My collection has been growing out of control over the last few days. At first, I assumed Sam was pranking me. It makes sense; the quartet isn’t all that funny anymore. I thought this year she had changed tactics, but then I started reading the accompanying notes.
The gifts aren’t from Sam, they’re from other teachers around the school. Today’s lot is from Bianca and Gretchen. Bianca has even taken the time to kiss her card with red lipstick so when I open her note, it accidentally smears across my thumb. My face is a mask of disgust as I wipe my finger on the edge of my seat. Get it off, get it off.
The choir student turns to leave but I grab hold of the back of his shirt. He stumbles and I right him.
“How much longer is this fundraiser going on?” I ask, desperate.
“Another week,” he replies, whispering out of respect for my students taking their quiz. “Hopefully we’ll meet our goal and then we can all fly to Disney for nationals and compete on the main stage!”
He says “main stage” with stars in his eyes. He’s mistaken my desperation for curiosity.
I nudge my chin toward the leftover roses and bears in his arms. “Who are those for?”
He grins. “Abrams. We’re not supposed to take notice of this sort of thing, but you two have the highest number of admirers so far this year!”
“What? Who? How?”
His smile falls and I realize I’m gripping his shirt so hard, I stretched out the collar. I let go and smooth it out. I should probably stop touching him now.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
He’s nervous. His wistful tears have turned into fearful ones.
I lead him out of the classroom so our conversation isn’t overheard.
“So those gifts are for her?”
He nods slowly.
“Let me read her notes.”
His eyes are two round saucers as he clutches the gifts to his chest. “You can’t! I’m honor-bound to protect the sanctity and privacy of—”
I pry one of them out of his shaky grasp. The kid will need counseling after this encounter.
Roses are red.
Violets are frilly.
You’re the hottest teacher at Oak Hill.
Let’s Netflix and chill-i?
That scholarly piece of verse was penned by Logan, the defensive coordinator for the football team. I’m not too worried, because I know Sam well enough to be sure she won’t be wooed by an offer of sex and stewed meat.
“Hand me the next one.”
“Mr. Fletcher, please! Have you lost your moral compass?!”
He checks back and forth down the long hallway, nervous to be caught as my accomplice.
I rip it out of his hand. The next note is marginally better because it’s not masquerading as a poem.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Samantha!
Maybe you and I can grab coffee sometime if you’re up for it?
That one is from the photography teacher, Malcolm. He’s Sam’s type, in that he barely reaches my elbows.
“How many notes have already been delivered to her?”
“I-I don’t k-know,” he stammers. “I was only put on delivery duty this morning!”
Her collection is probably as full as mine.
Shit.
I know Sam has had her fair share of admirers at Oak Hill. She’s the perfect blend of sweet and sexy. She’s nice to everyone. She smiles and remembers birthdays. Her brand of humor is addictive, and it’s the combination of these qualities that puts her squarely on every male’s radar. For a long while now, there’s been a rumor going around that we’re dating, and I made a point to never confirm or deny it. It made my life a lot easier if people thought we were a couple. That all changed yesterday. I don’t know what she told Ashley during lunch, but since then, I’ve had three guys come to my classroom trying to glean information about Sam.
“What’s her favorite flower?”
“What’s her favorite color?”
“Is she into chocolate?”
What the fuck kind of question is that? Are there people walking around this planet who don’t like chocolate?
“How much do you have left for your personal fundraising goal?” I ask the kid while he moans about probably being kicked out of the Cupid Corps.
My proposition is understood immediately and he regains his composure so quickly, I’m convinced he has a future in Broadway.
“$250,” he states with an even, no-nonsense tone.
“That’s a lot of money to try to make the old-fashioned way. How good are you at keeping secrets?”
He shrugs, feigning boredom. He inspects his fingernails.
Good. He gets it.
“Every time Ms. Abrams gets something from an admirer, deliver it to me instead. Every delivery gets you $20.”
His brow arches. “I know you’re on a teacher’s salary, but I think you can do better than that.”
I wish it weren’t against the rules to smack students.
“$50.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”
I justify my actions by telling myself my monetary contribution is going to charity. Those pimple-faced kids will get to sing on the main stage because I can’t stand the idea of Sam having coffee with another man.
By the time my free period rolls around, I have four more bears for myself and five for Sam. I have the accompanying love notes stuffed in my desk drawer. I feel itchy about my deception, especially when she walks in and eyes the collection amassed behind my chair.
