by Alice Bell
I was glad he turned out to be nice because something wasn’t right about him. He was almost too nice. No, that wasn’t it. He was too beautiful to be wandering the streets at night, like a lost soul.
Lost souls can’t be beautiful?
I shivered. I knew exactly what was wrong with him. No one’s adolescent fantasy just appears one night, walking out of your dream. It was actually a lesson plan for later in the semester. Surrealism: the artistic attempt to resolve the previously contradictory conditions of dream and reality.
I’m losing it.
I got out of bed and went to the window. The floor was cold under my bare feet. I parted the curtains. The sun was rising, about the time I would normally fall asleep. I returned to bed.
At 7:37 the alarm went off and I yanked it from the wall. Sweat beaded on my skin.
I couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched, as if there was an unseen presence in the room. When I got out of the bath, I heard the sound of breath. I whirled around but caught only my distorted face in the steamy mirror.
Stop it, Ruby. Just stop it.
I slipped my watch around my wrist and took a lot of care with my make-up, applying two coats of mascara.
I cinched my robe and went downstairs to make coffee. After stirring in cream and sugar, I sat on the sofa, listening to the greatest hits by the Goo Goo Dolls. My foot tapped to the music. I couldn’t sit still. I got up and organized my valise.
At 9:03, I ate my usual work day breakfast; Greek yogurt, dried figs and cranberries. I opened a bar of dark chocolate and took it with me upstairs, where I lounged in bed, reading Forever Amber. I felt so sorry for Amber. I wasn’t half way through and already it was obvious Bruce would never love her back.
I checked my watch. 11:02. I waited for the second hand to make its way around the clock face. At 11:03 I dressed in an A-line skirt and a black silk blouse with pearl buttons. I slipped on a pair of red pumps. I always wore high heels to work.
Between bites of chocolate, I combed my gnarled hair and twisted it into a bun held in place with rhinestone clips. I re-applied my lipstick. Before leaving the house, I rolled a six on my lucky dice.
Some numbers just aren’t that lucky.
* * *
The noon sun glared down.
In the school parking lot, I leaned out the window of my car. “Excuse me?” I waved to Miss Hartly. “Would you mind parking further down?”
Miss Hartly, the other English teacher, held a box of Chinese take-out. She shut her car door with her hip. “Yeah, I do mind.” She tossed her head and the perfect strands of her blonde hair feathered back into place.
“I always park there,” I said. It was my lucky space.
“Sorry, I’ve got to get ready for my next class,” she bared her teeth in what could barely pass for a smile.
“But you cut me off,” I said.
She was already wiggling away in her tight pantsuit. Tears stung my eyes. I got inappropriately emotional sometimes.
I drove slowly around the parking lot. I had to park next to a red mini-van, which I didn’t like one bit. Who would drive a red mini-van? Someone who wished they drove a Ferrari, that’s who.
After checking my make-up in the rearview mirror and wiping off a smudge, I removed my black driving gloves and put them away in the glove compartment where they belonged. No one knew what a glove compartment was for anymore.
Pulling my valise behind me, I went to the side entrance. I waited just outside and tapped my foot six times.
“Ruby!” someone called.
It was Mr. Stroop, the headmaster. He jogged toward me, the coat of his jacket flapping. His face was shiny, his breath labored. “And how is Ruby today?” He liked to use the third person when speaking to me, as if I were a child.
“Ruby is fine,” my voice was too loud.
He reached past me, opening the door and scuffing my shoe. “Sorry,” he said. “After you.” He waited, holding the door. There was a damp circle under his armpit. And simply no way out. I held my breath to cross the threshold.
Without warning, he lunged for the valise. “Oh, Mr. Stroop,” I cried, as he grabbed the handle, damply squeezing my fingers. He lowered his head like a bull. “Give me…” His face had gone florid.
“Please,” I held on tight.
He let go and produced a handkerchief. He dabbed it on his forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t.
