Chapter 15 School’s Out for Summer
School's Out for Summer
Ispeak fluent Sam text. He’s telling me he’s not in danger— good—and where to park—south.
No, I don’t know where south is, but there’s a sign, and I am an excellent reader.
He probably wants help with his fall schedule or to review for the quiz, but I won’t know until I find him because this is as much information as I’ll get by text.
I take mostly hybrid classes for the sake of time and because people-ing exhausts me. My people are great, but I need book time too. I took two classes this summer and convinced Sam and Annie to do the same so they could have lighter schedules later.
Sam’s brilliant, but he struggles with writing-intensive classes or, to be honest, anything not music-related, so I picked up American Literature and Interpersonal Communications to take together.
These check off some general education requirements for his Music/Audio Production major and my Psych/Creative Writing at the same time.
We meet on campus weekly but do the rest online.
I’m Sam’s unofficial advisor, and Annie’s been following my lead as well.
It’s kind of fun.
I finally snag a parking spot, then play a text version of Marco Polo with Sam until I find him in a study lounge near our class. We have forty-five minutes to review our notes, and I spend the first ten taking pictures of job postings taped on the wall while I wait for him to stop socializing.
“What are we doin’, Squirrel?”
“Checking the job wall, Moose.”
Instantly he’s behind me, pulling my hands up to puppet-dance me while singing “Wonderwall.” Then I start singing too, and dang it, we’re both distracted now.
Last winter, we went to get over-the-counter cold medicine and tissues for Annie and the guys when everyone got the flu but us.
He started singing Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine,” which I love, so it became a duet …
and then he put me in a shopping cart and pushed me through the aisles while I grabbed tissues, cough drops, and various canned soups and juices.
We were a hit, if I do say so myself.
I can’t help it. Sammy’s my musical crush. He hates to be alone, and his extrovert energy makes him a higher-maintenance friend, but sometimes I need a random grocery store duet partner.
My social battery dies before he’s even warmed up, so I try to keep our adventures brief and spaced for optimal recovery time. Minus the razor-sharp sarcasm, he makes a good stand-in for Alex, my high school best friend back home.
We weren’t all that menacing in high school, but we were annoying.
I may or may not have a collection of table tent signs from The Tastee Ice in my guitar case, and I’m sure the owner of Donatello’s Pizza misses our Friday night jukebox karaoke.
Not that Donatello’s ever asked for jukebox karaoke, but no one sings power ballads quite like Alex and me.
“Hey, Sam, how was our grade on the literary analysis?” Nothing. “Sammy?”
Aaaaand he’s gone.
He knows EVERYONE and has yelled, “Dude? How ya been?” at least three times. I seem to have lost him. “Sam … Samuel … SAMUEL ELIAS!”
It’s just an arbitrary multiple-choice quiz for extra points to close out the class. But Sam probably needs these points, so we’re reviewing modernist poetry. He finally sits at a small study table when I get my notes out.
Within seconds, he fidgets, picks up, and touches EVERY.
BLASTED. THING. He’s hugged me, tugged at the wisps of hair falling from my bun, commented on my grown-up clothes (points for noticing), created a rhythm with my backpack zippers, and changed the background of my phone to a picture of his face with his nose pushed up like a pig.
Two girls in the hallway giggle, stealing glances at him until I shoot them glares of get near him and I will kill you with my bare hands and shut the door. They think I’m jealous. No. I just put in a lot of effort to keep his attention. They can flirt on their own time.
He really is a pretty man-cub. And large, so he’s impossible to hide. His YouTube views and local popularity are growing too. I should call Aunt Judy later and ask her how she survived, because my two sisters and brother together never required as much supervision as this moose.
I pull a Rubik’s cube out of my backpack and toss it to him for some sensory stimuli while I run through facts about Robert Frost, T.S. Eliot, and Marianne Moore. Remembering random facts is easy for him if I can get him to listen.
When we’ve gone as far as we can, I switch to looking at his degree plan and what he has on his schedule for fall.
Once I know what he’s advised to take, I can rearrange the classes to be more convenient for him.
Yes, I know his logins. I recovered his school account the last time he locked himself out.
He bounces his leg, drums on the table, and talks about the coffeehouse last night but goes eerily silent with the buzz of my phone. I’m still looking at my laptop when I realize his fidgeting has stopped.
When I look up, he’s holding my phone with a pinched expression. “I know I haven’t met the guy, but I don’t like how he talks to you.”
I pull his giant arm over and gently take my phone.
Nathan: I’m up if you can bother to fit me in between blowing money at coffee shops and reading smut novels.
I don’t actually read smut, but Nathan thinks all romance is smut.
Whatever.
If Jace said it, I’d call it a playful jab. But it’s meant to be an insult coming from Nathan, and Sam, being the big care bear that he is, knows it. I roll my eyes and respond quickly.
