Not So Nice Guy

  “Hey, Ian. I was wondering…um, did Samantha mention my note or anything to you by chance?”

  “Note?” I sound truly perplexed.

  “Yeah. I sent her one of those Valentine’s gifts from the choir kids.” He rubs the nape of his neck like it’s a nervous tic. “It was a stupid idea.”

  “Ohhh, now that you mention it, I did see some crumpled up paper in her recycling bin yesterday.”

  He frowns, bummed. I want to feel bad for the guy, but I don’t. You know what’s hard? Try having a crush on her for three years and then come talk to me.

  “Maybe she didn’t get it yet. Maybe the crumpled paper was something else.”

  “I dunno, those little Cupids are pretty prompt with their deliveries.”

  I’m hoping he’ll feel disheartened by the amount of competition and move on. Instead, he smiles like the nice guy he is. “You know what? Maybe I’ll just ask her out in person. My therapist is always telling me to step out of my comfort zone.”

  What the…? He sounds serious, like he’s really going to ask her out—and worse, Sam might actually say yes. She once told me she thought Malcolm took “pretty cool pictures”. What the hell is going on? I need to know what Sam did to tilt us out of the perfect state of balanced homeostasis we’ve been in for the last few years.

  When I make it back to the group, I pass her a lemonade and she acts offended that I didn’t get her a beer. I offer her a sip of mine and her face contorts with disgust after she samples it.

  “Ugh. Bleh. Tastes like cat pee. I just don’t understand how you do it.”

  I don’t know how you do it, man. Logan’s words echo in my head.

  “Come here, I want to show you something.”

  She follows me away from the group and I lead her toward a small garden near the toolshed so we’re out of earshot from the rest of the party. It’s early February, so nothing in the garden is green. Principal Pruitt still needs to clip away the dead plants from last season.

  “What’d you want to show me?”

  “Oh, this.” I thump on the side of the shed. “Isn’t it cool? Bet Principal Pruitt can fit a lot of tools in there. Anyway, you know how a lot of people at school always assumed we were dating?”

  My question throws her for a loop. Her dark blue eyes widen then squint up at me in confusion. “Yeah, pfff, so ridiculous right? Why? What is this about?”

  I drag a hand through my hair, unsure of how exactly to explain this. “Well, now people seem to think otherwise.”

  “Oh, well, yes.” She looks away as if calling the conversation to mind. “That new girl Ashley asked about us and I told her we were just friends.”

  I internally groan and she gulps down half her lemonade. I think she’s scared, and a moment later, when she starts rambling, my suspicions are confirmed.

  “Listen, if you’ve heard I’ve been propagating rumors that we’re a couple, I haven’t! I mean, that’s…yeah…” Her cheeks are the same color as the cherry red lipstick in her bag. Her fair skin means her emotions bloom right on the surface, and usually, I like it. Right now, I love it. “Obviously…I haven’t been doing that.”

  Right—I have.

  “So I guess everyone overheard your conversation with Ashley?”

  She rolls her eyes as if exasperated. “The teachers’ lounge has never exactly been known for privacy. It’s why the Freshman Four came over and asked about your soccer game. I think they all have crushes on you.”

  “Shit. I kinda liked the misconception.”

  “Because everyone left you alone?” She frowns. “Are you mad at me for blowing it?”

  I don’t know…maybe. I’m definitely angry, but I can’t tell why. Suddenly, I feel like I’m at the starting line of a marathon and the pistol was just fired, but I’m not ready to run. My laces are untied. I haven’t stretched. For three years, I’ve sort of just been walking around in track shoes, calling myself a runner.

  I’m scared of what will happen if I try to sprint now, but even more scared of what will happen if I don’t.

  Too bad.

  The race for Sam has begun whether I like it or not.

