Not So Nice Guy(14)

“Maybe she didn’t get it yet. Maybe the crumpled paper was something else.”

“I dunno, those little Cupids are pretty prompt with their deliveries.”

I’m hoping he’ll feel disheartened by the amount of competition and move on. Instead, he smiles like the nice guy he is. “You know what? Maybe I’ll just ask her out in person. My therapist is always telling me to step out of my comfort zone.”

What the…? He sounds serious, like he’s really going to ask her out—and worse, Sam might actually say yes. She once told me she thought Malcolm took “pretty cool pictures”. What the hell is going on? I need to know what Sam did to tilt us out of the perfect state of balanced homeostasis we’ve been in for the last few years.

When I make it back to the group, I pass her a lemonade and she acts offended that I didn’t get her a beer. I offer her a sip of mine and her face contorts with disgust after she samples it.

“Ugh. Bleh. Tastes like cat pee. I just don’t understand how you do it.”

I don’t know how you do it, man. Logan’s words echo in my head.

“Come here, I want to show you something.”

She follows me away from the group and I lead her toward a small garden near the toolshed so we’re out of earshot from the rest of the party. It’s early February, so nothing in the garden is green. Principal Pruitt still needs to clip away the dead plants from last season.

“What’d you want to show me?”

“Oh, this.” I thump on the side of the shed. “Isn’t it cool? Bet Principal Pruitt can fit a lot of tools in there. Anyway, you know how a lot of people at school always assumed we were dating?”

My question throws her for a loop. Her dark blue eyes widen then squint up at me in confusion. “Yeah, pfff, so ridiculous right? Why? What is this about?”

I drag a hand through my hair, unsure of how exactly to explain this. “Well, now people seem to think otherwise.”

“Oh, well, yes.” She looks away as if calling the conversation to mind. “That new girl Ashley asked about us and I told her we were just friends.”

I internally groan and she gulps down half her lemonade. I think she’s scared, and a moment later, when she starts rambling, my suspicions are confirmed.

“Listen, if you’ve heard I’ve been propagating rumors that we’re a couple, I haven’t! I mean, that’s…yeah…” Her cheeks are the same color as the cherry red lipstick in her bag. Her fair skin means her emotions bloom right on the surface, and usually, I like it. Right now, I love it. “Obviously…I haven’t been doing that.”

Right—I have.

“So I guess everyone overheard your conversation with Ashley?”

She rolls her eyes as if exasperated. “The teachers’ lounge has never exactly been known for privacy. It’s why the Freshman Four came over and asked about your soccer game. I think they all have crushes on you.”

“Shit. I kinda liked the misconception.”

“Because everyone left you alone?” She frowns. “Are you mad at me for blowing it?”

I don’t know…maybe. I’m definitely angry, but I can’t tell why. Suddenly, I feel like I’m at the starting line of a marathon and the pistol was just fired, but I’m not ready to run. My laces are untied. I haven’t stretched. For three years, I’ve sort of just been walking around in track shoes, calling myself a runner.

I’m scared of what will happen if I try to sprint now, but even more scared of what will happen if I don’t.

Too bad.

The race for Sam has begun whether I like it or not.





5





S A M



I’ve been to every one of Ian’s soccer games. He’s the head coach for the JV team and takes the gig pretty seriously. The soccer program at Oak Hill is actually pretty well known across the state, and they haven’t lost a game in two years. Even so, JV games aren’t all that exciting. The fans usually include four or five overzealous parents, one stoner kid who was going to be out under the bleachers anyway, and me. I’ve never missed one of Ian’s games because I know if I were involved in any kind of extracurricular activity (pfff, hilarious), Ian would be there to support me too.

Today, however, the bleachers are filled with half a dozen female teachers, including the Freshman Four. They’re sitting on the bottom bleacher in a little pack, forming a makeshift cheering section. One of them made a sign with sparkly glitter just like the one that now sits crumpled up under my feet. They’re treating this early season game like it’s the World Cup finals.

They chant, “Ian, Ian, he’s our man. If he can’t do it, no one can!”

The overprotective moms in attendance glare, unhappy that their motherly enthusiasm is being eclipsed by horny teachers. The referee tells them to stop disrupting and my grin is so wide, I think it’ll stay there permanently. Then Bianca stands up and takes Ian an ice-cold Gatorade, a lemon-lime love potion. I want him to swat it out of her hand, or better yet, untwist the cap and dump the contents on her head. Instead, he takes it and offers her a warm smile and thanks. When he takes a sip, it feels like I’m watching them make out. I fight the urge to fire up the groundskeeper’s riding lawn mower and chase her around the field.