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!
He’s only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. They’re like female pterodactyls.
We’re both massive LOTR fans and guess what—SAM IS THE BEST FRIEND, NOT THE LOVE INTEREST.
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.
Ian and I became friends three and a half years ago, close to 1300 days if some loser out there was keeping count. Upon accepting teaching positions at Oak Hill, we were placed in the same orientation group. There were fifteen new hires in total, and Ian immediately caught my eye. I can remember the first time I saw him, recalling specific, random details more than anything: how big his hands looked holding our orientation handbook, how tan he was from summer vacation, the fact that he towered over the rest of us. My first thought was that he should have been incredibly intimidating what with the sharp blue eyes and short, slightly wavy brown hair, but he cut away the pretense when he aimed a smile at me as our eyes locked over the crowd of new teachers. It was so disarming and easygoing, but most importantly, it was seriously sexy. My heart sputtered in my chest. He was the boy next door who’d grown into a man with a chiseled jaw and solid arms.
He was wearing a black t-shirt I focused on as he made his way toward me through the crowd.
“You’re a Jake Bugg fan?” he asked. “Me too.”
I responded with a poorly executed, “Huh?”
His Crest smile widened a little farther and he pointed down at my shirt. Oh, right. I was wearing a Jake Bugg concert t-shirt. We struck up polite conversation about his last US tour, and I kept my drool in my mouth the entire time. When it was time to get started, he asked if I wanted to sit with him.
For a week straight we endured instructional videos about sexual harassment and workplace protocol together. While choppy VHS tapes from the 90s played on a rolled-in TV stand, Ian and I passed cheeky notes back and forth. Eventually, we just pushed our desks together and kept our voices barely above whispers as we got to know each other. We had so much to talk and joke about. Our words spilled out in rapid fire like we were scared the other person would go up in a POOF and disappear at any moment.
We didn’t pay attention through the entire orientation, but the joke was on us.
They gave us a test at the end of the week and we both failed. Apparently, it was an Oak Hill first. The test is ridiculously easy if you had paid the least bit of attention. We had to retake the orientation class for a second time and our friendship was cemented through the shared embarrassment and shame.
At the end of the second week, we celebrated our passing scores with drinks—Ian’s idea. I tried not to read too much into it. After all, we were both inviting plus ones.
That’s when I met the girl he was dating at the time: a gazelle-like dermatologist. At the bar, she regaled us all with interesting stories from the exam room.
“Yeah, people don’t realize how many different types of moles there are.”
She gave me unsolicited advice such as, “Due to your fair skin, you really ought to be seeing someone for a skin check twice a year.” She, by the way, didn’t have a visible pore or freckle on her. When we both stood to use the bathroom midway through the evening, my inadequacies multiplied. Our size difference was obscene. I could have fit in her pocket. To anyone watching, I looked like the pre-teen she was babysitting for the night.
The only silver lining was that I had her check out the smattering of freckles on my shoulders while we were waiting for the stalls to open up. All clear.
At the time, I was dating someone too. Jerry was an investment banker I’d met through a friend of a friend. This outing was only our third date and I had no plans to continue seeing him, especially after he droned on and on about Greek life back at UPenn.
“Yeah, I was fraternity president my junior and senior year. HOO-RAH.”
Then he proceeded to holler his fraternity chant for the entire bar to hear. I think he thought it was funny, but I didn’t feel like I was in on the joke. I wanted to press a red button and exit through the roof. Ian’s eyes locked with mine over the table, and it felt like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He could tell how uncomfortable I was, how much the situation made me squirm. We both proceeded to fight back laughter. My face turned red with exertion. He had to bite his lip. In the end, I caved first and had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom again so I could crack up in private.
Ian’s date later told him she was concerned I had an overactive bladder.