Chapter 9
Robert
The speakers crackle a little when I crank up the volume, and I know I’ve got a bad connection somewhere. It seems I have a lot of bad connections lately.
Nic, for one. I think about what Mr. Mac (Andrew—the name still feels a little odd on my tongue) said. Don’t break up. What he’s asking is tough, though I understand why he asked, I think.
The thought of breaking up with Nic is not a new thought. I’ve just been too lazy to do it. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s not true either. A boyfriend gives me a reason to get out of the house. It gives me someone to meet for a movie or a burger, if said boyfriend isn’t already booked up with his girls. It means someone to hang out at the pool with during the summer and a date to the homecoming dance in the fall.
I don’t know why I didn’t break up with him that day after Christmas. He’d been such a jerk. I think about calling Luke when I get home. It’s been almost a year since we “dated,” and I miss having someone like that to unload on. But it’s not really Luke that I want to talk to.
Do you think I’m fat?
LOL. Who told you that?
Nic. He also says I look like a marshmallow.
I love marshmallows! Especially sandwiched between two graham crackers with a bit of chocolate. Yum.
I’m still trying to think how to respond to that text when a second one comes in: Um, strike that last text. You are not fat.
I smile down at my phone. I do believe that Andrew has embarrassed himself. I like that about him. In fact, there’s not much about Andrew McNelis that I don’t like. No, that’s not quite right. There is nothing about Andrew McNelis that I don’t like. Nothing at all.
Andrew
I’d like to break that little cheerleader’s neck. It wouldn’t take much force either; he’s a scrawny, sassy little twerp. And the nerve. Robert’s worth ten of that pompous little queen.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked Robert to keep dating him, but I can’t help being a little nervous that there’s too much of me out there. And from the way Robert’s talked, their dating can hardly be described as dating, so maybe that’s not so bad.
I reply to his text, and even as my thumb is hitting Send, I see the innuendo in my words and fire off a follow-up. I can feel the heat in my face. You, teacher. You, adult, I remind myself.
Yum? God.
I set my phone on the table next to me and start with my Twitter account since that seems to be ground zero. I’m not worried about my tweets, but I scan over a few pages just to be sure. Most of them are links to news articles and opinion pieces I’ve read in the Huffington Post or the Daily Beast. I can’t help being a little political, but the links indicate a liberal bent that’s not that unusual among younger teachers, even in this area. I scan through my list of followers and those I follow and block and unfollow anyone or any organization that might suggest to anyone that I’m a pervert in any way. I’m not.
When I’m confident that I am above reproach, I turn to my Facebook page.
BTW, you owe me 2 points.
???
My quiz. The sign. Not wrong. A sliver of wood fiber in the paper made the–look like a +. Can bring back tomorrow for you to check.
No need. Won’t be the first time a piece of wood—
Check that. Damn, why does everything read like a sex joke now? I backspace over the last sentence and write: The 2 pts are yours, plus 2 more for my sloppy grading. I consider tossing in an extra two points for my Freudian-like slips.
Facebook. I don’t post much, but I do find it a convenient way to share photos of Kiki with my mom and dad and to keep up with Kiki when she’s with Maya.
Originally my friends consisted of old college buddies and my family, but in a moment or two of weakness, or perhaps guilt, I’ve accepted friend requests from colleagues. It’s kind of awkward to see those friend requests just sitting there. You know the person on the other end is wondering why you haven’t accepted. So over the year and a half I’ve been teaching, plenty of non-friends have made their way onto my Friends list.
I’m regretting that right now, although I have nothing whatsoever to hide. Still, I’d just prefer not to be on anyone’s radar. I scan through the list. Among my old college friends is Jeremy. I notice he has a new profile picture up. He’s got his arm casually slung over his partner’s shoulder. Cute couple.
The way I see it, I have two choices—unfriend my colleagues or unfriend my friends. I choose to avoid the awkward questions in the teachers’ lounge when someone discovers I’m no longer on their Friends list. My old college friends will understand. Actually, I doubt they’ll even notice. We don’t really keep up with each other. I hit the Unfriend button a few times and vow to start sharing photos with Maya and my parents via e-mail.
On a whim, I search Robert’s name on Facebook. I find quite a few Robert Westfalls, but none who are high school students or who live in this area. Good for you, Robert. And then just for the heck of it I click on the Pages tab.
Well, well, well. A Robert Westfall fan page. I click on the link and have a look. A quick scan of the posts—the most recent just two days ago—tells me this is a fan club of three, all boys. Their profile photos scream freshmen; their comments scream band kids. I hit the Older Posts button and start at the beginning.
Erick Wasserman OMG! Did you see that flip?
I almost peed my uniform.
Caleb Smith Me too. Damn he’s hot.
Zach Townley He can run that sword thru me anytime.
Caleb Smith Ha, ha. Me too. He sat in front of me on the bus last night. I almost licked his neck.
Erick Wasserman Down, gurl. I got dibs on him.
I pick up my phone.
Are you aware you have a Facebook fan page?
No, I don’t.
Yeah. You do. I’m looking at it right now.
Hold on.
You’ll need to sign up for an account, then search your name and click on the Pages tab at left.
Too late, I realize I just showed him my hand. Maybe he won’t notice.
While I wait for Robert to join the twenty-first century, I have a peek at the photos. Most look like they were taken at football games. And they’re professionally done. The little stalkers must have bought them from one of those photography companies that photograph school events, then post the photos online for parents to purchase. Robert is in every one of these—a few in his band uniform, but most in costume. I can’t tell what role he played this year, but the photos depict him all in black, his face painted in stripes and swirls. In a couple of photos he’s carrying a sword.
Ah, and there’s the flip. It’s a still shot, caught mid–back handspring from a black podium on the field.
There’s also a video. I click that too. He and another kid are standing on a gazebo stage that looks very much like the one at Northshore Park. They’re doing some kind of impromptu rap, it seems. A rap of insults. A contest, maybe, the way they alternate back and forth and the way the kids below the stage groan and laugh at the end of some lines. I can’t make out all the words. But I can hear the boy holding the camera loud and clear: “Come on, baby. Give it to us!”
Those kids are in my band! I’m going to kill them.
Aaah. Don’t be mad. It’s kinda sweet. You should be flattered.
Not flattered. Mad.
LOL.
Just wait until I see those little pervs tomorrow.
Don’t be so hard on them. It’s not their fault you’re a stud!
Stud, riiight. So how did you find this anyway?
Just stumbled across it.
I’m still chuckling when I open my online grade book via the district’s Web portal and give Robert his four points.