by R.S. Grey
IAN: It’s the new blend you bought last week. Are your students teaching you new words again?
SAM: I heard it during carpool duty yesterday. I’m not sure when to use it yet. Will report back.
“Good morning, Missus Abrams!” my first student sing-songs.
It’s Nicholas, the editor-in-chief for the Oak Hill Gazette. He’s the kind of kid who wears sweater vests to school. He takes my journalism class very seriously—even more seriously than he takes his crush on me, which is saying something.
I level him with a reproving look. “Nicholas, for the last time, it’s Miss Abrams. You know I’m not married.”
He grins extra wide and his braces twinkle in the light. He’s had them do the rubber band colors in alternating blue and black for school pride. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.” The kid is relentless. “And may I just say, the shade of your dress is very becoming. The red nearly matches your hair. With style like that, you’ll be a missus in no time.”
“No, you may not say that. Just sit down.”
Other students are starting to file into my class now. Nicholas takes his seat front and center, and I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible once I begin my lesson.
Ian and I have drastically different jobs at Oak Hill High.
He’s the AP Chem II teacher. He has a master’s degree and worked in industry after college. While in grad school, he helped develop a tongue strip that soothes burns from things like hot coffee and scalding pizza. Seems stupid—SNL even spoofed it—but it got a lot of interest in the science world, and his experience makes the students look up to him. He’s the cool teacher who rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and blows shit up in the name of science.
I’m just the journalism teacher and the staff coordinator for the Oak Hill Gazette, a weekly newspaper that is read by exactly five people: me, Ian, Nicholas, Nicholas’ mom, and our principal, Mr. Pruitt. Everyone assumes I fall into the “if you can’t do, teach” category, but I actually like my job. Teaching is fun, and I’m not cut out for the real world. Hard-hitting journalists don’t make very many friends. They jump into the action, push, prod, and expose important stories to the world. In college, my professors chastised me for only churning out “puff pieces”. I took it as a compliment. Who doesn’t like puffy things?
As it is, I’m proud of the Gazette and the students who help run it.
We start each week with an “all-staff meeting” as if we’re a real, functioning newspaper. Students pitch their ideas for proposed stories or fill me in on the progress of ongoing work. Most everyone takes it seriously except for the few kids who sought out journalism for an easy A—which, off the record, it is. Ian says I’m a pushover.
I’m talking to one of those students who falls into that second category now. I don’t think she’s turned in one assignment since we got back from Christmas break. “Phoebe, have you thought of a story for next week’s newspaper?”
“Oh, uhh…yeah.” She pops her gum. I want to steal it out of her mouth and stick it in her hair. “I think I’m going to ask around to see if the janitors are like, banging after hours or something.”
“You leave poor Mr. Franklin alone. C’mon, what else you got?”
“Okay, how’s this…School Lunches: Healthy or Unhealthy?”
Inwardly, I claw at my eyes. This type of exposé has been done so many times that our school’s head lunch lady and I have worked out a system. I keep students out of her kitchen, and in return, I get all the free tater tots I want.
“There’s no story there. The food isn’t healthy. We all know that. Something else.”
There are a few snickers. Phoebe’s cheeks glow red and her eyes narrow on me. She’s annoyed I’ve called her out in front of the entire class. “Okay, fine.” Her tone takes a sassy and cruel edge like only a teenage girl’s can. “How about I do something more salacious? Maybe a piece about illicit love between teachers?”
I’m so bored, I yawn. Rumors about Ian and me are old news. Everyone assumes that because we’re best friends, we must be dating. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I want to tell them, Yeah, I WISH, but I know for a fact I’m not Ian’s type. Here are four times this has been made clear to me:
-He once told me he’s never imagined himself with a redhead because his mom has reddish hair. HELLO, MOST GUYS HAVE MOMMY ISSUES! LET ME BE YOUR MOMMY ISSUE!
* * *
-He’s only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. They’re like female pterodactyls.
* * *
-We’re both massive LOTR fans and guess what—SAM IS THE BEST FRIEND, NOT THE LOVE INTEREST.
* * *
-Oh, and then of course there was that one time I forced myself to dress up as slutty Hermione (his weakness) for Halloween and tried to seduce him. He told me I looked more like frizzy-haired Hermione from the early years and less like post-pubescent Yule Ball Hermione. Cue quiet meltdown.
* * *
Ian and I became friends three and a half years ago, close to 1300 days if some loser out there was keeping count. Upon accepting teaching positions at Oak Hill, we were placed in the same orientation group. There were fifteen new hires in total, and Ian immediately caught my eye. I can remember the first time I saw him, recalling specific, random details more than anything: how big his hands looked holding our orientation handbook, how tan he was from summer vacation, the fact that he towered over the rest of us. My first thought was that he should have been incredibly intimidating what with the sharp blue eyes and short, slightly wavy brown hair, but he cut away the pretense when he aimed a smile at me as our eyes locked over the crowd of new teachers. It was so disarming and easygoing, but most importantly, it was seriously sexy. My heart sputtered in my chest. He was the boy next door who’d grown into a man with a chiseled jaw and solid arms.
