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.
* * *
By the time lunch rolls around at school, I’m ready for a break. My journalism classes are interspersed with on-level senior English classes. It’s not my favorite part of the job, but it’s the only way Principal Pruitt can justify keeping me on full-time. The students in these classes are already checked out, blaming their late homework and poor quiz scores on senioritis. I type the illness into Wed MD to prove it isn’t a real thing. They don’t look up from their cell phones long enough to listen.
Most of them wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup.
Last week, one kid thought I was a student and asked for my Snapchat.
Ian doesn’t have this problem. His classes are filled with overachieving nerds, the kids who’ve already been accepted to Ivy League schools but still feel the need to take 27 AP classes. Most of them intimidate me, but they treat Ian like he’s their Obi-Wan.
“Tell us more about the tongue strip, Mr. Fletcher!”
“Bill Nye’s got nothin’ on you, Mr. Fletcher!”
“I wrote about you in my college admissions essay, Mr. Fletcher. I had to pick the one person who’s inspired me to pursue learning the most!”
I sit down for lunch in the teachers’ lounge and puff out a breath of air, trying to move the few strands of hair from my forehead. They are evidence that I’ve tugged at my ponytail in distress too many times this morning.
Ian slides into his designated seat across from me and his positive energy clogs the air between us. It could also be his delicious body wash.
“Let’s see it,” he says.
“It’s not my best haul.”
I’ve got a cheese stick, pretzels, grapes, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
He has a multi-layer turkey sandwich with avocado and alfalfa sprouts, sliced watermelon, and almonds.
Without a word, we start the exchange. I take half his turkey sandwich. He takes half my PB&J. My cheese stick gets divided in two. I let him keep his nasty almonds—they aren’t even salted.
“Let me have some of your pretzels,” he says, reaching over.
I slam my hand down on the bag, effectively cracking most of them in half. Worth it.
“You know the rules.”
His dark brow arches. “I have chocolate chip cookies from one of my students back in my classroom. His mom baked them as a thank you for writing him a rec letter.”
In the blink of an eye, my threatening scowl gentles to a smile. My dimples pop for added effect. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I turn my bag of broken pretzels in his direction.
Even though the teachers’ lounge is packed, no one sits at our table. They know better. We’re not rude, it’s just hard for other people to keep up with us. Our conversations involve a lot of shorthand, code, and inside jokes.
“All-staff go well?”
I try for my best local news anchor tone. “Ian, is the food in our cafeteria healthy?”
He groans in commiseration.
“Yeah, then I had another student try to threaten to expose our relationship.”
“You mean the one that doesn’t exist?”
“Exactly.”
“All right. All right!” Mrs. Loring—the drama teacher—shouts near the fridge, cutting through the noise in the lounge. “Guess what today is…”
“The first of the month!” someone shouts enthusiastically. “Confiscation Station!”
For the next few seconds, there’s an overwhelming amount of applause and chatter. Confetti might as well be raining down from the ceiling.
“Okay. OKAY! Settle down,” Mrs. Loring shouts excitedly. “Does anyone have late entries?”
Ian stands and withdraws a crumpled note from his pocket.
People clap like he’s a hometown hero returning from war.
“Snatched it up during first period,” he brags.
A few female teachers act as if they’re going into cardiac arrest as they watch him cross the room. Mrs. Loring holds out her mason jar and he drops it inside.