  5

  S A M

  I’ve been to every one of Ian’s soccer games. He’s the head coach for the JV team and takes the gig pretty seriously. The soccer program at Oak Hill is actually pretty well known across the state, and they haven’t lost a game in two years. Even so, JV games aren’t all that exciting. The fans usually include four or five overzealous parents, one stoner kid who was going to be out under the bleachers anyway, and me. I’ve never missed one of Ian’s games because I know if I were involved in any kind of extracurricular activity (pfff, hilarious), Ian would be there to support me too.

  Today, however, the bleachers are filled with half a dozen female teachers, including the Freshman Four. They’re sitting on the bottom bleacher in a little pack, forming a makeshift cheering section. One of them made a sign with sparkly glitter just like the one that now sits crumpled up under my feet. They’re treating this early season game like it’s the World Cup finals.

  They chant, “Ian, Ian, he’s our man. If he can’t do it, no one can!”

  The overprotective moms in attendance glare, unhappy that their motherly enthusiasm is being eclipsed by horny teachers. The referee tells them to stop disrupting and my grin is so wide, I think it’ll stay there permanently. Then Bianca stands up and takes Ian an ice-cold Gatorade, a lemon-lime love potion. I want him to swat it out of her hand, or better yet, untwist the cap and dump the contents on her head. Instead, he takes it and offers her a warm smile and thanks. When he takes a sip, it feels like I’m watching them make out. I fight the urge to fire up the groundskeeper’s riding lawn mower and chase her around the field.

  Ian goes back to coaching, and Bianca walks back to her friends with swaying hips and a gloating smile. They all high-five her and she says proudly, “That’s how it’s done.”

  I stomp a little harder on my poster.

  The last week has been nearly unbearable as I’ve watched teachers fight for Ian’s attention.

  To all of them, he’s been my toy for the last few years, and now that I’m not playing with him, why shouldn’t they get a turn? If we were on a kindergarten playground, I’d stand on their chubby necks and demand they leave him alone. The teachers would drag me off to the principal’s office and I’d kick and flail, promising swift retribution for anyone who touched him while I was in the slammer.

  A camera flashes from the edge of the bleachers, momentarily blinding me.

  I turn and spot Phoebe, from my first period, aiming her lens right at me.

  She waves and announces loudly, “Just getting photos for my newspaper assignment!”

  Wonderful. She’s finally decided to do some actual work and it’s at my expense.

  The game lasts for a short eternity. They go into overtime. Ian looks hot as hell on the sideline in his coach’s jersey. The Freshman Four are champing at the bit. The wind keeps whipping my poster board and flecks of glitter lodge themselves in my eyes. By the time Ian and I are walking to his car after the game, I look like I’ve been crying.

  “You didn’t use the signs,” he points out.

  I glance down at where I have them folded under my arm. “Oh…yeah. They’re silly. I didn’t want to be a distraction.”

  I try to stuff them in a trashcan we pass by, but Ian insists he wants to keep them. “You spent a lot of time on them.”

  “Not that long,” I say, quick to clarify in case it saves me from looking desperate.

  I don’t want to seem like I’m in the same boat as the Freshman Four—who, by the way, catch up to us in the parking lot and ask Ian if he wants to go with them to dinner to celebrate winning the game. They don’t extend the invitation to me, going so far as to say the restaurant they picked only has tables that accommodate five people. That’s the best lie you can come up with?

  I open my mouth to let out the string of curse words I
’ve been holding in for the entirety of the game, but Ian quickly declines their offer and drags me off to his car.

  “Everything copacetic over there?” he asks as we drive home.

  I have no clue what he’s referring to. Oh right—in the last few minutes, I’ve grumbled and yanked on my seatbelt when it wasn’t cooperating, fiddled with the air conditioning because it was too cold and then too hot, and adjusted the sun visor up and down half a dozen times before giving up altogether.

  “Fine. Just hungry.”

  He buys this excuse. “All right, I’ll feed you, but then I have a special request.”

  I keep my scowl aimed out the window and grunt in response.

  “I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “I was having a tough time motivating my guys at the beginning of overtime, so I promised if they won this game, I’d dye my hair blue.”

