by R.S. Grey
If I were an English nerd instead of a science nerd, I’d realize this tableau is an apt metaphor for our current situation. Sam has to explain it to me: “Welcome to rock bottom.”
16
S A M
Ian drives me home from my parents’ house, walks me inside my apartment, waits for me to shower, and then tucks me in bed.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, brushing my hair away from my forehead like I’m four years old and sick, and it feels glorious. I’ll have life-altering events happen more often if it means he’s going to dote on me like this.
Of course I want him to stay, but if he stays, I’m going to have sex with him, and I don’t think we should have sex for the first time on the same day as THE INCIDENT. Knowing me, I’d probably butt-dial the local news in the middle of climax.
“Better not,” I say, tilting my head up and offering him my mouth so he can lean down and kiss me good night. He keeps it short and chaste and I miss him the second he leaves my apartment.
I think I’m going to cave and call him, demand he come right back here this instant, but then I remember the email thread. He talked about it again on the way home. My nose scrunches just thinking about it, but I know he has my best interests at heart. If people were making fun of me, he would steal my phone and chuck it in a dumpster. If he wants me to read it, I probably should. So, I settle in under my covers and tap the email app on my phone, bracing myself.
Holy cow.
There are 68 new emails since the last one I read. There hasn’t been an email thread this popular since that time Mrs. Hill offered up two free tickets to Hamilton. The first 25 emails were desperate and pleading, then the next 25 were booing and hissing when she clarified (stupid autocorrect) the tickets were actually for Oak Hill High’s production of Hamlet.
I start from the beginning and breeze past the emails I already read—the ones that make my stomach twist with anxiety—and pause when I come across Ian’s email address.
FletcherIan@OakHillHigh: This is a photo of me from middle school, dressed up as Yoda with full orthodontic headgear. My mom told me I’d be able to laugh at this picture in fifteen years, but honestly, it still hurts.
FletcherIan@OakHillHigh: Oh, whoops, sorry everyone. I meant to just send that photo to Sam…
A tiny, microscopic smile tugs at my lips. He was trying to deflect the attention from me with a ridiculous photo of himself. I immediately save it to my phone and then continue scrolling. Mrs. Orin sends the next email with a photo of herself after she let her granddaughter do her makeup. There is eyeliner etched down her cheeks and red lipstick smeared across her chin. Her caption is the same as Ian’s: “Oh, sorry. Meant to just send that to Sam.”
Next, the art teacher shares a picture of herself after she got her wisdom teeth pulled. She’s a puffy chipmunk. “Oops! This was supposed to go to Sam.”
After that, Ian’s idea catches on like wildfire. Teacher after teacher submits their own most horrifying photo, and by the end, I’m genuinely moved by everyone’s kindness. I actually laugh when the oldest teacher in school, Mr. Kelso, sends a sepia-toned photo of himself in hot pants. His caption reads: “Who am I kidding? I totally meant to send this to everyone. Look at those legs! This was back in the free love 60s!”
It’s all in good fun until one of the part-time administrators ends up taking the gesture of solidarity too far, sending a photo of her doing shots out of a dancer’s belly button in Cabo. There is an eye-catching nip slip and the timestamp on the photo is from only two weeks ago. Her caption: “OMG so embarrassing meant to send this to my AA sponsor!!”
All of a sudden everyone is sad.
But me, actually—I’m grateful. All the other photos were nice and made me feel like I wasn’t quite so alone, but that nipple really took the heat away from me. I couldn’t have planted a better diversion if I’d hired a fancy PR team to come in and handle it for me.
As I walk into school the next morning, I expect some sort of fanfare. A few snide comments, crass jokes, something. Fortunately, gossip about Pauline has stolen the spotlight. No one’s talking about my photo because all anyone cares about is the fact that PAULINE SENT A PICTURE OF HER BOOB TO THE ENTIRE SCHOOL AND SHE NEEDS OUR SUPPORT IN HER BATTLE WITH ALCOHOLISM. It’s a big deal. The IT department has to lock down our email server and go in to wipe everything from the thread, including my original whipped cream photo. I’m sure it’s still out there circulating somewhere. Just like with Ian’s headgear picture, someone certainly screenshotted it before it was too late, but what do I care? I have a picture of Ian with headgear!
I’m going to make it into a quilt and put it on my bed.