Her brows perk up. “Quite a few admirers you have there. I’ve only had one paltry rose delivered today.”
What the hell? How did the rose sneak through? Kids these days can’t be trusted for shit.
“Who was it from?” I ask, continuing to grade pop quizzes as if her answer doesn’t interest me.
“PE teacher.”
“Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yup. You’re not the only one she’s into.”
I smile, pleased.
“Gonna go for it? You never struck me as someone who might play for the other team.”
She picks up one of the bears and looks at it longingly. “You know what, Fletcher? I just might.”
That weekend, we have to attend a housewarming party at Principal Pruitt’s place. It’s not our idea of a good time. Sam meets me at my house beforehand and when I open the door to find her wearing a red dress, I decide I need a shot of Fireball. I pour one and Sam insists she needs one too. I hope we don’t keep going shot for shot, because she’s about half my bodyweight.
She’s extra smiley tonight, a real charmer. Everyone in our group at the party is hanging on her every word. She looks so hot in her dress. It’s not too low-cut, but even still, my mind fills in the gaps. I excuse myself to get us drinks and spot Principal Pruitt manning the grill. He’s wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt and a plastic lei around his neck. He tips his Corona in my direction, but under no circumstances will I be getting sucked into a conversation with him over the subtleties of different wood chips for grilling. I motion toward the drinks and he shoots back a thumbs-up.
I’m surprised there’s alcohol at this party. It’s not a school-sanctioned event, but all the staff is here. I suppose it makes sense, though—with the Hawaiian shirt and free beer, Principal Pruitt is trying hard to be the cool dad of the administration.
“Maaan, that superintendent is so stiff, but you can come to me about anything,” he said last week after a district meeting, clapping me on the shoulder. “I always want to have relaxed, open channels of communication between myself and my staff.”
I should tell him saying phrases like “open channels of communication” makes him sound more like a suit and less like one of us.
I’m popping the top off a beer when Logan, the football coach, steps into line behind me.
“Hey man, cool shirt,” he says with a bro nod in my direction.
I wasn’t going to come tonight, but Sam insisted we had to show our faces. While I napped on the sofa, she yanked clothes out of my closet for me. The simple blue shirt was her doing and doesn’t really warrant a compliment.
“What’s the brand?” he asks. “Calvin?”
The gifts aren’t from Sam, they’re from other teachers around the school. Today’s lot is from Bianca and Gretchen. Bianca has even taken the time to kiss her card with red lipstick so when I open her note, it accidentally smears across my thumb. My face is a mask of disgust as I wipe my finger on the edge of my seat. Get it off, get it off.
The choir student turns to leave but I grab hold of the back of his shirt. He stumbles and I right him.
“How much longer is this fundraiser going on?” I ask, desperate.
“Another week,” he replies, whispering out of respect for my students taking their quiz. “Hopefully we’ll meet our goal and then we can all fly to Disney for nationals and compete on the main stage!”
He says “main stage” with stars in his eyes. He’s mistaken my desperation for curiosity.
I nudge my chin toward the leftover roses and bears in his arms. “Who are those for?”
He grins. “Abrams. We’re not supposed to take notice of this sort of thing, but you two have the highest number of admirers so far this year!”
“What? Who? How?”
His smile falls and I realize I’m gripping his shirt so hard, I stretched out the collar. I let go and smooth it out. I should probably stop touching him now.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
He’s nervous. His wistful tears have turned into fearful ones.
I lead him out of the classroom so our conversation isn’t overheard.
“So those gifts are for her?”
He nods slowly.
“Let me read her notes.”
His eyes are two round saucers as he clutches the gifts to his chest. “You can’t! I’m honor-bound to protect the sanctity and privacy of—”
I pry one of them out of his shaky grasp. The kid will need counseling after this encounter.
Roses are red.
Violets are frilly.
You’re the hottest teacher at Oak Hill.
Let’s Netflix and chill-i?
That scholarly piece of verse was penned by Logan, the defensive coordinator for the football team. I’m not too worried, because I know Sam well enough to be sure she won’t be wooed by an offer of sex and stewed meat.
“Hand me the next one.”
“Mr. Fletcher, please! Have you lost your moral compass?!”
He checks back and forth down the long hallway, nervous to be caught as my accomplice.
I rip it out of his hand. The next note is marginally better because it’s not masquerading as a poem.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Samantha!