  My attention whips back to him. “What?!”

  He’s wearing a small teasing smile as he stares out the front windshield.

  “Just temporarily. I already bought some stuff that should wash out within a week.”

  “You’ll look ridiculous.”

  No he won’t.

  “It’s all for morale. Sometimes you have to be unconventional.”

  “Okay, but why do you need my help?”

  “I don’t want it to look stupid and uneven.”

  So that’s how Ian ropes me into helping him dye his beautiful brown hair a shocking shade of electric blue. As soon as we get home from the game, he showers while I transform his kitchen sink into a salon.

  When he steps out of the bathroom, steam billows out with him. Time slows. The sultry sounds of “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye play in my head. He’s barefoot, wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt. His short hair is damp and a few strands are plastered to his forehead. His eyes are bluer than blue when he assesses me coolly.

  “Ready for me?”

  DEAR GOD YES.

  I gulp and remind myself of his actual meaning.

  “Sure thing.”

  I pat the chair and tell him to take a seat.

  “The instructions say to start with damp hair, so step one is complete.”

  He leans his head back and stares up at me. The position reminds me of that iconic upside-down Spiderman kiss with Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst.

  His lips are so inviting.

  “Okay, now what?”

  I realize he’s asking me a question a second too late. “Huh?”

  “What next?”

  “Oh.” I swallow and turn my attention back to the box.

  “It says to drape a towel over your clothes so they don’t get stained.”

  He stands back up and yanks off his t-shirt.

  Whoa!

  “It didn’t say strip!” I shout, covering my eyes.

  He laughs and grabs a kitchen towel to drape over his broad shoulders. It’s not quite big enough, so he’s forced to grab one from his bathroom. When he walks back out, he explains, “I like that shirt, don’t want it ruined.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I insist, peeking at him from between my fingers. “You can put it back on.” I withhold a desperate please.

  “This is easier.”

  I force out a resigned sigh and drop my hand.

  He sits, leans his head back again, and closes his eyes. It’s a gift. He’s saying, Here, take your fill, and I won’t even watch you while you do it.

  Ho ho ho, Christmas has come early.

  I’ve seen Ian shirtless exactly 23 times. Half of those occurrences have been innocent in nature: beach days and pool parties. The rest have been stolen glimpses of him while he’s changing in his room. Yes, that’s right—sometimes, I’m a sneaky little voyeur. I just can’t help myself.

  Still, this feels different. He’s never just been shirtless like this around me. At the beach or at the pool, we’re outside and there’s room for my desire to swell and expand. Here, in his kitchen, it dwells like a physical presence.

  My gaze skates gently across his abs and I note the grooves like a toddler counting up her blocks. One, two, three, four, five, six…I wonder if his skin would feel hot or if it just looks that way because it’s tan.

  I pinch the collar of my shirt and tug on it, trying to increase airflow.

  It’s like we’re in a pressure cooker.

  He peeks one eye open. “Are you going to start today, or…?”

  “Yes. Obviously.” I grasp blindly for the instructions and shake them out. “I’m just giving you time to change your mind about ruining this thick head of hair. Your mom is going to kill you—and me.”

  He smiles. “Wouldn’t happen. She likes you too much.”

  Then he closes his eyes again and this time, I am dutiful and stay on task.

  I put on the nitrile gloves and pick up the bowl of blue dye. After a concentrated breath, I dip my fingers in the goop and start to disperse it across his hair. At first, I try to keep my distance. I’m standing as far from him as possible, bent at 90 degrees to reach his head, but my lower back aches in protest after a few seconds. I’m forced to step closer, but apparently it’s not close enough because Ian laughs and reaches for me.

  “You’re getting it everywhere, c’mere.”

  His arm loops through my legs and around my left thigh so he can tug me toward him. Either he underestimates his strength or I’m just weak because when he pulls, I lose my footing and collapse against him, and worse, I can’t steady myself because my hands are covered in blue goop. We’re connected whether I like it or not. My hip hits his shoulder. My thigh is brushing his bicep. My boobs are inches from his face. He squeezes my leg to help stabilize me and his fingers are touching the sensitive skin above my knee. For a second, it feels like he’s skimming them back and forth on purpose.

