Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Natalie Charles

  The “lounge” part of the faculty lounge was aspirational. It was more like a small cafeteria with white- and blue-tile flooring, an assortment of wooden tables with four or six blue plastic chairs at each, a brown vending machine, and a microwave oven perpetually splattered on the inside with a mixture of marinara sauce and some kind of curry. I went there to eat lunch because it was the rule—no lunch in the classrooms. Brunhilda believed it would attract mice. But given the choice, it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to eat in. I blamed the microwave, which made the entire room smell like popcorn or leftover fish, and often both at once.

  I entered the lounge on time, carrying mints in the event of an offensive odor. Good thing, because someone had been warming something containing garlic. The room was already crowded, but I grabbed a seat by the door, figuring the air circulation would be better. Max Anderson wandered in as I was sitting down. He approached with a grin. “Hello, Ms. Osbourne.”

  He laughed like this was funny, to be formal around each other. “Hey, Max. How’s it going?”

  “Great. Man, I’m tired. I’ve been getting up at four to get my runs in. I’m training for a marathon, you know.” He stretched out his arms.

  That surprised me because Max was broad and muscular. I never would have pegged him for a marathoner. “I didn’t know you ran.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been doing more cardio. It burns muscle, but I’ll get it back when the race is done.” He was carrying a glass bottle, and he paused to take a swig of water. “Hey, sorry about the wedding. I heard it didn’t work out.”

  I wasn’t surprised Max had done some research on me, and after being back at school for a couple of weeks, I was reaccustomed to people digging for information. “Thanks,” I said simply. “It’s fine. We’ve both moved on.”

  He lowered his voice. “So I take it that means you’re seeing someone else?”

  “No, I’m not seeing anyone.” I said it quickly, and then kicked myself. Rookie mistake. You never tell a man like Max Anderson that you’re single, ever.

  “Yeah, me and my girlfriend broke up a few weeks ago,” he said. “So I’m in the singles club, too.”

  Now, I have an overactive imagination. I can accept that. But I swear, Max stuffed his hand into his black sweatpants pocket and pulled it back, tightening the fabric around his . . . man unit. My eyes were crotch level with him, and there was no avoiding it. I don’t think he was wearing underwear. He hung to the right.

  It took the briefest moment for the eyeful to register, and then I looked away, but Lord. He’d noticed me looking. He smiled and raised his eyebrows at me, like, See anything you like? Between his saggy mushroom and the stench of garlic, I wanted to retch.

  “This seat taken?”

  It was Henry, the art teacher. His body odor could choke a goat, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t flash his junk at me.

  “No, it’s all yours!” I pushed the seat beside me toward him and then looked back brightly at Max. “Nice talking to you. And good luck with your running. I’m sure it will go well.”

  He looked deflated, but Max lifted his chin and gave me a friendly wave before he slunk off with his water bottle. I took a breath. Henry was seriously stinky. I popped a few mints into my mouth as Brunhilda entered the room.

  Brunhilda liked to hold our meetings in the faculty lounge because it was a cozy spot for dressing us down about our paper usage or our gluttonous appetite for staples. She liked to call us a “family,” and I guess that’s appropriate considering the constant gossip and petty sniping about who invited whom to a party, or who ate so-and-so’s granola bar, or who thought she was better than everybody else. When it came down to it, we were one big dysfunctional family, which made each faculty meeting like Thanksgiving dinner but with store-bought coffee cake and apple cider instead of turkey.

  Brunhilda pulled a blue plastic chair to the center of the lounge, right in front of the door. It was incentive enough for everyone to arrive on time. Latecomers got a dirty look. She cleared her throat. “If everyone can take a seat, we’ll get started.” A few teachers scrambled to find chairs. “Great, thank you. I’ll begin the meeting on a positive note. We’re off to an excellent start this school year, so give yourselves a round of applause.”