He was wearing a black t-shirt I focused on as he made his way toward me through the crowd.
“You’re a Jake Bugg fan?” he asked. “Me too.”
I responded with a poorly executed, “Huh?”
His Crest smile widened a little farther and he pointed down at my shirt. Oh, right. I was wearing a Jake Bugg concert t-shirt. We struck up polite conversation about his last US tour, and I kept my drool in my mouth the entire time. When it was time to get started, he asked if I wanted to sit with him.
For a week straight we endured instructional videos about sexual harassment and workplace protocol together. While choppy VHS tapes from the 90s played on a rolled-in TV stand, Ian and I passed cheeky notes back and forth. Eventually, we just pushed our desks together and kept our voices barely above whispers as we got to know each other. We had so much to talk and joke about. Our words spilled out in rapid fire like we were scared the other person would go up in a POOF and disappear at any moment.
We didn’t pay attention through the entire orientation, but the joke was on us.
They gave us a test at the end of the week and we both failed. Apparently, it was an Oak Hill first. The test is ridiculously easy if you had paid the least bit of attention. We had to retake the orientation class for a second time and our friendship was cemented through the shared embarrassment and shame.
At the end of the second week, we celebrated our passing scores with drinks—Ian’s idea. I tried not to read too much into it. After all, we were both inviting plus ones.
That’s when I met the girl he was dating at the time: a gazelle-like dermatologist. At the bar, she regaled us all with interesting stories from the exam room.
“Yeah, people don’t realize how many different types of moles there are.”
She gave me unsolicited advice such as, “Due to your fair skin, you really ought to be seeing someone for a skin check twice a year.” She, by the way, didn’t have a visible pore or freckle on her. When we both stood to use the bathroom midway through the evening, my inadequacies multiplied. Our size difference was obscene. I could have fit in her pocket. To anyone watching, I looked like the pre-teen
she was babysitting for the night.
The only silver lining was that I had her check out the smattering of freckles on my shoulders while we were waiting for the stalls to open up. All clear.
At the time, I was dating someone too. Jerry was an investment banker I’d met through a friend of a friend. This outing was only our third date and I had no plans to continue seeing him, especially after he droned on and on about Greek life back at UPenn.
“Yeah, I was fraternity president my junior and senior year. HOO-RAH.”
Then he proceeded to holler his fraternity chant for the entire bar to hear. I think he thought it was funny, but I didn’t feel like I was in on the joke. I wanted to press a red button and exit through the roof. Ian’s eyes locked with mine over the table, and it felt like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He could tell how uncomfortable I was, how much the situation made me squirm. We both proceeded to fight back laughter. My face turned red with exertion. He had to bite his lip. In the end, I caved first and had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom again so I could crack up in private.
Ian’s date later told him she was concerned I had an overactive bladder.
* * *
By the time lunch rolls around at school, I’m ready for a break. My journalism classes are interspersed with on-level senior English classes. It’s not my favorite part of the job, but it’s the only way Principal Pruitt can justify keeping me on full-time. The students in these classes are already checked out, blaming their late homework and poor quiz scores on senioritis. I type the illness into Wed MD to prove it isn’t a real thing. They don’t look up from their cell phones long enough to listen.
Most of them wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup.
Last week, one kid thought I was a student and asked for my Snapchat.
Ian doesn’t have this problem. His classes are filled with overachieving nerds, the kids who’ve already been accepted to Ivy League schools but still feel the need to take 27 AP classes. Most of them intimidate me, but they treat Ian like he’s their Obi-Wan.
“Tell us more about the tongue strip, Mr. Fletcher!”
“Bill Nye’s got nothin’ on you, Mr. Fletcher!”
“I wrote about you in my college admissions essay, Mr. Fletcher. I had to pick the one person who’s inspired me to pursue learning the most!”
I sit down for lunch in the teachers’ lounge and puff out a breath of air, trying to move the few strands of hair from my forehead. They are evidence that I’ve tugged at my ponytail in distress too many times this morning.
Ian slides into his designated seat across from me and his positive energy clogs the air between us. It could also be his delicious body wash.
“Let’s see it,” he says.
“It’s not my best haul.”
I’ve got a cheese stick, pretzels, grapes, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
He has a multi-layer turkey sandwich with avocado and alfalfa sprouts, sliced watermelon, and almonds.
Without a word, we start the exchange. I take half his turkey sandwich. He takes half my PB&J. My cheese stick gets divided in two. I let him keep his nasty almonds—they aren’t even salted.
“Let me have some of your pretzels,” he says, reaching over.
I slam my hand down on the bag, effectively cracking most of them in half. Worth it.
“You know the rules.”
His dark brow arches. “I have chocolate chip cookies from one of my students back in my classroom. His mom baked them as a thank you for writing him a rec letter.”
In the blink of an eye, my threatening scowl gentles to a smile. My dimples pop for added effect. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I turn my bag of broken pretzels in his direction.
Even though the teachers’ lounge is packed, no one sits at our table. They know better. We’re not rude, it’s just hard for other people to keep up with us. Our conversations involve a lot of shorthand, code, and inside jokes.
