This is just the beginning, and she should know that.
I text her a few minutes later when I know she’s lying on her bed, the residual waves sending shivers down her body. She’s flushed and panting, trying to reclaim her breath. I know she’s freaking out over what just happened, but I’m not.
IAN: Next time we’ll do that in person.
7
S A M
It’s the morning after THE PHONE CALL and I’ve developed some kind of PTSD. I don’t answer Ian’s wakeup call, mainly because I don’t need to. I’m already awake and in my kitchen, scrambling eggs. On my counter, there’s bacon, fresh blueberry muffins, sliced fruit, coffee, and orange juice. I look like a mom on a sitcom. Any minute now a teenage boy will stroll in with bedhead. I’ll tell him to sit down for breakfast and he’ll say, Mom, UGH, I’m late for school! I’ll throw a granola bar at the back of his head as he walks out the door.
I have all this food because I woke up and decided I needed a hearty breakfast. I need to get my strength up for the day ahead. No low blood sugar for me, not if I intend to be a strong counterpoint for this new version of Ian. Ian 2.0: sexy devil, husky phone-sex operator.
Last night I let him lure me into some weird scenario in which we weren’t Ian and Sam, best friends. We were just playing a role: Ian and Sam, horny teenagers. Plausible deniability.
I wish I could call in and take a personal day, but they don’t exactly give teachers a million days off. I refuse to waste one because I’m scared to face Ian. I doubt he’s scared to face me. No, not after that text message he sent last night. It’s clear he’s the one holding the cards.
I pull the text up again, just to confirm I wasn’t dreaming.
Yup, there it is.
I shiver, lock my screen, and go back to shoveling food into my mouth.
My outfit is picked out strategically. When I stroll into school an hour later, I’m wearing a dress that could easily be worn in a historical reenactment at Plymouth Rock. The black garment goes down to my lower calves and buttons all the way to my neck. The frilly white lapel adds a nice, colonial touch. It’s actually my funeral garb, which is appropriate because last night, my old way of life with Ian died.
Teachers stop me in the hall and ask if we’re supposed to be wearing costumes today. “Shit, it’s not Dress Like a Literary Character day, is it?” They’re not even pulling my leg; they’re genuinely confused. I decide I can unbutton the top a little. My cleavage is still completely concealed, but the circulation in my neck is able to return.
I turn the corner into my classroom and spot Ian waiting for me. He’s sitting in my chair, feet propped up on my desk. I jump a mile in the air. My Tupperware falls to the ground and the lid pops off. Muffins spill out.
“Jesus, Ian!”
He’s calm and bored when he replies, “Funny, you said the same thing last night.”
My eyes go wide and I whip my head back and forth down the hall.
“You can’t say things like that! Are you crazy?!”
I fall to my knees and start shoveling muffins back into the Tupperware. Ian doesn’t bother helping, just watches me with an amused little smile.
When I stand back up, he tilts his chin in my direction. “What a dress. Did you wear it for me?”
“Are you asking if I’ve thought about you since our phone call? Because no, I haven’t. I forgot you existed.”
“You look like an American Girl Doll named Chastity.”
“And you look like you’re trespassing. Why are you in my classroom?”
He stands and saunters over, reaching around me to shut the door.
Alarm bells ring, both from the fact that he has me cornered against the door and because he felt the need to close it in the first place. I reach back and twist the door handle, but his hand hits the wood beside my head, not hard, but he exerts enough pressure to keep me from opening it.
Slowly, I glance up into a pair of familiar blue eyes that are currently doing wholly unfamiliar things to my body. My stomach is clenched. My fists are clenched. My jaw is clenched. Everything is rigid and coiled tight like a spring. I’m liable to strain my spleen or something if I keep this up.
I think he’s going to try to pick right up where we ended last night. My suspicions ping louder when he steps closer. Our bodies barely brush.
God, he really is tall and foreboding. There’s a reason I’ve never dated a guy as big as he is. He’s the horse and I’m the jockey—except jockeys get helmets and whips. I have nothing to defend myself from him, just muffins.
He raises his hands, and my eyes pinch shut.
I’m being completely irrational. I know that, but like I said, his size is intimidating. I should have opted for some kind of platform heel this morning, maybe stilts. Even a pogo stick would allow me to be at his eye level for milliseconds at a time.
Something hits my chest, and it could be a bomb for all I know. Seconds tick down and we could both explode. I relish the idea—I’d love to be put out of my misery.
“Open your eyes, Sam.”
His tone is teasing and light. It’s the way Ian 1.0 used to sound, so I pry one eye open and then the other. I glance down.
He’s pressing a blue Gatorade bottle against my chest.
An innocent little sports drink.
“Relax.”
“You’re not going to kiss me?”
“Do you want me to?”
My eyes stay glued on the bottle. “I don’t know. I can’t feel my feet and first period is going to start soon.”
He steps back and shakes his head. “Drink up. You look thirsty. And did you forget? No first period today. We have to go teach that sex-ed course.”
Every single junior and senior fills the bleachers in the gymnasium. Ian and I are standing to the side, waiting for the principal to introduce us. This is going to be an absolute shitshow. On their way in, the students were supposed to drop an anonymous question pertaining to sexual education into a shoe box. I’m holding it in my arms and it’s hefty. These teenagers are curious little bastards.
“Do you have the penis?” Ian asks.
I hold the banana up. It’s a week old and speckled, rather sickly-looking, actually. Maybe I’ll also use it to demonstrate the dangers of STDs.
“Do you have the condom?”
He tugs it out of his back pocket. The words MAGNUM and RIBBED FOR HER PLEASURE leap out at me like a blinking neon sign.
“You’re kidding.”
He seems confused.
“You just brought that over from your stash?” I ask, sounding like a mouth breather.
“That’s what you said to do.”
I don’t have time to question him because our names are announced over the microphone and then we walk onto the basketball court to a lot of applause and conversation. It takes minutes to shut everyone up and grab their attention.
The first half of the course is by the book. Principal Pruitt asked us to outline the most common STDs and transmission pathways while an accompanying slideshow plays on a projector behind us. Every new image brings a chorus of groans and covered eyes. One kid passes out and has to be carted to the nurse’s office.
“Icky!” a girl shouts from the front row.
“Yes,” I respond solemnly. “Neurosyphilis is icky, and deadly. Now, that brings us to the next part of the course: a demonstration of proper condom application techniques. Ian, the prophylactic, if you please.”
He smiles and shakes his head, tearing open the rubber while I hold the banana outstretched in front of me. I let him explain the best way to unroll it as he’s obviously more experienced than I am, a fact I try not to dwell on. After that, Principal Pruitt takes the banana and parades it around the gymnasium so everyone can see it. He’s Vanna White’s forgotten stepsister.
Next, we start on the shoe box questions. Ian dips his hand in, grabs a folded slip of paper, and hands it to me, and then I read each one aloud.
I was hoping for deeply mature questions, and I don’t get a single one.