  She started clapping, and a few of us weakly followed suit. I knew from experience that she would make us clap again if we weren’t enthusiastic enough, and I wasn’t taking any chances. I had television to watch.

  “I’ve been an administrator for fifteen years. I know, I don’t look that old.” She chuckled. “But I’ve never seen, in all my years, such a dedicated group of teachers. The effort you’ve put into your classroom decor alone, well—this is a place our children are lucky to call their home away from home.”

  My gaze flew to Justin Meyers, the third-grade teacher who’d set up his classroom to look like outer space. He’d taped black construction paper to the walls, created a mobile of the solar system that was to scale and hung it in the center of the room, and organized his classroom activities—from literature to math—around a space theme. In our dysfunctional family, he was the golden child, and he assumed that mantle with a proud swell of his chest.

  My cell phone buzzed with a text from Mindy. Fuck that guy.

  She was sitting straight-faced, sipping from her insulated tea mug, and pretending to listen to Brunhilda. I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing as our fearless leader continued. “There are a few housekeeping items. Please remember that the supply closet has a sign-out sheet. Every time you take something, you’re required to make a note of it. I don’t care if it’s a single pencil, we need to keep track of who’s taking what.”

  I stared down at my shoes, imagined being on a beach somewhere, and stifled a yawn. I’d worked through the weekend and pulled a few late nights before my editor, Marcy, had started prodding.

  To: alittleosbourne523@gmail.com

  From: mwinters_edit13@baxterhouse.com

  Subject: Erotica

  Dear Aletta,

  I trust this e-mail finds you knee-deep in erotic adventures! Any idea when you’ll be finished with the manuscript? Deadline was yesterday. It doesn’t need to be perfect, we can do some rewrites. Just as a reminder, this only needs to be about fifty pages or so.

  Marcy

  I’d waited twelve and a half hours before replying.

  To: mwinters_edit13@baxterhouse.com

  From: alittleosbourne523@gmail.com

  Re: Erotica

  Computer crashed. UGH. Will get to you soon.

  Lies. The manuscript was finished, but I was sick over it. I combed through it three times, then decided I’d e-mail it the next day. Three days later, this hit my in-box:

  To: alittleosbourne523@gmail.com

  From: mwinters_edit13@baxterhouse.com

  Re: Erotica

  Any updates????

  And so I’d held my breath and e-mailed my erotic novella to Marcy early that morning. With any luck she’d love it and I’d be able to collect the rest of my advance. A part of me was terrified beyond measure, but another part was a little sad the book was finished. Writing an erotic novella had been liberating, even if the research had been literally painful. My bottom was still bruised. But it was like a switch had flipped. I was a writer, and so I wrote. The secret to writing children’s books was to channel my inner kindergarten teacher—no stretch there. Turns out the secret to writing erotica was to channel my inner cool girl on spring break: sexually comfortable and ready for adventure. Once I’d realized that, the words had nearly flown out of my fingertips.

  But it was just as well it was over, and now I could return my attention to teaching. You know, my true passion.

  “So the same goes for paper, even sheets of construction paper,” Brunhilda was saying. “Every single item is cataloged and accounted for. We need to present an accurate budget to
the board of education, and this is a necessary step.”

  I doubted that very much, considering we’d never had to sign out pieces of construction paper before. My cell vibrated again. Another text from Mindy: I don’t care what u did with those highlighters. U need to return them!

  I started to laugh and turned it into a cough. It’s smelly over here, I texted. May not survive.

  Seriously, Henry needed a shower. I was choking in a cloud of filth. I tried breathing through my mouth, but every time his large frame shifted, I caught a whiff. Had I made a mistake by offering the seat to him instead of Max? It was quite possibly a fatal error. Brunhilda would have to handle the press. We were saddened to lose one of our faculty members today at a family meeting. She suffocated on the art teacher’s stench. It seems that in my fixation on the dress code and paper supplies, I neglected to stress the importance of basic hygiene. My passing would be yet another rule-making occasion—like she needed the justification. She’d probably come up with charts demonstrating proper showering methods. Make circular motions with the washcloth across your torso. Be sure not to neglect the underarms. There in the faculty lounge, I felt confident that this was what my entire life would amount to: the Lettie Osbourne Memorial Chart of Proper Bathing.

