by R.S. Grey
“Oh, perfect. Let’s skip Tinder and just hook me up with her then.”
“She’s 68.”
“First date at Luby’s? Senior discount?”
She shoves my phone back against my chest and shakes her head. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I don’t think you should do the dating app thing. It’ll be overwhelming for someone as pretty as you.”
“You use them,” I point out.
Her expression makes it clear she thinks I’m teasing her. I want to haul her up onto the copier and prove my point. Her ass would press against the glass, the bright light would scan past. I’d laminate the copies and hang them up in my shower.
“It’s different,” she says as she sighs, almost sounding sad.
“How?”
“I’m not everyone’s type. Your face is deemed universally good-looking.”
I sidestep her compliment.
“Did Sergio ever respond to you the other day?”
She scowls up at me. “Yeah, he told me we wouldn’t work out even after I tried to clear up the mess you made. Why are you smiling like that?”
“Oh, I’m just thinking of what I’m going to eat for lunch.”
After school and on weekends, I’m usually with Sam. We spend 99% of our time together. This seems odd to my parents and our other friends (the one or two that have stuck around), but it happened gradually. Weekly dinners became biweekly dinners, and so on. At this point, we’re codependent. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal for one—oh wait, yes I can: it was that time I bought myself Jimmy John’s on the way to Sam’s apartment a few months back.
“Shit, I should have brought you something,” I said right as she opened the door and glanced down.
“No, it’s fine. I have plenty of food here to eat.”
She joined me on the couch a few minutes later carrying a plate that contained the following: one carrot, a moldy piece of cheese, and half a slice of expired lunch meat. It was turkey, from the looks of the sad pale color.
“How’s your warm sub?” she asked, reaching for the carrot.
Obviously, I tore my sandwich down the middle and gave her half. Lesson learned.
We usually have a lot of grading to do on school nights: essays and edits for her, chemistry exams and lab reports for me. Tonight, though, I’ve talked her into going to the gym with me. She hates it so much. In the car on the way there, she works her way through an entire monologue about how it’s commendable that I care so much about my physical health and wellbeing, but she thinks it’s more important to focus on the mental and emotional health benefits of a sedentary lifestyle.
“Why do you think there’s a whole genre of clothing called athleisure? I’m not alone.”
I push her into the gym and we start to head our separate ways. We’ve tried to work out together, but it’s too distracting. I’m actually here for a purpose, while Sam just wants to talk and sip on a drink from the smoothie counter. She also likes to wear tight workout tops and yoga pants, and maybe I find that a little more distracting than the conversation. She steps back and sends me an over-the-top wave. “If I don’t meet you back here in an hour it’s because I’m hiding in a corner somewhere crying! Have fun!”
A beefy gym rat hears her as he walks by and offers up a greasy smile. “Are you new? I can take you through a few machines if you want. My name’s Kevin. I work here.”
Her eyes go wide and she looks petrified.
“Oh, no thank you, Kevin,” she says firmly and quickly before turning and breaking out in a run-walk in the opposite direction.
Kevin looks to me for an explanation, but all he gets is a scowl.
Tonight, Sam’s opted for a workout class lead by a spunky pink-haired teacher. For an hour, I work out on the machines while stealing glances of her inside the studio near the back of the gym. Glass windows stretch from floor to ceiling. There are a dozen other women dancing and kicking and pushing-up alongside her, but Sam’s near the back and it’s easy to watch her through the glass as she tries desperately to keep up. She’s really not so bad. What she lacks in physical strength, she makes up for in enthusiasm, her red ponytail swinging wildly.
I finish up on a machine and drag a towel across my forehead as the teacher takes them through some cool-down stretches. Sam steps her legs out into a V and bends forward at the hips so she can reach down and touch the ground. Her butt is displayed in the tightest pair of black stretchy pants she owns. I need to stuff my towel into my mouth and bite down.
The bicep machine closest to that back studio has had a steady line for the last hour. The machine is rusted and old and yet everyone wants a turn. The guy there now isn’t even pretending to use it. There are no weights hooked up, and he’s just tugging at the limp rope while he gawks at Sam. I want to wring his neck.
Sam’s upside-down head falls between her legs as she stretches, and when she sees me looking, she grins and waves enthusiastically.
“Hi!” she mouths.
The guys hovering near the bicep machine jerk their gaze in my direction, and when Sam turns away, I wave them off. They scatter like cockroaches.
I’m in the middle of leg presses when she finds me later. I have headphones in so I don’t notice her until she’s right there, a few inches away, sweaty and breathing hard.
I reach up and cut my music, but I continue with my set. She watches, eyes studying my legs like they’re wild animals, about to pounce.
