Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  Holy effin’ shit, I want to scream. No! Then I see an opportunity. “Well, as luck would have it,” I say with smugness he can’t even begin to grasp, “I’m going to that concert, too. With Ms. Dewberry.”

  Several kids snicker at that. “Seriously?” another student asks. “Don’t you think she’s a little weird?”

  “Not at all.” I think about the conversation Stacey and I had earlier in the week. “Ms. Dewberry is a nonconformist, wouldn’t you say? Surely you guys can relate to not bending to what everyone expects of you.” I look around. “You have to admit that it takes guts to be so unique.” Some students nod; some are oblivious; others are texting inside their backpacks. No one takes the conversational bait.

  “Where are you sitting?” the guy going with his dad asks.

  “What is your name again?”

  “Ben,” he says. “Ben Evans.”

  “Third row, Ben Evans,” I say, and I’m proud of it because I’ve never been anywhere close to the third row at a concert. I try to bait them again. “Ms. Dewberry won the tickets by calling in to the Big Nasty Show.”

  “That is so cool!” Ben bellows, and I have to shush him. In a quieter voice, he says, “Maybe we’ll see y’all there.”

  “Maybe so,” I say. Maybe not!

  “Will y’all be drinking?” the kid sitting in front of Ben wants to know.

  “Don’t get yourself sent to the office three minutes before the bell,” I tell him. “Of course we won’t be drinking. We’re teachers. Everybody knows teachers don’t drink.”

  “Coach Hatter does!” someone yells from the back of the room. “My sister works at Ethan Allen’s, and she says he comes in there all the time drinking those big mugs of beer and eating like a pig!”

  “I assure you, it’s near beer, and I hear he’s quite fond of half-price appetizers,” I say, wishing the bell would hurry up and ring. That gets a laugh out of them while they try to act like they know all about beer, near or otherwise.

  “I don’t see how teachers don’t drink,” another student says. “Having to put up with us all day.”

  “Oh, but y’all are great,” I say. “It’s a privilege to spend our days with you.”

  “You don’t really believe that,” she says.

  “Actually, I do,” I tell her. “I’m not going to stand up here and say it’s easy, especially for a sub, but despite how difficult it is at times, teaching school is a very rewarding career. You guys are great.” I stop and wonder if I’m trying to convince her or myself. Then I wonder if I really and truly want to get my old job back. I dismiss that thought, chalking it up to a hard week in the trenches. I used to love my job. Or at least I think I liked it. “Let’s move this conversation along, please.”

  “Are you dating anyone?” the girl says as the bell rings. “You and Coach Hatter should go out!”

  “Get out of here,” I say. “Have a good weekend, everyone, and be safe! Remember: Don’t text and walk into oncoming traffic!” I follow them out into the hallway, feeling guilty for being so relieved that the bell finally rang. I don’t ever remember feeling so put out by my students back when I had my own classroom. Now I feel that way every single period of every single day.

  18

  Thank the good merciful heavens, Mr. Bridgeton has seventh period off and I am done in every sense of the word. I collect my things, lock the door, and head to the lounge for some refreshment. Walking down the hallway, I think about Lilly and wonder how she’s making it. I know Dax is taking her out on a hot date tonight, so I try to stop worrying. Then I think about Chloe keeping J.J. in the dark about her pregnancy and feel terrible for causing her extra grief by running my mouth to him in Walmart yesterday. I think she’s crazy for not telling him, but that’s not my decision to make. And then there’s this job. Oh goodness! This job. I don’t know what I was thinking when I signed up to be a permanent substitute teacher. I certainly never expected it to be what, unfortunately for me, it’s turned out to be. I shake my head and sigh. All of this crap is like a big tangled ball of string that keeps getting more twisted and knotted by the day. I walk into the lounge and see Freddie Dublin sitting smack-dab in the center of the room with his feet propped on the table.

  “Hey, Freddie,” I say.

  “You off this period?”

  “Thank my lucky stars, yes.” I look at him. “And you?”