  I came out of my daydream when Evelyn Pierce raised her hand and started complaining about the lack of support for the music program. Evelyn was nice enough, but she was the kind of person who could drag a room straight down. You know, the type who will stand at a bonfire while people are toasting marshmallows and casually mention reading something about carcinogens in burnt food. That type. I was relieved that Brunhilda wasn’t inclined to indulge her.

  “Your points are all well taken, Evelyn,” Brunhilda said tightly. “But I’d prefer if we address that issue in private, since it doesn’t affect the faculty as a whole.”

  “I beg to differ. Music education has been proven to . . .” Evelyn went on a long-winded explanation of why the music program affected each and every one of us and should not be addressed in private.

  Super. I checked my watch. I was never going to get home in time to catch my show. I turned my head away from Henry’s large frame and toward the door to see Eric Clayman walk in. My spine instantly straightened, and I felt a jolt of awareness. All right, the meeting was interesting now, and even if I passed out from Henry’s body odor, there was a chance Eric knew CPR. Silver linings.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sounding sincere about it. Adorable.

  “We’ve only just started,” Brunhilda said, and then turned back to Evelyn. “I understand everything you’re saying, but in the interest of time, it’s best that we focus on the agenda items. Please make an appointment with Sue so we can meet in private. Thank you.”

  Eric took a seat in an empty chair closer to the door. I was trying not to stare at him, but it was difficult because he was wearing a suit again, and I’d just written an erotic novella about a corporate boss dominating his assistant, and he looked the part, right down to the polished shoes and the self-assured manner.

  Every inch of her body tingled in awareness as he sat in the meeting. She touched her bare neck and thought about his fingers. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was aware of her, if he allowed his mind to wander alone in his room, imagining her with him. If he thought about touching her, and whether he then took himself in hand—

  “By now you may have heard some rumors about Marlene Kitrich,” Brunhilda said. “I’d like to address those.”

  What? It was about the only thing that could pull me out of my Eric Clayman fantasy, which was in turn the only thing that could make me forget Henry’s body odor. I gazed around the room and saw that I was hardly the only one intrigued by the principal’s opening. All of my colleagues sat a little straighter in their chairs. The only rumor I’d heard concerned Marlene’s nervous breakdown.

  “It will be in the papers tomorrow. For all I know, it’s already been reported online.”

  Gone was the forced warmth; Brunhilda was all business. It was the first time I’d seen her look uncomfortable about anything, which only piqued my interest. Marlene did something to wind up in the newspapers? Meek, mousy Marlene, who’d served without question as Brunhilda’s right-hand woman from day one? Whatever had that little lamb been up to? I folded my hands in my lap and crossed my ankles as eagerness wound through me.

  “The police aren’t saying much at this point, and I don’t have any more details than what is being reported. I haven’t spoken with Marlene’s husband or children. Obviously this is a difficult situation for them.” Brunhilda wrung her hands as she spoke.

  This was getting juicy, but I still had no clue what was going on. I was relieved when Mindy raised her hand and said, without waiting to be called upon, “I haven’t heard anything about Marlene. Can you give us some background, please?”

  A pained look crossed Brunhilda’s face, and someone in the back of the room called out, “She hired someone to kill her husband!”

  My jaw hit my lap. Marlene hired a hit man? Marlene? She wore argyle socks! If I’d known the family meeting was going to be so gripping, I would’ve brought popcorn. Other teachers chimed in with tidbits, but Brunhilda wasn’t having it. She raised her hands and shot everyone a dirty look. “We’re not jumping to any conclusions. Let the investigation play out.”

