Not So Nice Guy(12)
I nudge my chin toward the leftover roses and bears in his arms. “Who are those for?”
He grins. “Abrams. We’re not supposed to take notice of this sort of thing, but you two have the highest number of admirers so far this year!”
“What? Who? How?”
His smile falls and I realize I’m gripping his shirt so hard, I stretched out the collar. I let go and smooth it out. I should probably stop touching him now.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
He’s nervous. His wistful tears have turned into fearful ones.
I lead him out of the classroom so our conversation isn’t overheard.
“So those gifts are for her?”
He nods slowly.
“Let me read her notes.”
His eyes are two round saucers as he clutches the gifts to his chest. “You can’t! I’m honor-bound to protect the sanctity and privacy of—”
I pry one of them out of his shaky grasp. The kid will need counseling after this encounter.
Roses are red.
Violets are frilly.
You’re the hottest teacher at Oak Hill.
Let’s Netflix and chill-i?
That scholarly piece of verse was penned by Logan, the defensive coordinator for the football team. I’m not too worried, because I know Sam well enough to be sure she won’t be wooed by an offer of sex and stewed meat.
“Hand me the next one.”
“Mr. Fletcher, please! Have you lost your moral compass?!”
He checks back and forth down the long hallway, nervous to be caught as my accomplice.
I rip it out of his hand. The next note is marginally better because it’s not masquerading as a poem.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Samantha!
Maybe you and I can grab coffee sometime if you’re up for it?
That one is from the photography teacher, Malcolm. He’s Sam’s type, in that he barely reaches my elbows.
“How many notes have already been delivered to her?”
“I-I don’t k-know,” he stammers. “I was only put on delivery duty this morning!”
Her collection is probably as full as mine.
Shit.
I know Sam has had her fair share of admirers at Oak Hill. She’s the perfect blend of sweet and sexy. She’s nice to everyone. She smiles and remembers birthdays. Her brand of humor is addictive, and it’s the combination of these qualities that puts her squarely on every male’s radar. For a long while now, there’s been a rumor going around that we’re dating, and I made a point to never confirm or deny it. It made my life a lot easier if people thought we were a couple. That all changed yesterday. I don’t know what she told Ashley during lunch, but since then, I’ve had three guys come to my classroom trying to glean information about Sam.
“What’s her favorite flower?”
“What’s her favorite color?”
“Is she into chocolate?”
What the fuck kind of question is that? Are there people walking around this planet who don’t like chocolate?
“How much do you have left for your personal fundraising goal?” I ask the kid while he moans about probably being kicked out of the Cupid Corps.
My proposition is understood immediately and he regains his composure so quickly, I’m convinced he has a future in Broadway.
“$250,” he states with an even, no-nonsense tone.
“That’s a lot of money to try to make the old-fashioned way. How good are you at keeping secrets?”
He shrugs, feigning boredom. He inspects his fingernails.
Good. He gets it.
“Every time Ms. Abrams gets something from an admirer, deliver it to me instead. Every delivery gets you $20.”
His brow arches. “I know you’re on a teacher’s salary, but I think you can do better than that.”
I wish it weren’t against the rules to smack students.
“$50.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”
I justify my actions by telling myself my monetary contribution is going to charity. Those pimple-faced kids will get to sing on the main stage because I can’t stand the idea of Sam having coffee with another man.
By the time my free period rolls around, I have four more bears for myself and five for Sam. I have the accompanying love notes stuffed in my desk drawer. I feel itchy about my deception, especially when she walks in and eyes the collection amassed behind my chair.
Her brows perk up. “Quite a few admirers you have there. I’ve only had one paltry rose delivered today.”
What the hell? How did the rose sneak through? Kids these days can’t be trusted for shit.
“Who was it from?” I ask, continuing to grade pop quizzes as if her answer doesn’t interest me.
“PE teacher.”
“Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yup. You’re not the only one she’s into.”
I smile, pleased.
“Gonna go for it? You never struck me as someone who might play for the other team.”
She picks up one of the bears and looks at it longingly. “You know what, Fletcher? I just might.”
That weekend, we have to attend a housewarming party at Principal Pruitt’s place. It’s not our idea of a good time. Sam meets me at my house beforehand and when I open the door to find her wearing a red dress, I decide I need a shot of Fireball. I pour one and Sam insists she needs one too. I hope we don’t keep going shot for shot, because she’s about half my bodyweight.