Not So Nice Guy
Page 28

But then, I get it. There’s a double standard. If she’d stayed, she would have been ridiculed and mocked mercilessly. Meanwhile, all day at school, male teachers and coaches bump into me in the hallway and offer congratulations. I sidestep countless high fives, fist bumps, and shoulder claps. The next guy who grunts or winks in my direction or tries to make a joke about Sam and whipped cream will have to get their shattered jaw wired shut.
At the end of soccer practice, I skip a shower and head straight for Sam’s apartment. I knock on her door for so long, her neighbor shouts at me to go away.
I ask him if he’s seen Sam and he says, “Never heard of him.”
Right—we’re each other’s only friends.
When I get back to my car, I try to call her again and it goes straight to voicemail. I have no choice but to drive around town to all the destinations where I could possibly find her. I check the bakery where she likes to get cupcakes, the other bakery where she likes to get cookies, the third bakery where she likes to get banana pudding. No one has seen her. I check out the ice cream shop, the popsicle shop, and then finally, the frozen yogurt shop.
The man there shakes his head angrily.
“Petite thing? Red hair? Yeah, she was here—almost had to kick her out. She was high on drugs, came in and made a mess of the place.”
What the fuck?
“Did you see where she went when she left?”
“Probably to get more horse tranquilizers.”
I go back outside and try to think like Sherlock Holmes. I look for clues in the parking lot, try to put myself in her shoes, but even in my head, they’re so small they don’t fit.
I’m fresh out of ideas and then I decide it can’t hurt to check her parents’ house, even though she’s not that close with them. They’re snobby and judgmental and I doubt she’d turn to them on a day like this, but sure enough, her bike is lying in their driveway.
I park and head for the front door, but my first few knocks go unanswered.
The downstairs is dark and the shades are drawn, but I hear voices inside. Someone’s definitely home. I jiggle the door handle and it opens. It was unlocked the whole time.
I step inside and call out, but no one answers. The voices I could hear outside are coming from a radio in the kitchen. Creepy.
Her parents clearly aren’t home, but I know Sam’s here. I’ve only been here a handful of times, but I remember her room is the first one on the right upstairs.
Sure enough, that’s where I find her, splayed out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
I pause in the doorway as a slow smile spreads. It feels good to have found her, to know she’s okay…sort of. I mean, she’s lying there wearing her dorky band uniform from high school. The stiff red and black material completely drowns her. On her head, she’s wearing the band hat with red plumage. It makes her look like a rooster. Her parents’ cat is toying with it like it’s a mouse.
Her eyes are red, her cheeks are flushed. I wonder how much she’s cried today.
I take a hesitant step inside and her gaze stays rooted above, like she’s gone comatose.
“Where are your parents?”
“On an Alaskan cruise.” Her voice is calm.
Makes sense.
“They leave NPR on while they’re gone?”
“They want to make sure burglars are informed on current world events while they’re burgling.”
My smile widens.
I want to kiss her, but I get that it’s not the right time.
Instead, I take a seat at her desk—or at least I try to. Her chair is very small and my hips barely clear the armrests. I manage eventually, and we sit in silence for a while as I take in her room. I’ve never had the chance to really inspect it before today. She was too shy to let me poke around the last time we were here, but now I get my fill of teenage Sam. Her walls are painted lime green. CDs line an entire bookshelf. There are band trophies and UIL journalism awards arranged on top of her dresser. Where other girls would have a framed picture of a boy band, she has a photograph of Jean-Luc Picard on her nightstand.
I love her.
She makes a sound like an animal caught in a bear trap and I jerk my gaze to meet hers. She tries to readjust her position on the bed, but the stiff material of her band uniform makes it hard for her to move.
“What’s with the getup?”
She looks down as if just now remembering she has it on. “Oh, yeah. I’m going back to a point in time before I sent that school-wide email. I think in the psychiatric world, they call this regression.”
I tip my head to the side and wait for her to meet my eyes, but she won’t.
“I totally get not wanting to be at school today, but just so you know, this is not a big deal. There’s no rule against sending funny pictures.”
When she speaks next, her words drip with sarcasm. “Oh, goodie. I’m so glad there’s no rule against public humiliation—but wait, if there’s no rule against it, why did we get called to the principal’s office?”
“You’re not ‘called to principal’s office’ as an adult. You’re summoned for a meeting.”
“Either way, we’re fucked.”
She picks her arms up and then lets them flop back down dramatically. Her flute cartwheels to the ground.
“He just wants to meet to talk about the email.”
“And tell us we’re fired.”
“He’ll probably just have us sign some kind of HR disclosure concerning the relationship.”
“Relationship? I’m 15-year-old Sam. I haven’t met you yet. Now, please leave so I can go back to watching TRL. MTV Cribs comes on after and I don’t want to miss it.”
All right, I’ll let her do this. She’s had a rough day.
I turn and start snooping around her desk. I want to look in every drawer, flip open every book. In her desk I find a purple Game Boy, a Blink 182 CD, and a handwritten list of her Myspace Top 8. Names are scratched out and new ones have been added below. I wonder where I would have fallen.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
She groans and moves off the bed, too curious. My ploy worked. She comes to stand right beside me, trying to close the drawer. I don’t let her. Instead, I pull out a worn paperback that has its cover torn off.
“What’s this?”
“NOTHING! IAN LET ME HAVE THAT!”
Her over-the-top reaction ensures I won’t give it back to her any time soon. I stiff-arm her so she can’t reach me and then I read the spine.
“Pirate’s Hidden Treasure.”
Oh, this is too good.
“Did teenage Sam like to read romance novels?”
“Ian, c’mon.”
“Let me just read one page.”
With a growl, she sneaks under my arm, wrenches the paperback out of my hand, and flings it across the room. It splats against the wall then crumples to the ground.
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.”