  My entire body clenches in anticipation of what will happen next. We’ve never been this close for this long.

  My breath is held hostage in my chest. His eyes are still closed.

  My mouth is open, and I’m about to whisper his name like a question, but he pushes me back to standing on my own before I can. His arm drops from my thigh then his hands go right back to resting on his abs.

  I force a slow, steady exhale I hope he can’t hear.

  After that mishap, I’m The Flash through the remainder of the dye job. I run my fingers through his hair, saturate the strands, and try to stay calm during the parts where I have to lean over his body to get to the other side of his head. I can feel his breath on my neck. A fireworks show makes its way down my spine.

  If he’s affected by our proximity, he doesn’t let on. He could be napping for all I know.

  When I’m finished, I step back. “Okay. Now we’re supposed to let it sit for a few minutes.”

  He opens his eyes and offers me a devilish grin. “How do I look so far?”

  I sigh, slightly annoyed with the results. “Not nearly as dorky as you should. Half the team is probably going to copy you.”

  “So I’m a trendsetter?”

  He chuckles and turns to stare up at the ceiling. His fingers drum on his abs.

  I rock back on my heels and reach for my blue-fingerprint-stained glass of water.

  “What should we do while we wait?” I ask.

  “How about I do you now?” he suggests.

  I spew water all over the counter and break out into a violent coughing fit. Ian cycles from amused to concerned as he realizes I might actually be choking. Embarrassed, I turn to walk away, but he pinches my shirt and pulls so I plop down backward onto his lap. He slaps my back until the coughing subsides.

  “Okay, I think I’m good,” I say, trying to stand up and run out into traffic, but now his hands are on my waist, holding me in place.

  “Did you think I was coming on to you?” he says to the back of my head.

  We’re too close for comfort, but the lack of eye contact has made him bold.

  “I just misunderstood the question
,” I answer, feigning calmness.

  “Interesting.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh please. Obviously I didn’t think you wanted to like…do me.”

  His fingers dig into my hips, and I think he can feel my pulse respond.

  “Hmm, but it seemed plausible enough to inhale half a glass of water.”

  “Whatever. I was just woozy from the noxious hair dye fumes.”

  I try to wiggle out of his hold, but he doesn’t let me.

  I give up and hold stock-still, afraid the slightest movement might turn this friendly, lifesaving lap-sit into a $10 lap dance. The thought sends a new flush to my cheeks.

  “I don’t smell fumes, just your body wash. You’ve used the same scent for three years.”

  He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be funny. He sounds feral.

  “I’ll change it if it bothers you,” I say, breathless.

  “Don’t.”

  I’m having wild ideas: Maybe I should turn around and kiss him. Maybe I should finally find out what he tastes like.

  I catch our bizarre reflection in the window in front of me and an alarm whirs in my brain. STOP THIS! STOP!

  I jump up and clap my hands. The noise is like a freight train, interrupting the tension building between us. “Oh! Time to rinse your hair!”

  It’s only been like two minutes, but he doesn’t question me. He shakes his head and looks away.

  After rinsing off in the shower, we see it was a success.

  Ian’s hair is blue.

  My cheeks are still red.

  Everyone at school goes crazy for Ian’s new do. It’s such a cool, shocking shade that the students call him a badass and the female teachers now think he has some untapped wild side. In the teachers’ lounge, they whisper about him looking like a rock star.

  I’m glad the color isn’t permanent. His constant workouts mean he has to shower frequently, and soon, he’ll be back to generic ol’ Ian. Of note, I find that if I call him words like generic in my head, it’s easier to make it through the day. Here’s how it works: Oh, him? That’s just plain ol’ Brad Pitt. Meh.

  See? I bet you don’t even think Brad Pitt is hot anymore.