The first year, I had them sing “I’m a Barbie Girl” to her during her first period. She got me back with “I Like Big Butts”.
Last year, we mixed it up. She had them perform an original poem she’d written, mostly to amuse my chem students. It featured lines like Don’t be so Boron, Mr. Fletcher, or one day you’ll find all your students Argon.
For the kids, it’s fun and probably a little cringey, but also a bit confusing.
“Why are you and Ms. Abrams sending valentines to one another?”
Who cares. It’s the best $50 I spend all year.
Because of our knack for torturing one another, the choir kids know we’re easy targets. This year, I’ve already had a handful of them hit me up for a donation. I keep sending them away. I haven’t thought of the perfect song yet even though Valentine’s Day is only a week away.
During fourth period, another boy in an OHHS Choir t-shirt knocks on my door. He’s carrying two teddy bears and five roses.
“Another delivery, Mr. Fletcher!”
My students cheer.
“How many girlfriends do you have?” one bold teenager asks, sounding impressed.
I remind the class they only have five minutes left for their pop quiz. There are audible groans and then pencils start flying across paper.
The choir student gets the idea and tiptoes into my class to deposit my gifts discreetly. I brace for the worst, but fortunately, they’re not all for me—only half. I add the flowers to a coffee cup on my desk and the bears get tossed in the pile by my bag. To an unsuspecting passerby, it looks like I have a fetish for plush.
My collection has been growing out of control over the last few days. At first, I assumed Sam was pranking me. It makes sense; the quartet isn’t all that funny anymore. I thought this year she had changed tactics, but then I started reading the accompanying notes.
The gifts aren’t from Sam, they’re from other teachers around the school. Today’s lot is from Bianca and Gretchen. Bianca has even taken the time to kiss her card with red lipstick so when I open her note, it accidentally smears across my thumb. My face is a mask of disgust as I wipe my finger on the edge of my seat. Get it off, get it off.
The choir student turns to leave but I grab hold of the back of his shirt. He stumbles and I right him.
“How much longer is this fundraiser going on?” I ask, desperate.
“Another week,” he replies, whispering out of respect for my students taking their quiz. “Hopefully we’ll meet our goal and then we can all fly to Disney for nationals and compete on the main stage!”
He says “main stage” with stars in his eyes. He’s mistaken my desperation for curiosity.
I nudge my chin toward the leftover roses and bears in his arms. “Who are those for?”
He grins. “Abrams. We’re not supposed to take notice of this sort of thing, but you two have the highest number of admirers so far this year!”
“What? Who? How?”
His smile falls and I realize I’m gripping his shirt so hard, I stretched out the collar. I let go and smooth it out. I should probably stop touching him now.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
He’s nervous. His wistful tears have turned into fearful ones.
I lead him out of the classroom so our conversation isn’t overheard.
“So those gifts are for her?”
He nods slowly.
“Let me read her notes.”
His eyes are two round saucers as he clutches the gifts to his chest. “You can’t! I’m honor-bound to protect the sanctity and privacy of—”
I pry one of them out of his shaky grasp. The kid will need counseling after this encounter.
Roses are red.
Violets are frilly.
You’re the hottest teacher at Oak Hill.
Let’s Netflix and chill-i?
That scholarly piece of verse was penned by Logan, the defensive coordinator for the football team. I’m not too worried, because I know Sam well enough to be sure she won’t be wooed by an offer of sex and stewed meat.
“Hand me the next one.”
“Mr. Fletcher, please! Have you lost your moral compass?!”
He checks back and forth down the long hallway, nervous to be caught as my accomplice.
I rip it out of his hand. The next note is marginally better because it’s not masquerading as a poem.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Samantha!
Maybe you and I can grab coffee sometime if you’re up for it?
That one is from the photography teacher, Malcolm. He’s Sam’s type, in that he barely reaches my elbows.
“How many notes have already been delivered to her?”
“I-I don’t k-know,” he stammers. “I was only put on delivery duty this morning!”
Her collection is probably as full as mine.
Shit.
I know Sam has had her fair share of admirers at Oak Hill. She’s the perfect blend of sweet and sexy. She’s nice to everyone. She smiles and remembers birthdays. Her brand of humor is addictive, and it’s the combination of these qualities that puts her squarely on every male’s radar. For a long while now, there’s been a rumor going around that we’re dating, and I made a point to never confirm or deny it. It made my life a lot easier if people thought we were a couple. That all changed yesterday. I don’t know what she told Ashley during lunch, but since then, I’ve had three guys come to my classroom trying to glean information about Sam.
“What’s her favorite flower?”
“What’s her favorite color?”
“Is she into chocolate?”
What the fuck kind of question is that? Are there people walking around this planet who don’t like chocolate?
“How much do you have left for your personal fundraising goal?” I ask the kid while he moans about probably being kicked out of the Cupid Corps.
My proposition is understood immediately and he regains his composure so quickly, I’m convinced he has a future in Broadway.
“$250,” he states with an even, no-nonsense tone.
“That’s a lot of money to try to make the old-fashioned way. How good are you at keeping secrets?”
He shrugs, feigning boredom. He inspects his fingernails.
Good. He gets it.
“Every time Ms. Abrams gets something from an admirer, deliver it to me instead. Every delivery gets you $20.”
His brow arches. “I know you’re on a teacher’s salary, but I think you can do better than that.”
I wish it weren’t against the rules to smack students.
“$50.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”
I justify my actions by telling myself my monetary contribution is going to charity. Those pimple-faced kids will get to sing on the main stage because I can’t stand the idea of Sam having coffee with another man.
By the time my free period rolls around, I have four more bears for myself and five for Sam. I have the accompanying love notes stuffed in my desk drawer. I feel itchy about my deception, especially when she walks in and eyes the collection amassed behind my chair.
Her brows perk up. “Quite a few admirers you have there. I’ve only had one paltry rose delivered today.”
What the hell? How did the rose sneak through? Kids these days can’t be trusted for shit.
“Who was it from?” I ask, continuing to grade pop quizzes as if her answer doesn’t interest me.
“PE teacher.”
“Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yup. You’re not the only one she’s into.”
I smile, pleased.
“Gonna go for it? You never struck me as someone who might play for the other team.”
She picks up one of the bears and looks at it longingly. “You know what, Fletcher? I just might.”