Me: I’m in class. Have a test.
Nathan: I’m sure you do.
I ignore the last comment, tossing my phone back on the table, and Sam picks it up again. He’s swiping. Wow, he’s nosy today.
I don’t care if he looks at my phone, but Sam’s sensitive and impulsive. I’m worried he might try to reply to Nathan, which wouldn’t be received well.
I hold my hand out for my phone, hoping he’ll think it’s because he’s distracted. He looks at it for a beat, then hands it over.
“You’re my favorite brother, Sammy-bear. Don’t tell Jamie … or Jace,” I say quietly.
His solemn expression morphs into a knowing smile. “You didn’t say Danny.”
“He’s my, um, other favorite,” I say, knowing I sound stupid as the words leave my mouth.
He nods towards the picture I’m looking at on my phone. “If your brother looks at you like that … well, that’s gross, Lu Lu.”
The images Annie sent have finally loaded. There’s a picture of Jude behind the drums with his sweaty hair flying. He twirls a stick in one hand while the other points at me, his muscles beautifully flexed with liquid fire in his eyes and the most dangerous smile I’ve ever seen.
I swipe to the next, and he’s watching me sing with Jace. My eyes are cut to him, and his chin’s angled toward his guitar, but his languid eyes are on mine with a reverent expression that sends heat up my neck.
I exhale slowly to steady my reaction. Because I know I’m being watched.
In the last one, his eyes are scrunched closed and he’s leaning into me, guitar in play, crying out with a look of desperation. A lump forms in my throat as I remember how it felt. Goodness. It’s not even a sad song. No more Lifehouse.
My eyes sting.
Jude’s expressions in all of them are so … intense. It amazes me how someone so composed can show so much passion on his face.
“Yeah, me too, Smalls,” Sam says as he stands and squeezes the life out of my shoulders. “I’d ask if your fiancé looks at you like that. But, ya know, it’s rhetorical, so you don’t haf’ta answer.”
It’s not funny, but his twang makes me smile. I’m choosing to concentrate on the sentiment, not my reality. He puts my stuff back in my backpack, and we walk down the hall to our class. He hates that I won’t let him sit near me, but he nearly got us kicked out last time because he can’t shut up.
We’re out in less than an hour, about to go our separate ways—me to get ready for work and Sam to a voice lesson—but not before he carries my backpack to my car while intercepting a call from Alex on my phone as we walk. She’s easily annoyed, so this is entertaining for me too.
He amps up his goofiness, asking her favorite songs and bands and if she’ll ever come visit, and then tells her she should come down for Thanksgivin’ “Good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.
” I’m wiping tears from laughing so hard by the time he says, “Bye, Lu Lu’s friend.
I’ll sang for ya next time,” exaggerating his country drawl to hysterical levels.
He hugs me one more time, cracking actual vertebrae. I try to envision a chiropractic adjustment and squeeze back without squirming away. He must need it, because he’s been on a hugging spree lately. I’m going to need ibuprofen and a nap.
“Derf reminds me of Jace. Kinda mean but funny,” he says handing my phone back.
“Her name’s Alex, and you’re right.” He’s entirely correct, but I never made the connection until now. “She’s like you and Jace morphed together. Pretty scary.”
Sam and I do our weird handshake, and I call Alex back in the car.
“Dude! What’s that guy on?” She must be driving too. It’s the only time she’d make or receive a phone call rather than text.
“I’m guessing a less than therapeutic dose of Adderall.” I shrug, though she can’t see me.
“Ha. Same. Why would he want to sing to me? Is he always like that?” she asks, sounding half irritated and half curious.
“Yep, raging extrovert. He’s a two-hundred-thirty-pound moose puppy, but he can sing.”
“Sounds like a drummer.”
“Agent of chaos.” I laugh. We’ve known a few drummers.
“Ohhhh, well, that explains it. I really just called to tell you I can’t stand your fiancé.
If I see one more selfie or cryptic post about his demanding job and the pressure he’s under, I’m going to ask about the life choices that got him there.
” I can practically hear the air quotes and condescension, and that’s after I filter out the four-letter words.
“Please don’t.”
“Please dump him,” she says dryly.
“Things are difficult right now. Maybe it’ll get better.” I don’t believe that at this point, but Alex isn’t my go-to for relationship advice. We usually only talk about the hard things once they’re over.
“Well, my mom wanted me to tell you that breakups are easier than divorces. I’d say go for the drummer, but he seems like … a lot.”
“Oh, heck no. He’s just a baby. We sang last night, though. There might’ve been video. Look up Sam Haynes.”
“Sure, if you say so, Snotface. Gotta go,” Alex says, clearly reaching the end of her limited attention span. “Dump the whiner.”
“Bye, Derf.”