Page 159 of Coach
Mike smiled the tight, strained smile of a man trying very hard not to flee the building. “Lookingforward to it,” he said, voice a full octave higher than normal.
Jessica winked at both of us, then sashayed out of the gym like she was walking a Victoria’s Secret runway, her backpack bouncing behind her.
As soon as the doors slammed shut, I turned to Mike, grinning wide. “You okay there, champ?” I asked, clapping him on the back. “Need a safe space?”
Mike scrubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe off the experience. “I swear to God, Mateo, if that girl turns eighteen and proposes marriage during second period, I’m transferring schools.”
I snorted. “She’s harmless.”
Mike shot me a look. “That’s what they said about rabid raccoons.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the idiot who’s irresistible to teenage delusion.”
He pointed a finger at me. “Youcreated this monster. You let these kids believe teachers are approachable. You smiled. You encouraged dreams.”
“And yet,” I said, grinning, “only you are the object of Jessica’s undying love. I wonder what that says about you.”
“It says,” Mike said, “that I’m bringing pepper spray to homeroom.”
I barked out a laugh and tossed my clipboard onto the bench. “All right, now that we’ve survived puberty’s final boss, what do you wanna do?”
“You hungry?” Mike jerked his chin toward the door. “Elliot’s working late, so I’m a bachelor tonight.”
“Good. I’m starving.”
Mike pushed off the doorframe and ran a hand through his rusty hair. “I thought we could head into Decatur, grab something to eat, then hit up that big arts festival.”
I cocked my head. “Arts festival?”
He nodded, completely casual. “Yeah, there’s a whole section of antiques and antique furniture I wanna check out. They’re supposed to have some good pieces.”
I stared at him.
Blinked.
Then, I crossed my arms.
“You want me to spend my Friday night . . . antiquing?”
“It’s not antiquing,” Mike said, fighting a smile. “It’s—treasure hunting.”
“That sounds gay,” I deadpanned. “Aggressivelygay, like chiffon tossing, pageant queen waving, glitterati dodging, at some molecularhomosexual level.”
“Molecular? You teach world history, and I do English. Neither of us knows the first thing about molecular anything.” Mike grinned, a slow, evil stretch of his mouth that meant nothing good for me. “How’s that TV doing? Still sitting on a cardboard box in your den?”
I opened my mouth to argue.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
It was a heavy-duty moving box. The sturdy kind, technically rated to hold up to sixty-five pounds. But still, it was a cardboard box, not a proper TV stand or curio or whatever the fuck televisions sat on in adult homes.
“That box,” I said defensively, “has character.”
