His Royal Highness(89)

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.