  “Thank your lucky stars, yes,” he says. I put my gigant-o-bag on the table and start digging for change. “So, is the party still on for tomorrow night?” he asks.

  “It is,” I say, turning my attention to the vending machine.

  “Can I bring Cameron?”

  “Freddie, I don’t know about that,” I tell him as I drop quarters into the slot. “She and I aren’t exactly friends and we don’t need any—” I pause, then for lack of a better word, say, “Drama.” This draws a wide smile from Freddie Dublin.

  “She said y’all had a moment at the beginning of sixth period.” He stops talking. I don’t say a word. “Ace, she really wants to come. Cameron has no friends here. None. Except for me, of course, and her fans in the athletic department. We both know a girl can’t survive on that.” I turn around and look at him. He pats the chair to his right. “Come, sit.”

  “What are you, her popularity agent?” I ask, sitting down beside him.

  “No,” he says, not acknowledging my humor. “I’m her only friend in this galaxy and she’s high maintenance, if you know what I mean. I’m getting tired.”

  Freddie tells me another sob story about how poor Cameron used to be the ugly duckling and never had any friends and then she turned into a swan and was equally despised by her peers. I watch him as he speaks, looking for the smallest hint of dishonesty. It’s a sad situation. Just not sad enough. Because if Cameron Becker came to that party and tried to hit on Dax, then I would have to beat the shit out of her, and I’m fairly certain that would lead to a hostile work environment on at least seventeen different levels.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t think so, Freddie.” I stop short of adding, I’m sorry.

  “C’mon, Ace,” he puts his arm around me and his sweet-smelling cologne casts a wicked spell on my senses. “Consider it a small favor from you to me, which I assure you I will repay at some point when you really need it.”

  “Freddie,” I say, pulling away from him, “you’re impossible.” With one hand, he starts to rub my back. He smiles and I revel in his aroma and attention.

  “Pretty please. You’re nice to Dewberry and we both know it’s not because the two of you have anything in common.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Just give a girl a chance to make a friend. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I take a sip of Diet Mountain Dew and consider his request. I know how it feels to be stuck somewhere with no friends and must admit that it sucks. “Okay, Freddie, but under one condition.” He moves his hand up to my neck and I close my eyes. “Will you be personally responsible for her?”

  “Of course,” he says, massaging. “You can count on me.”

  “Okay,” I say, then open my eyes and look at him. “But if she screws up, I promise you that I will make your life at this school a living hell for the rest of this year.”

  “Oh, feistiness,” he says, patting me on the back. “I like it!”

  “I’m not joking,” I say, and he stops smiling. “If she really wants to come, you can bring her. But she can’t flirt with Dax or J.J. or anybody who is there with their wife and/or girlfriend. Women around here will straight punch a girl in the face for gettin’ too friendly with their man.”

  “That’s brutal,” Freddie says.

  “That’s the truth,” I say. “Which is why it’s so important that no one comes to this party and does something stupid or uncalled for.” I look at him. “Got it?”

  “Got it!” he says, but I’m not sure he does. “Hey, I’m glad you’re off this period, Ms. Jones, because there’s one more teeny-tiny thing on my
mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “About Ms. Stacey Dewberry,” he says. “I understand you’re going to a concert with her tonight.”

  “Yes, we’re going in her Iroc-Z28,” I say, and we both smile.

  “Vintage!” he says. “So, is there any way that we could like, I don’t know, say, uh…”

  “Spit it out, Freddie!”

  “Makeover!” he practically shouts. “She needs a makeover worse than Joan Rivers needs some slack in her face!”

  While I find that very funny, I don’t allow him more than a smile. “She’s perfectly happy like she is,” I say.

