You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  But after we returned to the apartment, that was the last coherent thought I had before I patted Winston’s soft head one more time, collapsed onto my sofa, and blacked out until morning.

  Chapter Two

  ~Vicky~

  I’d been out with my teaching friends from the foreign language department, drinking wine at The Lounge on Monday night, when I caught sight of my Dream Man.

  “Oh, just look at him,” Lisa, our resident high-school German teacher, said in that swoony voice she usually reserved for pictures of hot firemen on Facebook. “I just want to run my fingers through his dark wavy hair and unfasten that cravat.” She paused to tilt her phone and zoom in on the image. “And touch his legs. In those tight breeches—”

  Marcie, who taught French with me, snatched the phone from her. “Let me see that.” She silently analyzed the photo then nodded. “Yeah. Il est parfait. He’s perfect. His hair. His figure. And he can pull off the period costume without looking like a total dork.”

  Janet, who was in her tenth year of teaching upper-level Spanish, wrestled the phone away from her and held it so that Christine, also in the Spanish department, and I could finally see the picture. The three of us leaned in to study the Entertainment Monthly website and read the article below the photo, which featured an “intimate first look” at the actor cast to play Mr. Darcy in the latest British film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.

  “Professionally trained at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre,” Janet read. “Studied dance, art, poetry, fencing, and voice.”

  “A longtime Londoner and a vegan,” Christine added, sounding impressed. “He got his start on the stage, had a walk-on role in the BBC drama Poldark, has been on Masterpiece a number of times, and starred in a touring musical production of The Scarlet Pimpernel.” She read further. “And—whoa, he’s even made a guest appearance on Downton Abbey.”

  Everyone at our table squealed.

  “How did I miss that episode?” Lisa asked.

  I finally got a closer look at the picture. Gareth Wellington was gorgeous, well read, and clearly talented. Too bad he wasn’t actually Mr. Darcy. Or a man who lived within a reasonable driving distance of Chicago. Or even single.

  “He has a husband,” Janet said with a disappointed sigh. “From Stratford-upon-Avon.”

  Of course he did.

  All the good men in the world were either gay, taken, or fictional.

  We talked for a little while longer about English, Scottish, Irish, and Aussie actors and the hotness of their accents before we moved on to the classical concert series that had just ended at the Parkside Pavilion, an orchestra hall nearby. Then Janet mentioned something about an upcoming tapas tasting at the Flamenco Grill and our discussion turned toward Spanish appetizers.

  I found myself laughing louder than usual, although I’d always enjoyed my visits to the wine bar. Even the times I’d been here with the Quest group, a local singles’ club I’d gotten roped into joining, had been fun.

  But it was better getting to go out with my teaching friends.

  They were all into cultural things, too—from imported cheeses to foreign-language films and international music, from exotic cuisine ideas to world literature and European travel—so I didn’t have to explain myself to them. They loved watching Masterpiece Theater and reading classic novels (in more than one language, even). But, mostly, it was just such a relief to be able to relax when I was with them and not worry about dating. Not have to try to sell my romantic and girly self to some guy who’d just grunt and find my infatuation with flower gardens, French pastries, and Regency-era clothing laughable.

  I knew I was well on my way to becoming one of those spinster types who read the English author alphabet (Austen, Brontë, Chaucer, Dickens...), drank tea, and talked mostly to my cat. But what could I do? It was what I liked.

  And it wasn’t really as lonely as it seemed. Anything was better than the alternative—being in a relationship with a man who didn’t get me. My friend Sharlene and I had talked about that after the last Quest outing. She’d been married and divorced already, which made her all the more cautious, but after my series of harsh breakups, I’d take a fictional BBC hero over a flesh-and-blood American male any day.

  “Hey, I should be leaving soon,” Christine said. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

  I nodded and started collecting my things. Since she was driving me back to my apartment, that meant goodnight for me, too.

