Not So Nice Guy(42)
He did this is to us. Yes. Oooh, that feels good. Deflect. Put the blame on him. He decided we should explore this simmering need churning within us instead of leaving well enough alone. I was doing just fine! I had my dirty dreams and my fantasies and I could have used those to sustain me for another 1000 years.
This entire situation is exactly what I was afraid of. EVERYONE KNOWS. Everything is changing and I can’t go back to school without everyone staring and gossiping behind my back. The other teachers will make lewd jokes about whipped cream and I won’t have the strength to laugh it off—and oh god, the students are going to find out and we’ll never hear the end of it. This thing is so new—a baby bird of a relationship—there’s no way we’ll survive. This is the beginning of the end.
My phone lights up again and my gaze snaps to the screen. If it’s Ian, I’m going to have to answer and tell him to stop calling, but it’s not.
It’s an incoming email from Principal Pruitt.
I read it while holding my breath.
He wants to set up a meeting with Ian and me to discuss the “situation” and the “potential consequences”.
I slam my froyo tub on the table and dart to the bathroom, throwing up every sugary morsel I just stuffed down my throat. More tears spill out.
I can’t believe it. I’m in trouble. I don’t get in trouble! Back when I was in high school, I never served time in detention, and I never brought home a grade below an A-!
“Lady, are you doing what I think you’re doing in there?”
Froyo man pounds on the door, clearly sick of my shit.
“I’ll be—blughhh—I’ll be out in a minute!” I shout between heaves.
“Gah, and I just put the mop up.”
I stumble weakly to the bathroom door, yank it open, and sear him with my eyes. “My life is over.”
He doesn’t look very sympathetic. “Well can you take it somewhere else? And for the record, I’ve never seen someone so little eat so much frozen yogurt.”
If this were any other day, I’d take that as a compliment.
I have no clue where I’m going when I hop on my bike a few minutes later. I’m saddled with a metric ton of frozen yogurt. My breath smells like a wrestler’s perineum. My eyes are swollen and red. It’s only 9:35 AM. I have an entire day of despair ahead of me, and I need to pace myself. All I want to do is call Ian, but I can’t. Usually, if something like this were to happen to me, I’d run straight to him. He’d distract me with a horribly embarrassing story of his own, but that won’t work this time.
My friend Ian is gone.
I take off on my bike and my froyo slips out of my hand immediately after I make my first turn. My M&Ms scatter across the pavement.
Even the candy gods have forsaken me.
I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
15
I A N
I’ve called Sam 34 times. When I try for 35, my phone rolls its eyes and gives me an alert that just says, Dude, it’s not going to happen. This day has been one of the worst on record, especially in comparison to the days that came before it. Taking Sam to breakfast, making out in my car, flirting over email—life was going according to plan and then she had to accidentally send that photo to the entire school. Fuck. I wish it’d been me. Sam tries to act strong and resilient, but she’s made of marshmallow fluff. She won’t be able to laugh this off and move on. To her, it’s mortifying, and she proves that fact by bailing during first period. I went to her classroom to force her to talk to me and there was an elderly woman sitting at her desk. My first thought was, Wow, stress really does age you. Then I realized it was Mrs. Orin, standing in until Sam’s sub arrived.
I’m pissed at Sam for ignoring my phone calls and shutting me out. I want to help share the burden. She’s not the only one going through this.
But then, I get it. There’s a double standard. If she’d stayed, she would have been ridiculed and mocked mercilessly. Meanwhile, all day at school, male teachers and coaches bump into me in the hallway and offer congratulations. I sidestep countless high fives, fist bumps, and shoulder claps. The next guy who grunts or winks in my direction or tries to make a joke about Sam and whipped cream will have to get their shattered jaw wired shut.
At the end of soccer practice, I skip a shower and head straight for Sam’s apartment. I knock on her door for so long, her neighbor shouts at me to go away.
I ask him if he’s seen Sam and he says, “Never heard of him.”
Right—we’re each other’s only friends.
When I get back to my car, I try to call her again and it goes straight to voicemail. I have no choice but to drive around town to all the destinations where I could possibly find her. I check the bakery where she likes to get cupcakes, the other bakery where she likes to get cookies, the third bakery where she likes to get banana pudding. No one has seen her. I check out the ice cream shop, the popsicle shop, and then finally, the frozen yogurt shop.
The man there shakes his head angrily.
“Petite thing? Red hair? Yeah, she was here—almost had to kick her out. She was high on drugs, came in and made a mess of the place.”
What the fuck?
“Did you see where she went when she left?”
“Probably to get more horse tranquilizers.”