“All-staff go well?”
I try for my best local news anchor tone. “Ian, is the food in our cafeteria healthy?”
He groans in commiseration.
“Yeah, then I had another student try to threaten to expose our relationship.”
“You mean the one that doesn’t exist?”
“Exactly.”
“All right. All right!” Mrs. Loring—the drama teacher—shouts near the fridge, cutting through the noise in the lounge. “Guess what today is…”
“The first of the month!” someone shouts enthusiastically. “Confiscation Station!”
For the next few seconds, there’s an overwhelming amount of applause and chatter. Confetti might as well be raining down from the ceiling.
“Okay. OKAY! Settle down,” Mrs. Loring shouts excitedly. “Does anyone have late entries?”
Ian stands and withdraws a crumpled note from his pocket.
People clap like he’s a hometown hero returning from war.
“Snatched it up during first period,” he brags.
A few female teachers act as if they’re going into cardiac arrest as they watch him cross the room. Mrs. Loring holds out her mason jar and he drops it inside.
He reclaims his seat across from me and suddenly, it’s time for The Reading.
On top of the fridge in the teachers’ lounge sits a medium-sized mason jar, into which we drop notes we’ve seized from students during class. The moon waxes and wanes and that jar fills up. At the first of every month, Mrs. Loring interrupts our lunch for a dramatic reading.
It might sound cruel, but don’t worry, we keep the notes anonymous. No one knows the source except the confiscator. As a result, Principal Pruitt doesn’t really care about our ritual. It’s good for our morale. Think of it as team bonding.
Mrs. Loring swirls her hand into the bowl like a kid searching for candy on Halloween, and then she comes up with a neatly folded note.
I turn to Ian, giddy. Our gazes lock. Last year I sat in while he did an experiment with his students. He burned different elements to show that they each produced a different color flame. Calcium burned orange, sodium burned yellow. The students were amazed, but then so was I, because when he burned copper, it produced a dark, vivid blue flame—the exact color of Ian’s eyes. I’ve kept a little bowl of shiny pennies on my nightstand ever since.
Mrs. Loring clears her throat and begins. She’s the best person for the job. There is no half-assing on her part. She’s a classically trained actor and when she reads the seized missives, she affects different accents and performs with a convincing earnestness. If I could, I’d bring my parents in for an evening showing.
“Student #1: Hey, did you see that [name redacted] sat by me during first period?”
“Student #2: YES! I think he likes you.”
“Student #1: We’re just friends. He’s not into me like that.”
“Student #2: C’MON! YOU JUST NEED TO GO FOR IT! Next time you hug, push your boobs up against him. That’s my secret weapon.”
A smattering of snorts interrupts the reading before Mrs. Loring restores order.
“Student #1: Let’s say that actually works—what if it changes everything? What if it messes up the friendship?”
“Student #2: Who cares? We’re about to graduate. You need to getchasome.”
“Student #1: Okay, sleezeball. I, for one, actually think it’s possible to have guy friends without banging them all.”
“Student #2: You’re delusional. It’s only a matter of time before best friends of opposite sex morph into LOVERS.”
The bolded final word, read with overblown dramatics, produces uproarious laughter. But, at our table, there is conspicuous silence. Crickets. The note parallels my life too closely. I fidget in my chair. Heat crawls up my spine. I’ve broken out in hives. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to Ian’s turkey sandwich. In fact, I wish I were—anaphylactic shock sounds wonderful compared to this. It feels like someone just transcribed the thoughts of the little angel an
d devil on my shoulders.
I hate this game.
I hate that Ian is trying to get me to meet his blue-flame gaze, probably trying to make some friendly joke.
When lunch is over, I’ll stand and make a break for it. I’ll decline his invitation to accompany him back to his classroom for cookies, and when we part ways, I’ll try hard to keep my tone and my gaze calm. He’ll never know anything was wrong.
I’ve had to tread lightly for the last 1300 days. Ian and I have a relationship that depends greatly on my ability to compartmentalize my feelings for him at the start of every school day and then slowly uncork the bottle at night. The pressure builds and builds all day.
It’s why my dreams are filthy.
It’s why I haven’t dated anyone else in ages.
This whole tightrope walk is getting harder and harder, but there’s no alternative. For 1300 days, I’ve been best friends with Ian Fletcher, and for 1300 days, I’ve convinced myself I’m not in love with him. I just really, really like pennies.
Chapter 2
Ian
Sam and I have been friends for a while now—so long, in fact, that I know she isn’t into me. Here are four times she’s made that perfectly clear:
-She once told me she feels nervous whenever we’re too close. “You’re the bull and I’m the china. You could probably sit on me and squash me to death.” The last guy she dated was short enough to fit into her jeans.
* * *
-She goes for boring business types, guys who spend their first month’s paycheck on an expensive frame for their MBA certificate.
* * *
-I once overheard her on the phone swearing to her mom that we were “never, ever, ever going to be more than friends.” It sounded like a Kidz Bop version of Taylor Swift.