Not So Nice Guy
Page 18

“Ms. Abrams, you look radiant tonight.” It’s my student Nicholas. He’s trying to get my attention. “You know, like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web—not that I’m saying you look like a pig, it’s just…never mind. Hey, would it be too forward of me to ask for your company during the next dance?”
I shove him a few inches to the right so I can still see Ian over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, Nicholas. That’s great.”
He shrieks. “Are you serious?!”
Oh no. I jerk my gaze toward him and see his eyes welling with tears. What have I done?
“Nicholas, god no. Sorry, I was distracted. Obviously I can’t dance with you. I’m a teacher. Principal Pruitt wouldn’t allow it.”
He fists his hands with determination and spins on his heels. I think I’m done with him for the remainder of the evening but then I catch sight of him over by Principal Pruitt. They both turn in my direction. Nicholas clasps his hands together in front of his chest in prayer. Principal Pruitt laughs and pats him on the shoulder then looks my way so he can throw me a thumbs-up. Oh goody, permission—just what I wanted.
Nicholas finds me at the end of the next song. I now notice he’s wearing a bowtie and a fancy pair of glasses he must keep tucked away for special occasions. They’re horn-rimmed. He’s also wearing a boutonnière on the lapel of his tuxedo. Most other students are just wearing jeans. I like the effort and tell him so as we go out onto the dance floor.
“You look so…smart tonight, Nicholas.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course.”
“Because I was thinking…I know you’re ten years older than me, but maybe after—”
“No.”
“I graduate, we could—”
“Nicholas.”
“Date.”
I sigh heavily. “Nicholas, this is just a dance. I’m your teacher, and while my job is trying at times, you know what’s worse than dealing with checked-out seniors who don’t care about English? Prison. Prison is worse.”
There’s no deterring him. “That’s fine. I hear you loud and clear. We’ll revisit the topic when I’m legal.”
I sigh and give in to the moment. I’m not hurting anyone, and Nicholas is so damn happy to be out on the dance floor with me. So what if he weighs 95 pounds and is seventeen years old? He likes me! He asked me to dance, which is more than I can say for Ian—who, by the way, is still over there chatting with a few other chaperones, not bothering to look my way.
We haven’t spoken all night.
We drove separately.
Principal Pruitt assigned me to the left side of the cafeteria when I arrived earlier. Ian was already stationed on the opposite side. I stashed my cell phone and purse in my classroom and didn’t think to bring walkie-talkies, so there’s been no communication thus far. I’m not sure he even realizes I’m here. I know this because I’ve had my eyes on him for 99% of the evening. I can’t help it. Tonight, he looks magnificent in a black suit. He’s taken the time to style his chocolate-brown hair in some kind of debonair sexy way I’ve never seen him do before. Usually, the short, slightly wavy strands are free to do what they will. It’s cute like that, bedhead chic, the stuff wet dreams are made of. Tonight, he’s decided he hasn’t taunted us enough already. He wants to make it worse with the suit and the hair and the smoldering gaze. Oh yes, he’s stepped it up all right. No doubt his blue eyes are gleaming like sapphires beneath his dark brows. His sharp cheekbones could probably take out an eye.
I shouldn’t get too close, not if I know what’s good for me. If I’m not careful, I’ll sustain lasting damage.
Still…
“Nicholas, hey, twirl me in the direction of the punch bowl.”
“Twirl? Uhhh, I didn’t make it that far in the instructional dance video…”
I lead us, taking control and basically dragging poor Nicholas across the cafeteria. He trips and tumbles into me. I try to play it off like we’re having so much fun and can hardly contain our laughter.
“Laugh, Nicholas,” I say sternly.
“You’re scaring me.”
We’re only feet away from Ian now, and I produce a cackle verging on insanity. “Nicholas stop, stop. You’re killing me.”
“Oh my god, am I stepping on your toes or something?”
As a matter of fact, he is, but I ignore the shooting pain and aim a pleasant little smile in Ian’s direction. Finally, I catch his blue gaze and he inclines his head with a sexy lift of his brow. The expression says, Samantha, please. You’re fooling no one.
He wins that round.
My poor feet do not.
Later, as I’m sitting down, icing my toes, I watch as the Freshman Four descend on Ian across the room. They weren’t even supposed to be chaperoning the dance and yet here they are, wearing bright dresses in Starburst shades with enough sequins to rival a disco ball. Their seduction strategy boils down to squirrel psychology: to be attractive is to be bright and shiny. Their attack on Ian is coordinated. They each take a cardinal direction so he’s surrounded. I watch with glee while he tries to break away from them. If only he wasn’t ignoring me, I could go over and help the poor man. He’s really done it now. Oh yes, he’s going to get it.
Except, a minute later, he holds out his hand and I watch with a gaping mouth as he leads BIANCA out onto the dance floor. BIANCA, the wicked witch of Oak Hill High! She’s never looked more smug.
I catch a hint of their conversation and my eyes narrow to slits.
“Bianca stop, stop. You’re killing me.”
Oh, okay, funny man.
They dance dangerously close to where I’m sitting with my ice pack, except Ian knows how to dance, and he also knows how to make Bianca toss her head back with riotous laughter. Oh please, Bianca. Your sense of humor is limited to the first half of knock-knock jokes. You don’t even remember the punchlines.
When they twirl even closer to me, Ian catches my eye. He tips his head and smiles, so self-serving and congratulatory. I stand up, wince at the pain, and march away as swiftly as seven shattered toes will allow.
I’m not even sure what game we’re playing or what the rules are, but I know he upped the stakes with that stupid, magnificent black suit.
I retaliated with a misguided dance with Nicholas, and now he’s delivering a backhanded blow with Bianca on his arm. By my count, he’s up two to zero. If someone were to ask what the point of all this is, I’d tell them there is a perfectly good explanation but that it’s none of their business. In reality, there is no point. I don’t know where my motives lie because I don’t take a single second to think about them. I’m too busy reacting, strategizing. There’s not an eligible bachelor in the room aside from Ian. Principal Pruitt is not only ancient, he’s also happily married. Even now, he’s out on the dance floor with his wife. They’re smooshed together under the disco ball and their love makes me want to spew chunks.
I could have had a date tonight. Apparently, I could have even had dates tonight! A veritable reverse harem if only Ian hadn’t bribed children to steal from me. I wonder how many bears he intercepted—tens, hundreds, thousands? There’s no telling. I could have been buried alive in stuffing and fake fur and tiny choking-hazard eyeballs. What a dream.
Even worse, I spent time on my appearance tonight in an effort to make Ian swallow his tongue. I booked appointments for hair and makeup at a local salon and I suffered in a chair with poor lumbar support all afternoon. They did things to my eyebrows. My long hair was twirled, teased, curled, brushed out, and then sprayed in place. Usually, I don’t wear much makeup, and right now I feel like I’m about to step on stage at a beauty pageant.
And that’s not even mentioning the dress.
It’s short and blue and flirty, not so short that students are liable to catch a peek at my privates, but short enough that my legs are “killing it, baby,” as the sales clerk noted. I wish I’d just worn a velour tracksuit. I feel ridiculous now that I’ve gone to all this trouble and Ian hasn’t even come to over to talk to me.