  “The students are always so hard to manage after a three-day weekend,” Marcie said, frowning as she checked her watch.

  “Yeah, we should all go home and get some sleep,” Lisa agreed.

  So we settled our bill and stepped outside of The Lounge just as a ruckus was getting started next door at Max’s.

  “You asshole!” this dopey, burly, drunk guy screamed, ineffectively swinging at another drunk guy.

  “You witless dickhead!” slurred the second guy. But that didn’t mask his identity. As soon as he spoke, I knew who it was. Everyone did.

  “Isn’t that Blake Michaelsen?” Janet whispered.

  “Yep,” I whispered back. I’d only seen him in person once before—at a big event at the radio station this summer—and it was, literally, across a crowded room. But Blake’s voice on 102.5 LOVE FM was one of the sexiest I’d ever heard. I listened to him on the radio all the time. And he was my friend Sharlene’s older brother, so I knew a few additional facts about him than I might have otherwise.

  Like that he was impulsive.

  And loud.

  And kind of a manwhore.

  Then again, he had a rep in town, so most women knew these things, too. It was just that Shar had actually confirmed them for me.

  Blake landed a decent punch and sent the other guy stumbling. But Dopey Dude got back up.

  Oh, boy.

  Shar was going to be so pissed when she heard about this. And she would. Probably within three minutes or less. Gossip traveled at the speed of sound in Mirabelle Harbor.

  There was more yelling between the men, along with a bunch of shouts from the sports-bar crowd surrounding them. It reminded me of the stupid hall fights I’d had the misfortune to have to try to break up at the high school. Dumb boy behavior at its finest. Guys who fought each other because they couldn’t rationally reason their way through a discussion. So foolish and immature. And, worse, so painful to the people who actually cared about these cretins.

  Dopey Dude landed a crushing blow to Blake’s abdomen. He doubled over and fell to the pavement. Then the other guy started to seriously pummel Blake while the crowd alternately jeered, taunted, and screamed their encouragement.

  I winced. Blake’s dark hair was matted against his forehead with sweat and, also, with some fresh blood. He had a gash across his cheekbones, dirt on his face and neck, and more blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

  And he was devastatingly handsome, even then.

  Although, with the angry eyes and the snarl on his lips, he looked like the poster child for one the French revolutionary insurgents in Les Misérables. If he decided to build a barricade, storm the Bastille, or lead the crowd in the first verse of “Do You Hear the People Sing?” I wouldn’t dare to stand in his way.

  The fact that I couldn’t guess whether he’d be more like a hero or a terrorist in any uprising made me immediately uncomfortable, though. I hadn’t known he’d be like this. His sister could get a little fiery sometimes, but Shar had a marshmallow heart. Blake, by contrast, looked both self-destructive and vicious. Like he could quite effectively kill someone.

  Finally, an officer came on the scene and broke up the fight. He ordered us all to leave, but I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t take my eyes off Blake’s cut-up face. So many bruises, and he was even spitting blood.

  Lisa nudged me. “Let’s go, Vicky.”

  Before I could make my feet move, Blake looked up at me and our gazes collided. I kept imagining the shock Shar would feel if she saw her bro
ther in this horribly battered, sweaty, and drunken state. She was very protective of her family. But nothing was going to protect Blake from the wrath of one massive hangover and the need for some serious first aid.

  His eyes turned even darker and they narrowed dangerously as he continued to stare at me.

  Christine tugged me away.

  “They were like a couple of wasted jocks after a football game,” she observed on the drive home.

  “I know. I was thinking the same thing. Like those boys that get into fights in the school cafeteria. With them, it’s all crazy levels of testosterone and impaired judgment, leading to damage of property and reckless endangerment of themselves and others. Imagine someone acting that way after being out of high school for fifteen years? It’s like they never got all the way through adolescence.”

  Christine nodded. “Although I can’t say being a mature grownup all the time is a barrel of laughs.”

  I smiled. “True. But anything is better than being forever seventeen.”