  “Maybe I should field questions.” Eric cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “Since I didn’t know her personally.”

  Brunhilda opened her mouth and looked like she was going to argue, but then she appeared resigned. “Yes. That may be best.”

  She stood and walked to the side of the room so Eric could take her chair, but he didn’t sit down. “Thanks, Gretchen,” he said.

  Who’s Gretchen? I thought, and then remembered Brunhilda’s real name.

  “I understand you all have a lot of questions,” Eric said calmly. “Quite frankly, so do I. So do the police. So do a lot of people. What we do know is that Marlene was working on a political campaign for a candidate for state senate, and it seems they were having . . . a relationship.”

  He paused and actually looked embarrassed by the idea of it. I felt smugly experienced, being an erotica writer and all. I mean, I’d been spanked by a professional. He was such a choirboy. But a hot choirboy.

  He cleared his throat before continuing. “The only reason Gretchen and I decided to raise this is because Marlene may have been using school resources. Phones. Uh, meeting rooms.” He scratched at one eyebrow. “The police may be contacting some of you, and if you have any information, it’s important to be forthcoming.”

  “She hired a hit man to kill her husband? Was it anyone affiliated with the school?”

  The question was from Evelyn. Eric folded his arms across his chest and squared his jaw. He could’ve played a cop on television. “I don’t have any information as to the identity of the person she hired. Allegedly hired.”

  “I heard it was someone with the campaign,” one of the third-grade teachers responded. “She paid him five thousand dollars.”

  “Is that all?” someone else replied. She fluttered her lips. “Guess that’s all a life is worth these days.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of talk,” Eric continued, putting a hasty end to the gossip. “The important thing is that none of this reach the students. They are safe. If any of the parents have questions, they should be directed to Gretchen or me. None of you should be talking to the press. Is that understood?”

  Eric scanned the room and heads nodded slowly. Then he looked at me, and we locked gazes. My throat tightened, and my pulse started to race. Was it my imagination, or did he smile just a little bit? The moment ended when Brunhilda bustled back to center stage.

  “I want to add just one more thing, Eric.” She stood beside him, her composure intact again, her stance wide. “This scandal is an embarrassment to me and to our
school, and to the hard work we put in. Let me make it perfectly clear that such indiscretion will not be tolerated. Until last year, our test scores were the lowest in the district, and now this.” She made a little movement like she was ruffling her feathers. “Last spring, the board of education discussed closing our school and merging it with Williams Elementary. We were this close”—she brought her index finger and thumb together—“to having to let some teachers go. This close.”

  The family meeting had suddenly grown chilly, as dysfunctional family events so often do. Even Mindy had stopped joking and was sitting back in her chair with her head down. It’s all fun and games until Uncle Roger gets drunk and grabs his sister-in-law’s breast. Marlene Kitrich had just grabbed us all in a very bad place.

  “The board is still talking,” Brunhilda continued. “The municipal budget is tight, and the state is cutting aid. I’m writing letters and pleading with the members, but this doesn’t help.”

  This time, Henry spoke beside me. “But, Gretchen, Marlene is being charged with a criminal act that had nothing to do with any of us.”

  “Life isn’t fair, and people aren’t rational. We are also victims,” Brunhilda explained. “Every one of us is going to be under scrutiny for the rest of the year. One more scandal, indiscretion, or piece of gossip could lead to the school being closed and turned into a senior center.”

  I slid my hands beneath my thighs. Her words struck me square in the chest. Scandal? Indiscretion? Piece of gossip? What were the chances a teacher writing erotica would fall into one of those categories? Kindergarten teacher by day, smut peddler by night. If the press was sniffing around the halls, that would make an interesting story, wouldn’t it? Possibly one more black mark against Noah Webster Elementary? No more, I swore silently to myself. I would fulfill my contract and move on without ever telling anyone what I’d done.