  “Ace,” he says, looking at me, “she is never going to get laid dressing like she does.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Oh, but I do because she told me so in one of our therapy sessions.” He smiles a mischievous smile. “She hasn’t had any you-know-what since she broke it off with Joey McRedneck—you know, the one who coerced her into moving over here from Ala-freakin’-bama—and, well, according to her, she’d had quite the dry spell before she met him in the beer cooler that hot and fateful morning.” He looks at me and I look at my Diet Mountain Dew. “Nobody’s hair deserves to be so abused on a daily basis. You can sit there and act like it isn’t an aberration, but we both know that shit needs to be tamed.” I concentrate very hard on not reacting. “Please, help me devise a plan to get that puff-monster under control and, oh my goodness, those turtleneck sweaters with shoulder pads have got to go.” He reaches over and tousles my hair. “You know hot rollers would do amazing things to these luscious tresses, right?”

  “You think so?” I can’t help it. I don’t care what Freddie Dublin thinks of Stacey’s hair. I want mine to look just like it when we go out tonight.

  “I know so,” he says. He puts a finger on his temple and pretends to be thinking really hard. “What if you let Stacey and me fix you up for the concert tonight? We can use you as the bait and then maybe next weekend we can talk her into a real makeover.”

  “You know what, Freddie? That actually sounds like fun.”

  “Yippee,” he says without a trace of enthusiasm.

  “You should go to the concert with us.”

  “Oh gawd no,” he drawls. “I don’t do eighties rock. Sorry, honey.”

  “Are you kidding me? Who doesn’t do eighties rock?”

  “This one,” he says, pointing at his chest. “And everyone else born after December 31, 1989.” That stings a little, but I let it pass. He continues. “Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen: Stacey is going to invite you over to her house an hour earlier than what was previously discussed and you will agree without asking any questions. Then you will need to act supersurprised when you get to her house and see me, okay?”

  “What? Why? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about making this operation run smoothly,” he says. “During morning break, I invited her down to my classroom and basically had the same conversation with her that I just had with you.” He winks at me. “Turns out Ms. Dewberry secretly thinks you need a little more spunk in your wardrobe.”

  “You are a sly devil, Freddie Dublin. Conspiring with the Dewberry.”

  “The Dewberry. I like that. So we have a deal then?” The bell rings and Freddie jumps up. Before I even have a chance to respond, he says, “Great! I’ll see you there! Okay, I’ve got to get out of here before those buses.”

  “You aren’t worried about getting busted for leaving early?”

  “Oh no, I make Mr. Byer more nervous than he already is. He’d never say anything to me.” He grins. “Plus I parked in the senior parking today, so no one will see me leave.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “But, of course,” he says. “See you in a bit!”

  “Okay,” I say as he jets out the door. I sit there for a minute, shaking my head. Five minutes later, I’m still thinking about our conversation when the door flies open and Stacey Dewberry hustles into the lounge. While she speed punches coins into the drink machine, she asks if I’d like to do hair and makeup at her house tonight.

  “You could come over at four, which is an hour earlier than we talked about at lunch.” After wrestling her Dr Pepper from the dispenser, she turns to face me. She’s rocking from one foot to the other and I think she’s about to make a break for the restroom, but she doesn’t. I suppose the movement might be her physical reaction to trying to run a covert op. I decide not to give her a hard time because she’s about to board a school bus loaded with rambunctious students and drive them all over the southeastern side of the county, dropping them off one by one. When I say yes, her face glows with triumph. She hustles out of the lounge and I sit there for another minute, nursing my lukewarm Diet Mountain Dew and wondering what in the hell I just got myself into.

  19

  “Buster Loo!” I say when I get home. “Where’s Mama’s little chiweenie king?” He comes barreling down the hallway and jumps onto the sofa. We play speedy-dog fetch and then I take him for a walk around the block. I clean up his dog bowls, put out fresh water, and give him a new rawhide bone, which he gets very excited about. I hop in and out of the shower, giddy with anticipation. I walk into my closet, where I carefully select the most flattering but still-comfortable jeans, and I slip on my favorite Minnetonkas and a Ralph Lauren Woman top I picked up off the clearance rack at Dillard’s a few weeks ago.