  I remembered myself at seventeen and suppressed a shudder. That was one time of my life I’d never want to relive, and I had daily witness as to why in my classroom.

  Though, if forced to be completely honest with myself, one of the main reasons I’d been drawn to teaching was to see if I could make high school a better experience for kids like me. For those quirky, quiet, culture-loving, rule-following bookworms who really wanted to learn. Not that I was so different now, really. It was just that, back then, I’d felt so alone. I hadn’t realized there might be others like me out there.

  At least I had good female friends. But it was too bad my male counterpart didn’t seem to exist. At least not in large enough quantities to keep searching for him. There were probably only fifty straight, single, American men who’d fit my criteria for dating. And chances were high that they were spread randomly across the United States. I’d be lucky to find even one or two anywhere in Illinois. My ideal, most compatible love match was probably living in a remote town in northern New Mexico or something.

  I said goodnight to Christine, went inside my apartment, and leaned against the door with a deep sigh. I should go to sleep, but I just couldn’t. All I’d be able to see behind my closed eyes would be Blake Michaelsen’s bloodied, infuriated face.

  So, instead, I made myself a cup of tea and greeted my cat Napoleon, who was in one of his antisocial moods. He peeked out from under the chair to brush my leg, and then he disappeared somewhere in my bedroom.

  I took my Earl Grey into the living room and perused my DVD rack for a period drama that wasn’t six or more hours long. That narrowed down my choices considerably.

  But, as I selected a beloved two-hour adaptation of Jane Austen’s Persuasion and settled into a comfy spot in the middle of my sofa, I had to face the facts: I’d already become one of “those” women. My chances of finding a man I’d consider to be even tolerable—let alone one I could actually live with—were about as likely as getting struck by lightning during a sandstorm.

  On the African desert.

  While I was doing shots of tequila with a handful of locals and the entire cast of the Broadway musical Hamilton...because we all just happened to be touring the Sahara together during Spring Break or something.

  In other words, I’d be single for the rest of my life. The sooner I made peace with that truth, the better.

  Chapter Three

  ~Vicky~

  “Comment dit-on ‘How are you feeling today?’ en français?” I asked my fourth period French III honors class on Tuesday. They loved playing the “How Do You Say” Q&A game with French phrases at the end of every period.

  Stephanie’s hand shot up like a rocket. “Comment vous sentez-vous aujourd’hui,” she said with well-deserved confidence. That girl studied.

  “Absolument,” I replied. “Et comment dit-on...mmm, ‘How old are you?’ en français?”

  “Quel âge as-tu?” Tyler responded.

  “Fantastique.” I paused. “Which train should I take to Paris?”

  Amanda raised her hand. I nodded to her and she said, “Quel train est le meilleur pour le voyage à Paris?”

  “Très bien,” I said with a laugh. “That works, Amanda. It’s a bit of a roundabout way of getting there, though. A slightly more direct phrase might be ‘Quel train dois-je prendre à Paris?’ But what’s important is that you’ve managed to convey the meaning of your question. Learning a foreign language is all about communicating, and there’s not just one way to do that.”

  Now it was my turn. The kids could ask me how to say specific phrases in French, and they delighted in coming up with really funny and convoluted ones.

  Carson said, “Mademoiselle Bernier, comment dit-on, ‘Will you go to the Homecoming dance with me?’” Then he winked really obviously at Amanda, who blushed all the way up to her short and very blond roots.

  “Veux-tu aller à la danse de Homecoming avec moi?” I said, unable to hide my grin. I’d had Amanda and Carson in my French classes since they were freshmen, and it had been so sweet to see the two of them bond and, eventually, start dating. “And what might the response be to such a question?” I asked the class.

  Amanda looked too embarrassed to be called on, but Carson’s friend Eddie clutched his heart and piped up, “Oooh, Carson, mais oui! Tu es mon petit chou.”