“I only wanted to help,” he said.
“It’s alright. Really, thank you, Mr. Stroop but I can manage perfectly by myself.”
“What do you have in there? A dead body?”
I moved away. He walked next to me.
There was a taut quiet behind the classroom doors. When the bell rang, the halls would erupt into chaos. My first class was a senior elective I called How to get out of Baby English 101. The class had a wait list for the rest of the year.
I stopped in front of the teacher’s lounge.
“Listen, Ruby,” Mr. Stroop smoothed the fine hairs on his head. “I need to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Nothing to worry about, a new development,” his expression became coy. “I could tell you about it. Over dinner.”
“No, thank you.”
He shifted awkwardly. “Not a date.”
“Definitely not,” I averted my gaze.
“But you have to eat,” he insisted.
“No. I never eat dinner. I don’t believe in it.” I slipped inside the lounge, closing the door softly. I leaned against it.
Low voices murmured in back, behind the partition. There was a giggle and another hushed sound, like a secret operation underway. When I unzipped the pocket of my valise, I cringed at the noise. But the muffled voices went on undisturbed.
Sitting in a chair at the table, I opened a baggie and ate three apple slices spread with almond butter. Another giggle slipped past the partition. “Why are we whispering?” the female giggler was just loud enough to be intelligible now. “I think we’re alone.”
Ugh, it was Miss Hartly.
“Isn’t that a song?” a man said.
My stomach dropped. Henry. What was he doing behind the partition with Miss Hartly?
“Something weird just happened out in the parking lot,” she was speaking louder all the time.
“Really?” Henry said. “The parking lot?”
“So I’m driving back from lunch, right? And I take the nearest parking space, like a normal person. Guess who wants me to move my car? After I’ve already parked?”
“Stroop?”
“Not Stroop, you idiot.” She giggled again. There was a long stifling moment. Were they flirting? Kissing?
I held still. My heart was pounding so loud, I was afraid they could hear it.
“Ruby Rain, as in every day is Halloween. That Ruby. Somehow, she got it in her head I took her space, like she has her name on it. Can you believe it?”
My face burned.
“Henry, she wears gloves. For driving.”
Silence.
“Did you hear me? I said she wears black driving gloves. Who is she supposed to be, Miss Daisy?”
“But Miss Daisy didn’t drive,” Henry said. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the movie?”
Miss Hartly’s laugh careened across the partition, filling the room.
“She called me,” Henry said. “Last night. Late.”
“You mean Frankenstein’s bride herself?”
“Jesus, Georgie. What’s your problem?”
“Why would she call you?”
“I ran into her downtown,” he said. “A while back. We went out. Once. No big deal, but then she started calling me. I think because…well, I never asked her out again.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“God no.”
I gripped the edge of the table. Why did he say it like that? God no. With shaking hands, I stuffed my lunch bag into the pocket of my valise. The zipper ripped through t
he sudden quiet. There was a groan on the other side of the partition. Henry peeped around. “Oh! Ruby…”
I was aware of him coming toward me. I focused on the zipper.
“What’s going on here?” he said. My plastic bag had caught and he disengaged it. “There,” he winked, like he hadn’t just been making fun of me. “All better.”
I checked my watch. “I have to go,” my voice quivered.
“I’ll walk with you. I’m headed in the same direction.” Unbelievably, he grabbed my suitcase and swung it like it weighed nothing.
“See you tonight, Henry,” Miss Hartly called out.
If I’d found the walk with Mr. Stroop agonizing, now I wanted to die. Had it really been so stupid of me to call Henry? He promised to call, after cupping my face and kissing me. It happened in the summer, weeks before school started.
I’d been minding my own business in the record store. He came up and said, “What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this? Do you have any idea what you’re holding in your hands?” It was Violent Femmes’ Add it Up.
I should have realized he was a phony, right then, but I only noticed his eyes were an exotic color between green and blue and when he smiled, his teeth were perfect. I got fluttery inside.
