He reclaims his seat across from me and suddenly, it’s time for The Reading.
On top of the fridge in the teachers’ lounge sits a medium-sized mason jar, into which we drop notes we’ve seized from students during class. The moon waxes and wanes and that jar fills up. At the first of every month, Mrs. Loring interrupts our lunch for a dramatic reading.
It might sound cruel, but don’t worry, we keep the notes anonymous. No one knows the source except the confiscator. As a result, Principal Pruitt doesn’t really care about our ritual. It’s good for our morale. Think of it as team bonding.
Mrs. Loring swirls her hand into the bowl like a kid searching for candy on Halloween, and then she comes up with a neatly folded note.
I turn to Ian, giddy. Our gazes lock. Last year I sat in while he did an experiment with his students. He burned different elements to show that they each produced a different color flame. Calcium burned orange, sodium burned yellow. The students were amazed, but then so was I, because when he burned copper, it produced a dark, vivid blue flame—the exact color of Ian’s eyes. I’ve kept a little bowl of shiny pennies on my nightstand ever since.
Mrs. Loring clears her throat and begins. She’s the best person for the job. There is no half-assing on her part. She’s a classically trained actor and when she reads the seized missives, she affects different accents and performs with a convincing earnestness. If I could, I’d bring my parents in for an evening showing.
“Student #1: Hey, did you see that [name redacted] sat by me during first period?”
“Student #2: YES! I think he likes you.”
“Student #1: We’re just friends. He’s not into me like that.”
“Student #2: C’MON! YOU JUST NEED TO GO FOR IT! Next time you hug, push your boobs up against him. That’s my secret weapon.”
A smattering of snorts interrupts the reading before Mrs. Loring restores order.
“Student #1: Let’s say that actually works—what if it changes everything? What if it messes up the friendship?”
“Student #2: Who cares? We’re about to graduate. You need to getchasome.”
“Student #1: Okay, sleezeball. I, for one, actually think it’s possible to have guy friends without banging them all.”
“Student #2: You’re delusional. It’s only a matter of time before best friends of opposite sex morph into LOVERS.”
The bolded final word, read with overblown dramatics, produces uproarious laughter. But, at our table, there is conspicuous silence. Crickets. The note parallels my life too closely. I fidget in my chair. Heat crawls up my spine. I’ve broken out in hives. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to Ian’s turkey sandwich. In fact, I wish I were—anaphylactic shock sounds wonderful compared to this. It feels like someone just transcribed the thoughts of the little angel and devil on my shoulders.
I hate this game.
I hate that Ian is trying to get me to meet his blue-flame gaze, probably trying to make some friendly joke.
When lunch is over, I’ll stand and make a break for it. I’ll decline his invitation to accompany him back to his classroom for cookies, and when we part ways, I’ll try hard to keep my tone and my gaze calm. He’ll never know anything was wrong.
I’ve had to tread lightly for the last 1300 days. Ian and I have a relationship that depends greatly on my ability to compartmentalize my feelings for him at the start of every school day and then slowly uncork the bottle at night. The pressure builds and builds all day.
It’s why my dreams are filthy.
It’s why I haven’t dated anyone else in ages.
This whole tightrope walk is getting harder and harder, but there’s no alternative. For 1300 days, I’ve been best friends with Ian Fletcher, and for 1300 days, I’ve convinced myself I’m not in love with him. I just really, really like pennies.
Chapter 2
Ian
Sam and I have been friends for a while now—so long, in fact, that I know she isn’t into me. Here are four times she’s made that perfectly clear:
-She once told me she feels nervous whenever we’re too close. “You’re the bull and I’m the china. You could probably sit on me and squash me to death.” The last guy she dated was short enough to fit into her jeans.
* * *
-She goes for boring business types, guys who spend their first month’s paycheck on an expensive frame for their MBA certificate.
* * *
-I once overheard her on the phone swearing to her mom that we were “never, ever, ever going to be more than friends.” It sounded like a Kidz Bop version of Taylor Swift.
* * *
-Oh, and there was the Halloween party last year when she dressed up like Hermione and I tried to kiss her and she laughed in my face…and then puked on my shoes.
Today is Wednesday, which means Sam is already at my house when I get home from soccer practice. I’m the head coach of Oak Hill’s men’s JV team. We’re undefeated, and Sam’s never missed a game even though sports aren’t really her thing.
“Please say you’ve already started dinner, Madam Secretary,” I say when I walk in and drop my bag.
“It’s in the oven, Mister President.”
She’s at my kitchen table, hunched over with her back to me. I can’t tell what she’s doing until I get closer and lean over her shoulder.
She’s sprinkling glitter onto poster boards, adding the finishing touches to bright neon signs. They say, GO OAK HILL SOCCER and COACH FLETCHER IS #1! Construction paper and glue and markers litter my table. It’s a complete mess.
“Are those for the game tomorrow?”
“Wow, aren’t you the master of deduction,” she teases before catching a whiff of my sweat and pushing me away with her hip. “Go shower. You stink. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”
I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.
Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.
This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.
When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.
Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.