Chapter 8
Andrew
“Damn. You look great.”
It’s Monday, a week after we returned from break. I look up and see Robert standing in my doorway and screw up my face. “This old thing?” I say, tugging at the lapel on my jacket. “I feel like I’m trapped in a scene from Wall Street.”
Robert’s holding a tray from the cafeteria with two slices of pizza and a Powerade balanced on top.
“Come on in. Not eating in the cafeteria today?” I loosen the knot on my tie a bit.
“Can I have lunch with you?”
“Sure.” I clear off a space on the corner of my desk, and he sets his tray there.
“Don’t you teacher types have a lounge or somewhere to eat lunch?”
I smile in response. I’m actually glad Robert has stopped by. It’s hard to really gauge how he’s doing in class. And in his texts, even when he’s being funny, I sometimes sense a subtext there, something darker. But he looks good today, relaxed.
“So, what’s with the suit?”
“I’m applying to the administrator training program. I had an interview with the superintendent’s council this morning.”
“Aah. That explains why you weren’t here when I stopped by earlier. So, what’s for lunch?”
He stopped by earlier? I process that as I tear off a corner of my sandwich and hand it to him.
“Wow, PBJ. I thought you were just kidding.” He looks at it with mock disgust, then pops it into his mouth. “Do you always eat at your desk?” he asks as he cracks open the Powerade.
“It’s half an hour of grading that I don’t have to do at home.”
“How did I do on Friday’s review quiz?” he asks, stretching across my desk to get a look at my computer screen.
“Uh, uh, uh,” I say, swiveling the screen away from him. “You’ll just have to wait until sixth period like all the rest of the goons.”
He pulls an ankle across his knee and I notice he’s wearing black athletic shoes with black no-show socks. The black contrasts nicely with his bare ankles.
“I saw your boyfriend a few minutes ago.”
“Nic?”
“Whore-Hay.”
“Aaaah.” He laughs. “You know about that too.”
“This place is like a petri dish of gossip, my friend. Keep that in mind. So how long have you two been dating?”
It’s clear Robert doesn’t want to talk about Nic when he skips backward over that question to the other comment. “Do teachers really gossip?”
I just avoid squirting water out of my nose. Do teachers gossip? That’s the understatement of the year.
“Sorry about hitting you with that AfterElton thing. I just thought you should know. And just so you don’t get the wrong idea,” he continues quickly, “you’ve kind of been trending since one of the girls found you on Twitter.”
Trending. Great. “So, what you’re telling me is you’re not some kind of crazed stalker kid?”
He laughs. “Me? No.”
I fight to keep the disappointment from my face.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “I guess everybody kind of knows which department you shop in.”
That stops me. “Not everybody,” I say, not entirely certain that this is true.
At least, I hope it’s not true. Not that it’s a big deal, but my personal life is mine. I prefer to keep it that way. Over-sharing is a definite negative for teachers. We’ve already gotten the spiel this year on social networking and being above reproach. I’m very careful that my Facebook and Twitter posts are as bland as a butter sandwich.
It hadn’t occurred to me, though, that who or what I follow might rip open my little bag of secrets and spill the contents for all to gawk at.
I vow to do a little editing on my accounts tonight.
“It’s no big deal,” Robert says. He sets his half-eaten slice of pizza on his tray and wipes his hands on his jeans. “But I have to warn you.” He flicks his eyebrows. “Some of the girls are convinced they can change you if they can just get you in a backseat somewhere for twenty minutes.”
I feel a little sick. “Will you do me a favor? When you hear that stuff, you think you could redirect the conversation? You know, without mentioning . . .” Shit. The last thing I need is some rumor that I’m a teenage girl fantasy. “I just don’t want anyone thinking about me in that context.”
I can see he gets it when his eyes meet mine. “Sure. And just so you know, I haven’t told anyone that I . . . that we . . . well, I just haven’t. And I won’t.”
I study him for a moment and think that we are the very definition of complicity. No, that is not true, I chide myself. Complicity suggests that what we are doing is wrong. That’s ridiculous. He looks to me for support. And I’m doing what we teachers do—I’m meeting one of my students where he is. That’s all.
“So, back to Nic. Are you two, uh . . . ?”
“Are we having sex?” he finishes for me.
I was going to say exclusive. But I don’t correct him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Mick. You can say the word.”
I smile at his use of Mick. I noticed that he didn’t call me Andrew. It’s school. He’s a smart kid. I’m glad I don’t have to insist on that distinction.
“No. Definitely, emphatically, unequivocally no,” he says, lobbing my words back at me. “He’s not really my type, you know.”
In fact, I do know.
“I’ve been thinking,” he continues. “Maybe it’s time we break up.”
“Do me another favor,” I say before I can stop myself. “Don’t break up.”
He doesn’t seem surprised that I asked.
We finish lunch on safer topics—music mostly, the college application process, the new stereo he installed in his car over Christmas break, the admin training program. He doesn’t mention his dad, and I don’t ask. I know he’ll talk when he needs to.
I’m disappointed when the bell rings.
“I’ll see you sixth,” Robert says as he heads for the door.
“Oh, by the way,” I say, “ninety-eight.”
He turns back. “Ninety-eight?”
“Your quiz. You made a ninety-eight. You missed a sign.” I wink and he flashes me a smile, then tosses his tray in the trashcan at the door. He starts out, then stops and turns back.
“I just want to say thank you again for meeting me in Huntsville. It meant a lot to me to have someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge me.”
“You can talk to me anytime, Robert.”