Not So Nice Guy(11)
“Chemistry.”
Her hand hits his arm. “No way! That was my favorite subject in college.”
I want to ask her to name a single element from the periodic table. One. Also, I want to stick my fork in the back of her wandering hand.
A shadow suddenly falls over our table and I glance up to see the Freshman Four looming over us like vampires. They’re smiling at Ian, fangs out, ready to suck.
“Ian! Hey!” Bianca says like they’re old friends who talk all the time. “We were wondering—when’s your next soccer game?”
He frowns, deeply confused by the question. “Next Thursday.”
Bianca claps. “No way! That’s perfect. We don’t have cheer or dance practice that day.”
“We’ll be in the stands! Look for us!” Gretchen says a little too enthusiastically.
Bianca elbows her out of the way and smiles.
“Soccer? Are you a coach?” Ashley asks.
Bianca’s gaze slices to her. “And you are?”
“Oh, um, I’m Ashley, Mrs. Baker’s new sub.”
“Since when do we let subs into the lounge? Anyway, Ian, let us know if the team needs any snacks. We can bring those little orange slices and Gatorade!”
“I’ll make homemade granola bites!” Gretchen volunteers.
“Stop being desperate, Gretchen,” Bianca hisses.
The rest of lunch is a complete shitshow. Ian barely has time to eat his food as he’s inundated from all sides by single white females. I always thought the idea of a guy needing to shoo women away with a stick was hyperbole, but Ian looks like he could use a broom right about now. I feel bad for him, but I feel worse for me. Before this lunch, Ian’s popularity was on a low simmer. Women still clambered for him, but they kept it at normal, restrained levels. I realize now it’s because they assumed he was off the market, and my stupidity might as well have just pasted a for sale sign over his right dimple.
What the hell have I done?
4
I A N
Every year the Oak Hill choir does a fundraiser in the two weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. For $5, they’ll deliver a single red rose to a student of your choice. $10 and they’ll deliver a rose and a candy bar. For $20, your unsuspecting crush gets all that plus a teddy bear, and for $50, they will assemble the jazz choir to serenade the person of your choosing smack dab in the middle of the school day.
It’s ridiculously disruptive.
Teachers aren’t supposed to get involved, for obvious reasons.
Still, Sam and I have abused the system for the last three years.
The first year, I had them sing “I’m a Barbie Girl” to her during her first period. She got me back with “I Like Big Butts”.
Last year, we mixed it up. She had them perform an original poem she’d written, mostly to amuse my chem students. It featured lines like Don’t be so Boron, Mr. Fletcher, or one day you’ll find all your students Argon.
For the kids, it’s fun and probably a little cringey, but also a bit confusing.
“Why are you and Ms. Abrams sending valentines to one another?”
Who cares. It’s the best $50 I spend all year.
Because of our knack for torturing one another, the choir kids know we’re easy targets. This year, I’ve already had a handful of them hit me up for a donation. I keep sending them away. I haven’t thought of the perfect song yet even though Valentine’s Day is only a week away.
During fourth period, another boy in an OHHS Choir t-shirt knocks on my door. He’s carrying two teddy bears and five roses.
“Another delivery, Mr. Fletcher!”
My students cheer.
“How many girlfriends do you have?” one bold teenager asks, sounding impressed.
I remind the class they only have five minutes left for their pop quiz. There are audible groans and then pencils start flying across paper.
The choir student gets the idea and tiptoes into my class to deposit my gifts discreetly. I brace for the worst, but fortunately, they’re not all for me—only half. I add the flowers to a coffee cup on my desk and the bears get tossed in the pile by my bag. To an unsuspecting passerby, it looks like I have a fetish for plush.
My collection has been growing out of control over the last few days. At first, I assumed Sam was pranking me. It makes sense; the quartet isn’t all that funny anymore. I thought this year she had changed tactics, but then I started reading the accompanying notes.
The gifts aren’t from Sam, they’re from other teachers around the school. Today’s lot is from Bianca and Gretchen. Bianca has even taken the time to kiss her card with red lipstick so when I open her note, it accidentally smears across my thumb. My face is a mask of disgust as I wipe my finger on the edge of my seat. Get it off, get it off.
The choir student turns to leave but I grab hold of the back of his shirt. He stumbles and I right him.
“How much longer is this fundraiser going on?” I ask, desperate.
“Another week,” he replies, whispering out of respect for my students taking their quiz. “Hopefully we’ll meet our goal and then we can all fly to Disney for nationals and compete on the main stage!”
He says “main stage” with stars in his eyes. He’s mistaken my desperation for curiosity.