  I put Stacey Dewberry’s address into the map app on my phone and see that she lives all the way across town. I tell Buster Loo good-bye and he doesn’t even acknowledge me because he’s too busy with his new piece of rawhide. Fifteen minutes later, I pull up at a small brick house with bright blue shutters and a black Iroc-Z28 sitting in the carport. I park on the curb behind a spotless Prius with out-of-county plates, which I assume belongs to Freddie D.

  “Surprise!” Stacey says as I walk in the door.

  “Surprise!” Freddie says in his unenthusiastic way.

  I make a big show of asking what Freddie is doing at Stacey’s while they escort me to the kitchen where a massive workstation has been set up on the table. There are three sets of hot rollers, two curling irons—one with a fat barrel and one much skinnier—a hair dryer, and three different-colored cans of Aqua Net. Next to all of that, I see a massive pile of makeup and an impressive collection of brushes.

  I feel like a queen as I sit down to play along and very much enjoy them fussing over my hair. Once the hot rollers are in place, Freddie and Stacey start on my makeup. Ten minutes later, I walk to the mirror and burst out laughing.

  “I look like a French whore!”

  “But a very comely French whore,” Freddie says with a smile. He snaps his fingers. “Stacey! Wardrobe!”

  “Wardrobe?” I ask. “I’m wearing what I have on.”

  Freddie looks at my pale green polo shirt and jeans. “Tsk-tsk-tsk,” he says, waving a finger at me. “No, you’re not.” Stacey comes down the hallway with two bundles of clothes and Freddie helps her spread them out in the living room. “You and Stacey appear to be about the same size, so we’re going to put a little pep in your step tonight, sweetheart.”

  I stare at the various leggings and oversized shirts, thinking how much I like it when Freddie calls me sweetheart, while Stacey runs to the kitchen to fetch herself a Dr Pepper.

  “You are going to look so hot,” Freddie whispers.

  “Wearing that stuff?” I ask, nodding toward the sofa. He looks at me, and my cheeks burn in the light of his intense attention. “Really?” I whisper. His answer is a nod and wink and, at that very moment, I know that I would do almost anything Freddie Dublin asked of me—well, anything except put on that psychedelic geometric-print top I just spied on the love seat. Stacey returns to the living room and they take turns holding up various shapes and styles of shirts.

  “Look at this,” Stacey exclaims, pulling out a hot pink top embellished with gold sequined stars. “I haven’t seen this thing in ten ye
ars! This would look great on you!” She looks at Freddie, who gives his nod of approval.

  “Okay, I guess I should try it on.”

  “Let’s get you some pants first,” Stacey says, rifling through another pile. After vetoing six different pairs of zigzag, floral, and otherwise multicolored stretch pants, they talk me into trying on a pair of zebra print leggings with my oversized pink shirt. I put down the pair of plain black ones that I’d plucked from the pile and take the zebra print hanger from Stacey. Looking at the pants, I remind myself that I did come to party and these do look pretty comfortable. Stacey disappears down the hallway once again.

  “I’m going to enjoy looking at you in those,” Freddie says, nodding toward the zebra pants. I look at him and can’t help but wonder if he’s doing all of this so he can snap pictures of me with his fancy little cell phone and use them to blackmail me into leaving town and, consequently, leaving his lovely and well-dressed pal Cameron Becker unbothered by my presence at school. But then I remember that I was nice to her today so maybe that’s not the case.

  “Okay,” Stacey says, bustling back into the living room. “If you’re wearing those pants, you have to wear these. It’s the only way.” She hands me a black pair of what she identifies as slouch boots.

  “What size are those?”

  “Nine.”

  “I wear an eight.”

  Freddie pulls up the left leg of my pants and looks down. “Well, I see you’re wearing socks,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

  I walk down the hallway to Stacey’s bedroom, close the door, and carefully place the clothes I take off onto the bed. I don’t want to wrinkle them in the likely event that I’ll look like an idiot in the ensemble I’m about to try on and end up having to take these hot rollers out, flat iron my hair back into submission, tone down my makeup, and go to this concert looking like a normal person. I slip on the shirt, wiggle into the pants, then pull on the boots. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I whisper to myself as I turn to face the mirror.