“How was the class?” I ask, dragging my gaze slowly down her flushed cheeks and neck, down the front of her tight black top. She looks up and I jerk my gaze away before she catches me.
“Really fun, actually. Did you watch?”
Was I that obvious?
“I think I might’ve seen some in passing.”
She tries to hide a little smile. “So you saw when we did the cardio dance stuff in the beginning?”
Yes.
“No, must have missed it.”
“Ugh! It was my favorite part! Anyway, I’ll definitely go back. I hate doing the machines out here, but that class didn’t even feel like a workout. I mean, obviously it was…” She pinches her sweaty tank top for proof.
I pause my leg presses and reach for my water.
“See, feel. I think I got stronger just in that one class.”
She’s holding up her flexed bicep. I don’t think it’s a good idea to touch her right now.
“Ian! Appreciate my gains!”
“I can appreciate them from here, macho man.”
She reaches out for my hand and places it on her bicep. She feels delicate and warm. My hand closes around her upper arm, not tightly, but it feels strange…intimate. I watch her smile waver and I nearly say, You asked for this, remember?
She jerks away and rubs her arm like she’s trying to expel cooties from her skin. “Swole, right?”
I humor her. “You better watch where you aim those things.”
“How much longer do you have?”
“Just one set of these.”
“Okay, continue. I’ll just stand here and watch.”
I arch a brow, but true to her word, she watches quietly as I finish out my last round of leg presses. In fact, she’s staring so intently I have to grind my molars together to keep from pulling her down on top of me.
Apparently, I’m not the only one struggling. She fans her face and I aim a mocking smile in her direction.
“What?” she groans. “I’m overheated from the class!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
She doesn’t buy it. She throws her hands in the air and turns away, offering me another glimpse of the rear view that’s been killing me all night.
“I’m waiting in the car!”
“You’ll need the keys. They’re over here in my bag.”
She doesn’t turn around as she sends a wave over her shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside then!”
Like hell.
I cut my last set short and take off after her.
/>
On the way home, she’s silent until we pass her favorite ice cream shop and she insists we go in. While we’re sampling flavors she turns to me, blue eyes staring straight at my chest. “Just to be clear, I wasn’t checking you out back there. I was considering the possibility of moonlighting as a personal trainer, now that I’m a gym rat.”
“Noted.”
“And sure, I was sort of impressed by you, that’s all. You’re an impressive guy.”
Still, her gaze won’t meet mine.
“Sam?” I say, trying to ease whatever weirdness is happening between us. “You’re impressive too—so impressive. Really, how’d you get so impressively…impressive?”
She pushes me playfully, turns to the kid on duty, and tells him I’ll be buying her three scoops of chocolate-chocolate-chip ice cream with rainbow sprinkles on top.
“In a waffle cone—oh, and with a cherry on top!” she adds, turning to face me. “Impressed?”
The next morning, I wait for Sam outside the main conference room. We have a staff meeting with the rest of the upperclassmen teachers. Today, Sam’s wearing a delicate yellow dress. I flick the lapel.
“Very prim and proper.”
“Uh huh, save it. You hate this dress. The last time I wore it, you told me I looked like I was headed to my first day of kindergarten.”
I did tell her that, but it was because it looked so good I needed to keep her from wearing it again, for my sake, and that of all of Oak Hill’s male staff members.
These staff meetings are brutal, and Sam and I usually end up passing the time by playing tic-tac-toe underneath the table. We’ve only been caught twice. Now we’re more careful.
Today, George, our vice principal, is running the show, and it takes him 15 minutes to get everyone to quiet down. He started teaching the same time we did, but he turned administrative when a well-paying position opened up. Deep down we all know he’s just one of us, though. As a result, he’s never really commanded the respect he deserves.
Like right now, he’s trying to get volunteers to run a sex-ed course. They usually do this sort of thing in middle school, but apparently the district thinks our upperclassmen are in need of a refresher course.
No one offers their assistance, and then Sam’s arm shoots into the air.
“Why doesn’t Ian run it? He can present the abstinence portion based on firsthand experience—or lack thereof.”
Everyone laughs and I smile good-naturedly. One of the PE teachers catches my eye, positions her hand like a telephone against her ear, and mouths, Call me.
George frowns. “Very funny, Ms. Abrams. Still, I’ll take the recommendation. Ian, you’ll head the course. Would anyone else like to volunteer to help him?”
Every hand attached to a single female teacher hits the air except Sam’s. The PE teacher puts both her hands up and shakes them wildly.
George grins. “Well, what a wonderful sight to see so many eager beavers this morning!”
“Literally,” Sam whispers to me.
I smile.
“Tell you what, I’ll just leave it up to Ian to decide who he’d like to accompany him during the course.”
There are audible groans as everyone realizes at once who I will drag down with me.
