My jaw is slack. Sam’s breathing is hard. After a moment, she rights her hat and tugs down her uniform top. Then she admits coolly, “My mom wouldn’t let me read anything but Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I had to steal that book from my friend just to…y’know, see what it was all about.”
I act like I believe her. “Oh, so you only had it for curiosity’s sake? ’Cause that spine looked pretty worn.”
She groans. “Listen, yes, I read that book incessantly. Teenagers these days have Kindles and high-speed internet and I had PIRATE’S HIDDEN TREASURE, so leave me alone.”
I reach out for her hips and tug her onto my lap. Her ancient wooden desk chair groans in protest. At any moment, our combined weight will prove too much and we’ll go crashing to the ground.
Sam tries to wriggle free, but I have too good of a hold on her. When she finally gives in and settles on top of me, I reach up and yank off her hat. It falls to the ground and I smooth my thumb across the angry red line it left on her forehead. Her blue eyes catch mine and it’s the first time she’s had the courage to hold my gaze. I’ve never seen her look so dejected.
My brows tug together in a sad, angry furrow.
“I’m sorry about today.”
She closes her eyes and her bottom lip juts out. “No. God, I’m the one who messed up. I should be apologizing to you.”
Her eyes flick to the ceiling and I see tears collecting within. She tries so hard to keep them from falling as my hands tighten on her waist. My thumb barely slips under her band shirt, and her soft skin feels so good I dip my entire hand beneath the material then slide it around to cradle her back. It’s not much contact, but it makes my heart thud in my chest to have her this close.
I watch as a tear finally breaks free and then Sam leans forward and plops her head on my shoulder. Her knees tuck in and now she’s a ball in my lap. I pull her even closer. I think if my shirt were stretchier, she’d try to burrow underneath it and hide there forever.
“This is silly. I’m not just crying about what happened today. There’s been a lot of change lately, and I’m not equipped to handle it. It’s too much.”
I already know this. Sam’s a creature of habit, which means the last few days have been doubly hard on her.
“How can I help?”
Her head rocks back and forth on my shoulder as she shakes her head. “You can’t, but at least you smell good.”
I smile and remember something from earlier.
“The froyo guy said you were doing drugs or something.”
She chuckles softly but doesn’t lift her head. “No, I was throwing up. Don’t worry, I brushed my teeth when I got here.”
I frown. “Why’d you throw up?”
“I got Pruitt’s email, and it made me sick to think of what could happen to us.”
Damn.
“Well stop worrying. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m going to call in sick tomorrow.”
“Well I’m going to the meeting. I understand if you want to stay here and continue doing whatever this is.”
“Regressing, remember?”
“You’re stronger than this, Sam. The email isn’t that bad.”
She groans.
“In fact, when you get the chance, you should check the thread. You might be pleasantly surprised by what you find there.”
I feel a slight dip in the chair. Wood creaks and trembles. One second, Sam’s cuddled on my lap, and the next, we’re splayed out on the floor. One of the chair’s legs jams itself into my lower back and I wince in pain.
If I were an English nerd instead of a science nerd, I’d realize this tableau is an apt metaphor for our current situation. Sam has to explain it to me: “Welcome to rock bottom.”
16
S A M
Ian drives me home from my parents’ house, walks me inside my apartment, waits for me to shower, and then tucks me in bed.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, brushing my hair away from my forehead like I’m four years old and sick, and it feels glorious. I’ll have life-altering events happen more often if it means he’s going to dote on me like this.
Of course I want him to stay, but if he stays, I’m going to have sex with him, and I don’t think we should have sex for the first time on the same day as THE INCIDENT. Knowing me, I’d probably butt-dial the local news in the middle of climax.
“Better not,” I say, tilting my head up and offering him my mouth so he can lean down and kiss me good night. He keeps it short and chaste and I miss him the second he leaves my apartment.
I think I’m going to cave and call him, demand he come right back here this instant, but then I remember the email thread. He talked about it again on the way home. My nose scrunches just thinking about it, but I know he has my best interests at heart. If people were making fun of me, he would steal my phone and chuck it in a dumpster. If he wants me to read it, I probably should. So, I settle in under my covers and tap the email app on my phone, bracing myself.
Holy cow.
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.