  The class erupted with laughter. It wasn’t every day that one junior boy called another one “his little cabbage.” Mon petit chou, however, was a traditional term of endearment in France, which was similar to saying “my little darling.” It was fun to watch the kids embrace these cultural tidbits and make them their own.

  “Okay, merci beaucoup, Eddie. Anyone else have another phrase?”

  Stephanie wanted to know how to say “There’s too much homework for this week in September.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her and she grinned.

  “I think you all know that one,” I told the class. “C’mon. Try to construct it.”

  “Il y a trop de devoirs pour cette semaine du Septembre,” Janette tried.

  “Very close,” I said. “It would be en Septembre.” I nodded at her. “Bien. Compris?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle,” she said.

  Graham, another guy in the class and a good pal of Tyler’s, said, “Comment dit-on ‘I am a secret superhero and one of the Masters of the Universe.’” He fist-bumped the air comically and the whole class laughed again, just as the bell rang to end the period.

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Comment dit-on ‘Saved by the bell’?”

  The students chorused, “Sauvé par le gong!” We’d used that phrase many times before. It was one of their favorites.

  I smiled and clapped my hands, dismissing them. They were already my most beloved class, perhaps because I’d been fortunate to have gotten to know the individual students in it so well over the past few years. I was proud of them. They’d all come such a long way since freshmen year. I knew already that it was going to be hard to see them graduate when they were seniors.

  My next class was less enthusiastic and, thus, not quite as fun to teach, but I was hoping this would improve before the end of the semester. In any case, I was always glad to have my lunch hour between fourth period and sixth, so I could shift gears.

  Stephanie, however, came up to me after class and said, “I told the rest of committee to meet here. They all have fifth period lunch. Unless you’d rather go to the cafeteria, Mademoiselle.”

  For a second, I had no idea what she was talking about...then it came flooding back. “Oh, yes! Homecoming. Meeting in here is fine,” I assured her.

  When Stephanie had asked me to be the faculty advisor for the students’ Homecoming committee at the end of May, I’d agreed without thinking twice. She was such a hardworker and overachiever that I knew everything would be well organized, and I was happy to supervise. But we’d been back at school for just over a week, and my head was full of other new school year details. I’d forgotten that today was
the day of the first committee meeting.

  “Who else is on the planning committee?” I asked her as we both pulled out our lunch sandwiches.

  “Matt Rosatti, the junior class president,” she recited dutifully. “Alexis Cho, the VP, and Heath Murray, who’s doing the logo design for the posters and stuff.”

  I knew and liked all of these kids. Matt and Alexis were quite different from each other and had some individual struggles at various times during their high-school careers, but both were natural leaders. Heath was a shy junior, but he was supremely talented in art. I knew he’d do an excellent job with that task as well.

  One at a time, the other three students trooped into the room. Matt had gotten a hot lunch from the cafeteria—it was cheeseburger day. Alexis just had a gigantic soda and a granola bar. And Heath brought in a bag lunch, which, as far as I could tell, consisted of the interesting meal combination of sushi and corn chips.

  “Feel free to get started whenever you’re all ready,” I told the students. “I’m here if you need me, and I’m listening, but this is your event and I want you to run it however you’d feel best.”

  Stephanie nodded. “Thanks, Mademoiselle.” She turned to the other kids and pulled out a sheet of notepaper. “I’ve got a list of things we need to decide on. Colors. Theme. Budget allocations for decorations, music, and food. And the cost of the tickets, particularly how many we need to sell in order to break even. Everyone should have gotten an email from me with an area to brainstorm, so maybe we can start by discussing each of those now.” She glanced at the class president, and he nodded.

  “Theme was my topic,” Matt said. “I came up with a bunch of possibilities, but these are my three favorites. ‘Chain Reaction’—like a science theme that focuses on the dynamics of attraction and magnetism.”

  Alexis rolled her eyes. “Is this really about Homecoming, or are you just trying to put your AP Physics notes to good use?”