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.
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.
2
I A N
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?”
“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.
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.
2
I A N
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?”