We went in and out of the thrift stores, laughing and joking, holding hands on the sidewalk. We missed the show at the theater, but that’s when he kissed me, as we stood under the marquee with the sun setting behind us.
“Don’t pay any attention to Georgie,” he said, finally, when we neared my classroom.
“Georgie?”
“You know, Georgina? Miss Hartly?”
“Oh her.”
“Georgie and I are just buddies.” He grinned with his movie star teeth.
Buddies?
“We hang out sometimes,” he went on, as if I should care, which I did a tiny bit. “Georgie’s cool. Don’t worry about her.” He set down my valise, just out of reach. “Let me ask you, Ruby,” he said in a way that felt like I was in trouble. “How old are you?”
What business was it of his?
“We’ve all been wondering. You seem too young to be a teacher,” he traced a finger lightly across my cheek bone. “Did you skip grades in school?”
My mind reeled. I could barely swallow.
“Seriously. How old are you?”
“Why?” I whispered.
“You’re legal, right?” he chuckled and glanced around. The hall was empty.
“Let’s try this again, Ruby.” And then he was pressing his lips to mine. His breath was sweet, tinged with cinnamon.
He left me leaning against the wall, the click of his steps getting farther and farther away. As I stood in the eerie quiet, I felt a presence again. I searched up and down the hall, sure someone watched. But no one was there.
* * *
After my last class, waiting for the students in my writing workshop, I stood by the window, gazing out at the jagged skyline of China Town. Urban legend claimed it was haunted. I found it to have a stark beauty. The brick buildings had spires jutting into the desert sky.
When the door opened, I turned around. The first two students in my after school writing program had arrived. I’d only admitted nine girls on the basis of a writing sample. No boys had applied.
The twins, Chastity and Charity, almost always spoke in hyperbole. “Hi, Miss Rain!” They weren’t identical but looked alike because both of them had dyed their hair red like mine. Each carried a pink suitcase.
They wore matching black dresses. “Love your outfits,” I said.
Scarlet Rose came ten minutes late, slouching in after we’d arranged our desks in a circle and were discussing the assignment: What Would Emily Dickinson Do? The twins made a space for her.
She was tall and slender with long black hair, the only senior in the workshop. She tended to be taciturn. Her attendance was spotty. But there had been something compelling and even poignant in the writing sample she submitted. She was always alone when I saw her in the halls, her head lowered so her hair covered her face.
I didn’t have her in any classes but I knew she was on scholarship. I worried about her because she seemed so careless about school. Didn’t she know what her education was worth?
“We’re going over the assignment,” Chastity told her. She said she and her sister had texted each other using slant rhyme and dashes. They also tried to make contact with Emily Dickinson using a Ouija board. One girl read a story called The Great Darkening, inspired by Dickinson’s own description of her impending death as a “great darkness coming.”
Scarlet didn’t volunteer. When there were only a few minutes left, I asked if she wrote anything.
Her violet eyes met mine. “No.”
“Do you have any thoughts to share?”
She looked down when she spoke, “I think about Emily Dickinson a lot,” her voice trembled with a sudden intensity. “And I think,” she blushed furiously. The other girls stared. A rash crept across her neck.
“Tell us what you think,” I urged.
“Emily Dickinson would rebel,” she said, vehemently. Charity, sitting next to her, flinched.
I leaned toward her. “Who would she rebel against?”
“Her fate.”
* * *
Wind rattled the windows. It was after seven and the students from my adult literacy class were leaving. I called to a man in a Harley Davidson T-shirt. He turned from the doorway and came back to my desk. “Thank you for reading aloud,” I said. “You made a perfect Thor.”
“Aw, shucks, Ma’am,” but he grinned. He had a braided beard.
“Here, I thought you might enjoy this,” I handed him a copy of The Outsiders. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you aren’t long for this class. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. Truth is, I never had a teacher I liked before.”
