Ian says I’m too hard on myself, but in the mirror I see knobby knees and barely-filled B cups. On good days, I’m 5’3’’. I think I can shop at Baby Gap.
When I make it to school (ten minutes before the first bell), I find a granola bar next to the thermos of coffee on my desk. In my haste to make it to school on time, I forgot to grab something for breakfast. I’ve become predictable enough that Ian has stowed snacks in and around my desk. I can pull open any drawer and find something—nuts, seeds, peanut butter crackers. There’s even a Clif Bar duct-taped under my chair. My arsenal is more for his own good than mine. I’m the hangriest person you’ve ever met. When my blood sugar drops, I turn into the destructive Jean Grey.
I scarf down the granola bar and sip my coffee, firing off a quick text to thank him before students start filing into my classroom for first period.
SAM: TY for breakfast. Coffee is LIT.
IAN: It’s the new blend you bought last week. Are your students teaching you new words again?
SAM: I heard it during carpool duty yesterday. I’m not sure when to use it yet. Will report back.
“Good morning, Missus Abrams!” my first student sing-songs.
It’s Nicholas, the editor-in-chief for the Oak Hill Gazette. He’s the kind of kid who wears sweater vests to school. He takes my journalism class very seriously—even more seriously than he takes his crush on me, which is saying something.
I level him with a reproving look. “Nicholas, for the last time, it’s Miss Abrams. You know I’m not married.”
He grins extra wide and his braces twinkle in the light. He’s had them do the rubber band colors in alternating blue and black for school pride. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.” The kid is relentless. “And may I just say, the shade of your dress is very becoming. The red nearly matches your hair. With style like that, you’ll be a missus in no time.”
“No, you may not say that. Just sit down.”
Other students are starting to file into my class now. Nicholas takes his seat front and center, and I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible once I begin my lesson.
Ian and I have drastically different jobs at Oak Hill High.
He’s the AP Chem II teacher. He has a master’s degree and worked in industry after college. While in grad school, he helped develop a tongue strip that soothes burns from things like hot coffee and scalding pizza. Seems stupid—SNL even spoofed it—but it got a lot of interest in the science world, and his experience makes the students look up to him. He’s the cool teacher who rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and blows shit up in the name of science.
I’m just the journalism teacher and the staff coordinator for the Oak Hill Gazette, a weekly newspaper that is read by exactly five people: me, Ian, Nicholas, Nicholas’ mom, and our principal, Mr. Pruitt. Everyone assumes I fall into the “if you can’t do, teach” category, but I actually like my job. Teaching is fun, and I’m not cut out for the real world. Hard-hitting journalists don’t make very many friends. They jump into the action, push, prod, and expose important stories to the world. In college, my professors chastised me for only churning out “puff pieces”. I took it as a compliment. Who doesn’t like puffy things?
As it is, I’m proud of the Gazette and the students who help run it.
We start each week with an “all-staff meeting” as if we’re a real, functioning newspaper. Students pitch their ideas for proposed stories or fill me in on the progress of ongoing work. Most everyone takes it seriously except for the few kids who sought out journalism for an easy A—which, off the record, it is. Ian says I’m a pushover.
I’m talking to one of those students who falls into that second category now. I don’t think she’s turned in one assignment since we got back from Christmas break. “Phoebe, have you thought of a story for next week’s newspaper?”
“Oh, uhh…yeah.” She pops her gum. I want to steal it out of her mouth and stick it in her hair. “I think I’m going to ask around to see if the janitors are like, banging after hours or something.”
“You leave poor Mr. Franklin alone. C’mon, what else you got?”
“Okay, how’s this…School Lunches: Healthy or Unhealthy?”
Inwardly, I claw at my eyes. This type of exposé has been done so many times that our school’s head lunch lady and I have worked out a system. I keep students out of her kitchen, and in return, I get all the free tater tots I want.
“There’s no story there. The food isn’t healthy. We all know that. Something else.”
There are a few snickers. Phoebe’s cheeks glow red and her eyes narrow on me. She’s annoyed I’ve called her out in front of the entire class. “Okay, fine.” Her tone takes a sassy and cruel edge like only a teenage girl’s can. “How about I do something more salacious? Maybe a piece about illicit love between teachers?”
I’m so bored, I yawn. Rumors about Ian and me are old news. Everyone assumes that because we’re best friends, we must be dating. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I want to tell them, Yeah, I WISH, but I know for a fact I’m not Ian’s type. Here are four times this has been made clear to me:
-He once told me he’s never imagined himself with a redhead because his mom has reddish hair. HELLO, MOST GUYS HAVE MOMMY ISSUES! LET ME BE YOUR MOMMY ISSUE!
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-He’s only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. They’re like female pterodactyls.
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-We’re both massive LOTR fans and guess what—SAM IS THE BEST FRIEND, NOT THE LOVE INTEREST.
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-Oh, and then of course there was that one time I forced myself to dress up as slutty Hermione (his weakness) for Halloween and tried to seduce him. He told me I looked more like frizzy-haired Hermione from the early years and less like post-pubescent Yule Ball Hermione. Cue quiet meltdown.
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