Not So Nice Guy(43)

I go back outside and try to think like Sherlock Holmes. I look for clues in the parking lot, try to put myself in her shoes, but even in my head, they’re so small they don’t fit.

I’m fresh out of ideas and then I decide it can’t hurt to check her parents’ house, even though she’s not that close with them. They’re snobby and judgmental and I doubt she’d turn to them on a day like this, but sure enough, her bike is lying in their driveway.

I park and head for the front door, but my first few knocks go unanswered.

The downstairs is dark and the shades are drawn, but I hear voices inside. Someone’s definitely home. I jiggle the door handle and it opens. It was unlocked the whole time.

I step inside and call out, but no one answers. The voices I could hear outside are coming from a radio in the kitchen. Creepy.

Her parents clearly aren’t home, but I know Sam’s here. I’ve only been here a handful of times, but I remember her room is the first one on the right upstairs.

Sure enough, that’s where I find her, splayed out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I pause in the doorway as a slow smile spreads. It feels good to have found her, to know she’s okay…sort of. I mean, she’s lying there wearing her dorky band uniform from high school. The stiff red and black material completely drowns her. On her head, she’s wearing the band hat with red plumage. It makes her look like a rooster. Her parents’ cat is toying with it like it’s a mouse.

Her eyes are red, her cheeks are flushed. I wonder how much she’s cried today.

I take a hesitant step inside and her gaze stays rooted above, like she’s gone comatose.

“Where are your parents?”

“On an Alaskan cruise.” Her voice is calm.

Makes sense.

“They leave NPR on while they’re gone?”

“They want to make sure burglars are informed on current world events while they’re burgling.”

My smile widens.

I want to kiss her, but I get that it’s not the right time.

Instead, I take a seat at her desk—or at least I try to. Her chair is very small and my hips barely clear the armrests. I manage eventually, and we sit in silence for a while as I take in her room. I’ve never had the chance to really inspect it before today. She was too shy to let me poke around the last time we were here, but now I get my fill of teenage Sam. Her walls are painted lime green. CDs line an entire bookshelf. There are band trophies and UIL journalism awards arranged on top of her dresser. Where other girls would have a framed picture of a boy band, she has a photograph of Jean-Luc Picard on her nightstand.

I love her.

She makes a sound like an animal caught in a bear trap and I jerk my gaze to meet hers. She tries to readjust her position on the bed, but the stiff material of her band uniform makes it hard for her to move.

“What’s with the getup?”

She looks down as if just now remembering she has it on. “Oh, yeah. I’m going back to a point in time before I sent that school-wide email. I think in the psychiatric world, they call this regression.”

I tip my head to the side and wait for her to meet my eyes, but she won’t.

“I totally get not wanting to be at school today, but just so you know, this is not a big deal. There’s no rule against sending funny pictures.”

When she speaks next, her words drip with sarcasm. “Oh, goodie. I’m so glad there’s no rule against public humiliation—but wait, if there’s no rule against it, why did we get called to the principal’s office?”

“You’re not ‘called to principal’s office’ as an adult. You’re summoned for a meeting.”

“Either way, we’re fucked.”

She picks her arms up and then lets them flop back down dramatically. Her flute cartwheels to the ground.

“He just wants to meet to talk about the email.”

“And tell us we’re fired.”

“He’ll probably just have us sign some kind of HR disclosure concerning the relationship.”

“Relationship? I’m 15-year-old Sam. I haven’t met you yet. Now, please leave so I can go back to watching TRL. MTV Cribs comes on after and I don’t want to miss it.”

All right, I’ll let her do this. She’s had a rough day.

I turn and start snooping around her desk. I want to look in every drawer, flip open every book. In her desk I find a purple Game Boy, a Blink 182 CD, and a handwritten list of her Myspace Top 8. Names are scratched out and new ones have been added below. I wonder where I would have fallen.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

She groans and moves off the bed, too curious. My ploy worked. She comes to stand right beside me, trying to close the drawer. I don’t let her. Instead, I pull out a worn paperback that has its cover torn off.

“What’s this?”

“NOTHING! IAN LET ME HAVE THAT!”

Her over-the-top reaction ensures I won’t give it back to her any time soon. I stiff-arm her so she can’t reach me and then I read the spine.

“Pirate’s Hidden Treasure.”

Oh, this is too good.

“Did teenage Sam like to read romance novels?”

“Ian, c’mon.”

“Let me just read one page.”