Not So Nice Guy(45)
There are 68 new emails since the last one I read. There hasn’t been an email thread this popular since that time Mrs. Hill offered up two free tickets to Hamilton. The first 25 emails were desperate and pleading, then the next 25 were booing and hissing when she clarified (stupid autocorrect) the tickets were actually for Oak Hill High’s production of Hamlet.
I start from the beginning and breeze past the emails I already read—the ones that make my stomach twist with anxiety—and pause when I come across Ian’s email address.
FletcherIan@OakHillHigh: This is a photo of me from middle school, dressed up as Yoda with full orthodontic headgear. My mom told me I’d be able to laugh at this picture in fifteen years, but honestly, it still hurts.
FletcherIan@OakHillHigh: Oh, whoops, sorry everyone. I meant to just send that photo to Sam…
A tiny, microscopic smile tugs at my lips. He was trying to deflect the attention from me with a ridiculous photo of himself. I immediately save it to my phone and then continue scrolling. Mrs. Orin sends the next email with a photo of herself after she let her granddaughter do her makeup. There is eyeliner etched down her cheeks and red lipstick smeared across her chin. Her caption is the same as Ian’s: “Oh, sorry. Meant to just send that to Sam.”
Next, the art teacher shares a picture of herself after she got her wisdom teeth pulled. She’s a puffy chipmunk. “Oops! This was supposed to go to Sam.”
After that, Ian’s idea catches on like wildfire. Teacher after teacher submits their own most horrifying photo, and by the end, I’m genuinely moved by everyone’s kindness. I actually laugh when the oldest teacher in school, Mr. Kelso, sends a sepia-toned photo of himself in hot pants. His caption reads: “Who am I kidding? I totally meant to send this to everyone. Look at those legs! This was back in the free love 60s!”
It’s all in good fun until one of the part-time administrators ends up taking the gesture of solidarity too far, sending a photo of her doing shots out of a dancer’s belly button in Cabo. There is an eye-catching nip slip and the timestamp on the photo is from only two weeks ago. Her caption: “OMG so embarrassing meant to send this to my AA sponsor!!”
All of a sudden everyone is sad.
But me, actually—I’m grateful. All the other photos were nice and made me feel like I wasn’t quite so alone, but that nipple really took the heat away from me. I couldn’t have planted a better diversion if I’d hired a fancy PR team to come in and handle it for me.
As I walk into school the next morning, I expect some sort of fanfare. A few snide comments, crass jokes, something. Fortunately, gossip about Pauline has stolen the spotlight. No one’s talking about my photo because all anyone cares about is the fact that PAULINE SENT A PICTURE OF HER BOOB TO THE ENTIRE SCHOOL AND SHE NEEDS OUR SUPPORT IN HER BATTLE WITH ALCOHOLISM. It’s a big deal. The IT department has to lock down our email server and go in to wipe everything from the thread, including my original whipped cream photo. I’m sure it’s still out there circulating somewhere. Just like with Ian’s headgear picture, someone certainly screenshotted it before it was too late, but what do I care? I have a picture of Ian with headgear!
I’m going to make it into a quilt and put it on my bed.
Even though Pauline did a solid by diverting the spotlight away from me, Ian and I still have to meet with Principal Pruitt after school. At precisely 3:05 PM, the bell rings, my students filter out of my class in barely contained sprints, and then I look up to find Ian waiting for me at my door. He looks edible in a white button-down with navy slacks. For a moment, I wish Principal Pruitt were gay or that I wasn’t so against using my feminine wiles on a married man. We could get ourselves out of this situation lickety-split.
“Ready?” he asks with a small, dimpled smile.
“No. I think you should go ahead, fight on both of our behalves. I’ll go get your car and wait for you in the parking lot in case we need to make a quick getaway.”
“Charming. Let’s go.”
I feel like a dead man walking as we head to the main office.
“Although I feel bad for her,” Ian says, “I’m glad Pauline sent that picture. No one cares about us anymore.”
I nod in agreement. “It’s too bad IT couldn’t wipe the whole incident from Principal Pruitt’s mind too.” I reach out to grab his arm. “Wait, should we ask if they can do that?”
He lays his hand over mine and tugs me forward. “Let’s just see how this meeting goes first, shall we?”
I’m annoyed by how quickly we arrive at our final destination. I would have appreciated a bit more dillydallying, maybe a pit stop near the vending machines, a quick lap around the band hall, but Ian insists we have to be early.
“What’s that?” Ian asks as we wait outside Principal Pruitt’s office. He’s pointing to the hefty bag at my feet. Guess he didn’t notice when I grabbed it from underneath my desk back in my classroom.
“Oh, just baked goods.”
His eyes widen in wonder. “Why do you have so many? That bag is overflowing.”
“I couldn’t remember what Principal Pruitt’s favorite dessert was, so I made them all.”
“All?”
“Brownies, cookies, blondies, lemon bars, and mini pecan pies. When I bribe, I bribe hard.”