Even though Pauline did a solid by diverting the spotlight away from me, Ian and I still have to meet with Principal Pruitt after school. At precisely 3:05 PM, the bell rings, my students filter out of my class in barely contained sprints, and then I look up to find Ian waiting for me at my door. He looks edible in a white button-down with navy slacks. For a moment, I wish Principal Pruitt were gay or that I wasn’t so against using my feminine wiles on a married man. We could get ourselves out of this situation lickety-split.
“Ready?” he asks with a small, dimpled smile.
“No. I think you should go ahead, fight on both of our behalves. I’ll go get your car and wait for you in the parking lot in case we need to make a quick getaway.”
“Charming. Let’s go.”
I feel like a dead man walking as we head to the main office.
“Although I feel bad for her,” Ian says, “I’m glad Pauline sent that picture. No one cares about us anymore.”
I nod in agreement. “It’s too bad IT couldn’t wipe the whole incident from Principal Pruitt’s mind too.” I reach out to grab his arm. “Wait, should we ask if they can do that?”
He lays his hand over mine and tugs me forward. “Let’s just see how this meeting goes first, shall we?”
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
S A M
I sit perfectly frozen, almost as if he just turned me to stone. Day turns to night turns to day turns to night and I’m still staring at him, unblinking. Years pass. My hair turns gray and my hands are wrinkled and feeble when I finally realize he’s kidding.
I bark out a laugh and bat his arm. “Oh my god, Ian, I thought you were serious there for a second!”
So much silence fills his car, the windshield splinters down the middle, trying to alleviate some of the pressure. My smile fades slowly.
He’s not kidding.
He tips his head to the side and studies me.
Slow as molasses, his mouth spreads into a smile and my stomach drops.
“You’re not serious!” I insist. “C’mon, we need to focus. What are we actually going to do? Hack Mrs. O’Doyle into little pieces and ship her to different corners of the United States?”
“We can do that, too, but first let’s get married. They might send us to the same prison.”
He’s not dropping this joke. It’s getting old.
I roll my eyes. “Right, okay. We’ll get married. Ha. Mar-ried,” I sing-song. “Glad that’s settled.”
His smile fades and he turns to glance out the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I offended him.
I frown and reach over, taking his bicep in my palm. I squeeze it twice, trying to get him to meet my eyes. He won’t.
“Are you kidding?”
His brows furrow deeper. He looks so angry and so beautiful. “Nope.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
That answer hits me like a ton of bricks.
If he’s not kidding, then he’s on crack.
IAN IS ON CRACK! Somebody warn the anti-drug froyo guy.
My soothing, gentle voice is gone. In its place is a shrill, exasperated shout. “MARRIED?! Ian, YOU’RE CRAZY! I just gave in to dating you like a day ago, and now you want to propose marriage?!”
This makes no sense. Between the two of us, Ian is the logical one. He’s though
tful about everything. I don’t think he’s been spontaneous even once in his life. He plans vacations two years in advance. He keeps the owner’s manual for every appliance he’s ever purchased, down to his can opener. Last year, when he helped me put together my new IKEA dresser, I ripped open every package, flinging parts across my living room. Meanwhile, Ian read the entire instruction booklet cover to cover (in English and in Swedish).
I open my mouth to argue some more, to throw reason at him, but I’m too dumbstruck to form words. I bob my mouth open and closed like a fish.
“Realistically, what would change?” he says, still staring ahead. “We already share a meal service subscription and a Netflix account. In fact, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to change my password.”
Well, he does have me there…
NO!
“We can’t get married!” I cry, tossing my hands in the air dramatically. “We haven’t even had sex!”
“Yeah, well, we can fix that,” he says, unveiling a hint of a smirk. “These windows are pretty tinted.”
Damn this delicious Sonic treat. Their ice cream is so thick I can’t even dump it out on his head.
He finally turns to face me and I’m hit with cobalt and powder blue and something else: LOVE. He reaches out for my hands and cradles them over the center console. This can’t be happening. I’m shaking. This feels like a real proposal…except the car next to ours is blaring rap music so loudly their bass is shaking our windows. Behind Ian, there’s a rusted dumpster and some tasteful graffiti telling me to $uk d!k. There’s not a single rose petal or lit candle in sight.
“Honestly though, is that your only reason against it?” he asks, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel like I could start sobbing uncontrollably at any second.
“I don’t know.” I shake my head and try to pull my hands back, but he doesn’t let go. “I haven’t had time to have a real freak-out.”