The Boy on the Bridge

This is just one more time I have to see him every week. Not only that, I can’t freeze him out here. It would be childish. It would make everyone’s job harder. I have to interact with him in this setting, to do anything else would be unprofessional.

Fuck.

He found a loophole.

Leaning over, he whispers in my ear, “See, you should’ve just unblocked my number.”

I press my lips together in a grim line.

Yes. Yes, I should have.

“All right, everybody. So, as you can see, we have some new talent this year. Stanley, Grace, Ria, Hunter, welcome aboard.”

I sigh unhappily, flipping my notebook cover over, then I grab my pen so I’m ready to work despite the worst distraction in the world sitting beside me.

“We put out an issue every two weeks,” Mr. Lohman explains for the newbies. “Our existing crew from last year has been hard at work writing extra articles and pulling double duty so our first issue would be ready to go for us. Stellar work, guys.”

He pauses to look around the room. I offer a wan smile and nod when his gaze lingers on me, since I did the most extra work.

“The only thing we weren’t sure about coming into this meeting was what we wanted to put above the fold. Obviously, we wanted something special for our first issue back. We had a lot of great content, but nothing that really felt like the hook we needed.” Bizarrely, he gestures to my table. My stomach drops. I don’t think I wrote anything worthy of going above the fold, why is he looking…?

He’s not looking at me.

Mr. Lohman smiles. “That is, until one of our new recruits pitched me the story about his summer in Italy. Hunter just transferred back home to Lexington after studying abroad for several years—pretty exciting in and of itself—but his article is really great, too. We have some photo options—turns out Mr. Maxwell has quite an eye for photography—so we’ll go over those today and pick out the best shot to accompany his piece.”

Slowly, I turn my head to shoot a look of utter disbelief at the golden boy as he offers Mr. Lohman a smile that might fool a person into believing he’s humble.

His first ever article is going to be an above the fold piece? Seriously?

“Mr. Maxwell has also very generously offered to sponsor an extended printing of our first issue back since demand for this one might be a little greater. He has some great ideas to expand our readership, so we’re really going to hit the ground running this year.” Mr. Lohman looks at Hunter. “I believe you said you had something to pass out, too, didn’t you?”

“I sure do.” Hunter grabs his gym bag and draws out a box, then he puts it back down.

More gifts?

Everyone is looking over here, eager to see what he’s brought.

He dumps out the box and spreads out a bunch of black, moleskin notebooks. He grabs the first one and passes it to me. It’s personalized, with the logo for the paper emblazoned across the front cover.

“I figured if we’re gonna be reporters, we need official press notebooks to record all our ideas in, right? Come and get ’em,” he says, indicating the spread.

Chairs scrape the floor as everyone comes over to grab a notebook.

Among his friends, this would be a real flop, but watching the faces of all the other writers who—like me—enjoy back-to-school shopping and get excited over things like great pens and stationery, the notebooks are a hit.

Ria grins as she grabs hers, shyly looking up at him. “I love notebooks. These are so cool. Thank you, Hunter.”

I watch her blush when he winks at her and try to ignore the ridiculous churning in my gut.

Once all the notebooks have been claimed, I whisper, “You don’t like school supplies. How did you even think of this?”

He leans over and whispers back, “I just thought, ‘what would Riley get a kick out of?’ and then I applied it to the rest of the nerd population.”

I wrinkle up my nose at him, but I can’t even deny it.

I love the stupid notebook.

___

Friday marks the end of another week, and I am so grateful.

Anderson has an away game tonight, so I don’t have to go.

I manage to escape Mrs. Dowd’s class without even speaking to Hunter, so by the time lunch rolls around, today is feeling like a win.

“So then she asked me if she could copy my homework,” Sara says, eyes wide as she relays the details of the interaction she had with one of Valerie’s goons in her class before lunch. “Can you believe that? Can I copy your homework?” she asks, her tone mocking. “The nerve.”

I shake my head as I peel back the foil lid of the applesauce I brought in my packed lunch. “The absolute nerve.”