have been doubly hard on her.
“How can I help?”
Her head rocks back and forth on my shoulder as she shakes her head. “You can’t, but at least you smell good.”
I smile and remember something from earlier.
“The froyo guy said you were doing drugs or something.”
She chuckles softly but doesn’t lift her head. “No, I was throwing up. Don’t worry, I brushed my teeth when I got here.”
I frown. “Why’d you throw up?”
“I got Pruitt’s email, and it made me sick to think of what could happen to us.”
Damn.
“Well stop worrying. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m going to call in sick tomorrow.”
“Well I’m going to the meeting. I understand if you want to stay here and continue doing whatever this is.”
“Regressing, remember?”
“You’re stronger than this, Sam. The email isn’t that bad.”
She groans.
“In fact, when you get the chance, you should check the thread. You might be pleasantly surprised by what you find there.”
I feel a slight dip in the chair. Wood creaks and trembles. One second, Sam’s cuddled on my lap, and the next, we’re splayed out on the floor. One of the chair’s legs jams itself into my lower back and I wince in pain.