Sam tells me my Cheshire grin is unbecoming.
3
S A M
At the end of the staff meeting, Ian and I stand at the same time. Today, in my flats, I make it to the middle of his bicep. I’m made aware of this when we try to move around one another and my nose smashes against muscle. It hurts as much as if I’d just walked into a brick wall.
“Ow, Jesus.”
He reaches out to stabilize me and I stare intently at his chest before wriggling free.
No. There can be no touching, not if I’m expected to maintain the status quo: friends, with a capital F.
“Ms. Abrams, may I have a word with you?” George asks from the front of the conference room.
I don’t know who he’s kidding with all the formality. I’ve seen him shotgun light beer after an intramural kickball game.
Ian mumbles something about my yellow dress I don’t quite hear.
“What was that?”
He shakes his head. “Want me to wait with you?”
I smile. “Think I’m in big trouble for the abstinence comment?”
“Either that or we’re busted for tic-tac-toe again. You shouldn’t have thrust your fist in the air after that last game.”
“I’d just won the third and final sudden-death showdown. What was I supposed to do? Win with grace and aplomb?”
“Aplomb? You humanities teachers use the most bizarre words.”
“Ms. Abrams?” George calls impatiently.
Ian tugs on the end of my loose braid. “Good luck. Don’t hesitate to bribe him with a case of Natty Light.”
I feign a look of grave concern. “Okay, and I’ll tell him tic-tac-toe was your idea.”
Turns out, I’m not in trouble. George has a task for me.
“As you’ve probably heard, Jen is going on maternity leave earlier than expected, so her long-term sub is arriving tomorrow morning. I’d like you to show her around, y’know, give her the lay of the land.”
I hiss. “Oh man, wish I could, but I’m on carpool duty.”
His time as an administrator has clearly taught him some tricks, because he’s already prepared for my go-to excuse. “I’ve already got someone covering for you this week and next.”
I grin, flipping through my rolodex of get-out-of-jail-free cards. “Ooh, I could use that time to prepare for the sex-ed thing—”
“Prepare? All the material comes from the state. You’re just there to put a condom on a banana and answer questions.”
My brain trips up, and I run out of options. You win this round, George.
“Fine. What’s the sub’s name?”
“Ashley. I’ll tell her to meet you at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”
True to his word, the long-term sub is waiting for me outside the main office bright and early. She’s overdressed in a black blazer with matching pencil skirt. She looks like she’s going to represent me in a Supreme Court case. Looks wise, I can’t help but notice that she’d fit right in among Ian’s old girlfriends. Blonde and tall, there’s no way she’s a day over twenty-three.
Apparently, she thinks the same about me, only younger.
“Excuse me, student, do you know where I can find Ms. Abrams?”
When I tell her who I am, she blushes at her blunder.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re so…petite.”
I straighten my shoulders. For the record, I’m not that little.
“Right, well, I’m supposed to give you a tour, so let’s get going.”
The high school is massive, and it’s easy to get lost. I decide to keep it simple and avoid places like the band hall and theater room. She’ll never remember it all, so I just stick to what’s important.
“That’s the server room. The campus IT guy sells weed out of it, I’ve heard.” We turn down another hallway. “And here’s the art room. You’ll notice that the art supply room smells a lot like the server room,” I hint with a wink and a nudge.
Ashley’s childlike eyes widen, and I think maybe I should have taken her to the band hall instead. She looks horrified.
“Err, just kidding. Come on, I’ll take you to your classroom.”
Our tour is over pretty quick, but it’s not so easy to shake Ashley. At lunch, she’s at my classroom door waiting for me. She’s ditched her black jacket and looks marginally less stuffy. In her hand is a monogrammed Vera Bradley lunchbox.
“Mind if I eat lunch with you?”
I know Ian will groan when he walks in and finds her at our table. He hates new additions, thinks they mess with the sacred casualness of the lounge. Still, I shrug and smile. “Sure thing.”
When we arrive, I take my seat and start lining up my food. Today’s provisions include leftover spag
hetti, green beans, and half a Hershey’s bar. We’ll fight over the chocolate for sure.
Ashley’s hand hits my arm and she pinches hard. “Oh my god, who is that guy?”
I don’t know who she’s referring to because my focus is on her fingers. She’s about to tear my skin off. I extricate my arm and sooth the ache. All the while, Ashley straightens her shoulders and fluffs her hair. Her finger brushes against her front teeth to confirm nothing is lodged there and then she smiles extra wide. I follow her gaze and find Ian over in line for the microwave. It looks like he brought leftover spaghetti too. That’s what happens when we eat the same dinners most nights.
“Is he a teacher?” she asks, all breathy and bothered. She sounds like she’s having a hot flash.
“That’s just Ian.”
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.