Maybe you and I can grab coffee sometime if you’re up for it?
That one is from the photography teacher, Malcolm. He’s Sam’s type, in that he barely reaches my elbows.
“How many notes have already been delivered to her?”
“I-I don’t k-know,” he stammers. “I was only put on delivery duty this morning!”
Her collection is probably as full as mine.
Shit.
I know Sam has had her fair share of admirers at Oak Hill. She’s the perfect blend of sweet and sexy. She’s nice to everyone. She smiles and remembers birthdays. Her brand of humor is addictive, and it’s the combination of these qualities that puts her squarely on every male’s radar. For a long while now, there’s been a rumor going around that we’re dating, and I made a point to never confirm or deny it. It made my life a lot easier if people thought we were a couple. That all changed yesterday. I don’t know what she told Ashley during lunch, but since then, I’ve had three guys come to my classroom trying to glean information about Sam.
“What’s her favorite flower?”
“What’s her favorite color?”
“Is she into chocolate?”
What the fuck kind of question is that? Are there people walking around this planet who don’t like chocolate?
“How much do you have left for your personal fundraising goal?” I ask the kid while he moans about probably being kicked out of the Cupid Corps.
My proposition is understood immediately and he regains his composure so quickly, I’m convinced he has a future in Broadway.
“$250,” he states with an even, no-nonsense tone.
“That’s a lot of money to try to make the old-fashioned way. How good are you at keeping secrets?”
He shrugs, feigning boredom. He inspects his fingernails.
Good. He gets it.
“Every time Ms. Abrams gets something from an admirer, deliver it to me instead. Every delivery gets you $20.”
His brow arches. “I know you’re on a teacher’s salary, but I think you can do better than that.”
I wish it weren’t against the rules to smack students.
“$50.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”
I justify my actions by telling myself my monetary contribution is going to charity. Those pimple-faced kids will get to sing on the main stage because I can’t stand the idea of Sam having coffee with another man.
By the time my free period rolls around, I have four more bears for myself and five for Sam. I have the accompanying love notes stuffed in my desk drawer. I feel itchy about my deception, especially when she walks in and eyes the collection amassed behind my chair.
Her brows perk up. “Quite a few admirers you have there. I’ve only had one paltry rose delivered today.”
What the hell? How did the rose sneak through? Kids these days can’t be trusted for shit.
“Who was it from?” I ask, continuing to grade pop quizzes as if her answer doesn’t interest me.
“PE teacher.”
“Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yup. You’re not the only one she’s into.”
I smile, pleased.
“Gonna go for it? You never struck me as someone who might play for the other team.”
She picks up one of the bears and looks at it longingly. “You know what, Fletcher? I just might.”
That weekend, we have to attend a housewarming party at Principal Pruitt’s place. It’s not our idea of a good time. Sam meets me at my house beforehand and when I open the door to find her wearing a red dress, I decide I need a shot of Fireball. I pour one and Sam insists she needs one too. I hope we don’t keep going shot for shot, because she’s about half my bodyweight.
She’s extra smiley tonight, a real charmer. Everyone in our group at the party is hanging on her every word. She looks so hot in her dress. It’s not too low-cut, but even still, my mind fills in the gaps. I excuse myself to get us drinks and spot Principal Pruitt manning the grill. He’s wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt and a plastic lei around his neck. He tips his Corona in my direction, but under no circumstances will I be getting sucked into a conversation with him over the subtleties of different wood chips for grilling. I motion toward the drinks and he shoots back a thumbs-up.
I’m surprised there’s alcohol at this party. It’s not a school-sanctioned event, but all the staff is here. I suppose it makes sense, though—with the Hawaiian shirt and free beer, Principal Pruitt is trying hard to be the cool dad of the administration.
“Maaan, that superintendent is so stiff, but you can come to me about anything,” he said last week after a district meeting, clapping me on the shoulder. “I always want to have relaxed, open channels of communication between myself and my staff.”
I should tell him saying phrases like “open channels of communication” makes him sound more like a suit and less like one of us.
I’m popping the top off a beer when Logan, the football coach, steps into line behind me.
“Hey man, cool shirt,” he says with a bro nod in my direction.
I wasn’t going to come tonight, but Sam insisted we had to show our faces. While I napped on the sofa, she yanked clothes out of my closet for me. The simple blue shirt was her doing and doesn’t really warrant a compliment.
“What’s the brand?” he asks. “Calvin?”