After he had gone, I couldn’t resist opening the essays written by my seniors. Even though I could hear a storm building force outside, I felt cozy, reading in the warm glow of the lamp on my desk.
An hour later, I packed my valise with folders and assignments and the ever-changing books I used for teaching. I allowed my students to turn in laser printed work but no emailed papers, and most of the writing I assigned was done in class with pen and paper. I had a rule about electronics. All devices had to be turned off in my classroom.
The halls were unusually quiet. Despite my late schedule, I wasn’t always the last person to leave. Many clubs had meetings that ran into the night. Often, I encountered people as I was leaving. But tonight, I saw no one.
Getting my office mail was one of my favorite things. Since I didn’t acknowledge email, I got real letters, like I was living in a Jane Austen novel.
Tonight, there was no light coming under the office door. It made me nervous. I hesitated, before going inside.
I fumbled for the light switch. Panic rose in my throat as I slid my hand along the wall. The scent of mold made me sneeze.
Suddenly, lights came on, bright and shocking. It was Mr. Stroop. His chuckle pealed out, surreal and obscene. “Well, hello there,” he said. “What’s Ruby doing creeping around like a little mouse?”
Had he been waiting in the dark? Knowing I would come for my mail? I gripped the handle of my valise.
“Hungry yet?” he said.
My eyes darted to my mailbox in the row of cubbyholes behind him. Mine was empty. He held a letter in his hand.
“Is that for me?” I said. “Just one letter?” My mind raced over the idea that he had done something with my mail.
He seemed to be contemplating me. I forced myself to meet his gaze. Outside, the wind moaned and cried. “Not even a cup of coffee around the corner?” he said.
I couldn’t answer. Heat flooded my face.
His demeanor shifted. “Alright. Straight to business then. A couple of things, Miss Rain. First, there’s a new green policy. No more of this mail nonsense cluttering up your cubbyhole. It’s a w
aste of paper. You need to check your email like everyone else. Are we clear?”
I heard my voice ring out, unbelievably, “Miss Rain is clear.”
He blinked. The confusion I saw in his expression mirrored my own. Yet I felt the need to finish what I’d started. “Clear and ready for takeoff,” a smile quirked at my lips. I resisted saluting him, though my fingers twitched with the urge.
His eyes narrowed. “The other thing is, I’m changing the schedule. Georgina Hartly is going to take over Adult Literacy.”
“But—Why?”
“She’s more qualified,” he said.
“How is she more qualified?”
He coughed into his hand. “I need results. Look here, Ruby, you’re excellent with the gifted students and you’re very creative,” he made a circular motion with his index finger, like being crazy and creative were the same. “But these remedial students, they need to be actually reading by the end of the semester. You understand? It’s come to my attention you are not using the approved curriculum.”
“I am. I do follow that—whatever. But I consider it my job to enhance it.”
“It is my job to ensure our extra resources serve the community in the best way possible. You must use the method approved by the Board.”
“Why?”
“Because it works.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Stroop, they’re not first graders.”
“They still have to learn the alphabet and how to put it all together.”
“Most of them can’t read because the approved methods didn’t work the first time around.”
His face turned ruddy. “You’re missing the point.”
“I think the point is these students need a creative teacher more than anyone. Someone who helps them learn in their own way. I have to warn you, they won’t like Miss Hartly.”
“They don’t have to like her,” he said. “It’s not a popularity contest.”
I wondered. Had Miss Hartly (George-ee) got flirty with Mr. Stroop like she had with Henry? Why did she want my Adult Literacy class?
Now I was gripped by real panic. “Mr. Stroop, please don’t take my students away from me. They trust me. You see, they’re afraid of words and books. Can you imagine how horrible that is? To be afraid of books? I swear. On my grandmother’s grave. Every single student, without exception, will be reading by the end of the semester. I promise. Mr. Stroop, listen. I want my students to love reading with their whole heart.”
