An Unlikely Deal

by Nadia Lee

  After a few moments I glance at the clock on the wall. I have perhaps twenty minutes left before I need to get going.

  “I have heard some…disturbing things about your conduct, Huss-sensei,” Kouchou-sensei says finally.

  “Excuse me?” Of all the things I imagined…

  “One of our staff saw you entering a hotel…with a man.”

  The way she speaks… It’s like I butchered a baby bunny and drank its blood.

  “Did this staff member also mention it was not a love hotel?”

  Japanese people have meetings in respectable non-love hotels all the time. I don’t see why Kouchou-sensei is being so weird about it.

  She purses her thin lips briefly. “Yes. But it was late at night. Also, you were wearing a dress that showed…quite a lot of your body.”

  The dress I had on showed some leg. But her tone makes it sound like I paraded nude into the lobby.

  I have a feeling I know who the staff member is. “I’m not certain what you and Mishima-sensei think happened, but I was with an old friend from America.” My mind rebels at the fact that I’m calling him “an old friend” but I’m not going to tell the disapproving Kouchou-sensei that he is my ex-lover.

  There is a slight flicker in Kouchou-sensei’s eyes that tells me I was right. “Then what were you doing at the hotel?”

  It takes a lot of willpower not to laugh at her ridiculous inquisition, but bureaucratic bullshit is unavoidable in Japanese schools with their medieval attitude about sex.

  “We went up to his suite and ordered room service for dinner. And that’s it.” But the second the words leave my lips, I know I’ve made a tactical error.

  Kouchou-sensei is looking at me sadly. “You went to his room.”

  “Yes, but I left before the dinner arrived. I had an urgent call—”

  “You were in his room with him?”

  Argh. The woman is like a dog with a bone. “For less than an hour.”

  “Huss-sensei.” She sits back. “Appearances must be maintained if one is a teacher.”

  “I swear nothing happened.” Just to make sure she understands, I say, “There was no sex. We just talked.”

  She nods, but her eyes are sweeping me from head to toe. The skin around my neck starts to warm. Her silent judgment is like a fist around my throat.

  “If there’s nothing else, I do need to prepare for class.” I glance at the clock. Ten minutes.

  “Of course, the students come first. We will continue this later.”

  I give her a bland smile and leave. We will not be continuing anything later. She has no right to act like I’ve been a slut. I know why she’s putting my behavior under a microscope. I’m a foreigner. As far as she’s concerned, if she isn’t careful, I’m likely to exert a negative influence on impressionable Japanese youth.

  I’d bet my working visa that if I were Japanese, Kouchou-sensei wouldn’t have put me through the “aren’t you a little slut” interrogation.

  The teachers’ office is almost empty. I spot a mug on Mishima-sensei’s desk, which sits at the other end of the room, and vow to have a quick conversation with her. If she has a problem with me, she can say it to my face instead of running to her BFF Kouchou-sensei.

  I skim the notes left by the substitute teacher. Since I did most of the lesson prep before I left for Thailand, it doesn’t take much time to pull handouts and teaching points for the day. My primary focus with the first-year junior high students is to break their attitude that English is by default difficult. Secretly, I agree that English isn’t an easy language for Japanese people to master. The grammar and thinking are totally different. But if I can’t get my students to at least believe it’s a challenge that can be overcome, they won’t even try.

  After the third period, I have a break. I go to the teachers’ office to start grading the mini-essays my students wrote over the weekend, then stop short. There is a huge bouquet of blood red roses in a crystal vase on my desk. Their heady scent fills the utilitarian teachers’ room and brightens the drab space.

  The school secretary, Kanagawa-san, is looking at the flowers with admiration tinged with something that I can’t quite identify but don’t like. “Very beautiful. Is today a special occasion, Ava-sensei?”

  “Not at all,” I manage, though my mouth feels like it’s full of sawdust. “I’m surprised myself.”

  Lucas. What are you trying to do now?

  I go to the flowers. I’m almost tempted to throw them away, but I can’t. They’re just too beautiful, not to mention if I did toss them out, it would draw attention from my coworkers. I pluck the stiff note stuck to the bouquet.

  I’ll give you until tomorrow.

  –L

  The nerve! He can wait until the sun goes cold. I’m not quitting my job.

  Sitting down, I rip the note into little pieces under the desk and toss them in the trash bin next to my chair, then turn my attention to the essays. I start reading the one on the top of the stack from first period, then feel an odd vibe in the air.

  I look up, but all the teachers seem to be focused on their own work.

  Huh. I turn my attention back to grading. I don’t have time to mess around. The more I get done now, the less I’ll have to take home with me.

  Then I feel it again. What’s going on? Did I spill something on my sweater or something? I look down but my clothes seem as pristine as they were when I left home…

  Sato-sensei occupies the desk next to mine. I lean over. “Is there something wrong?” I whisper.

  She puts down her pen while casting a furtive glance at the other teachers. I almost roll my eyes. She actually hunches a bit, until she starts to resemble a turtle trying to go back into its shell. “Mishima-sensei had a break during the second period. And she…ah… You see, she mentioned…”

  You’ve gotta be kidding. “About me going to a hotel with a man?”

  She blinks, then relaxes a bit. “Ah. You know,” she says, obviously relieved it won’t be necessary to explain in embarrassing detail.

  “If she’s that concerned, she could just talk to me directly.”

  “Yes.” Sato-sensei sucks on her teeth. “But that is not our way. She wants to be…not so direct. Being direct is”—Sato-sensei laughs nervously—“too awkward da yo.” She puts an emphasis on da yo.

  “So it’s better to tell on me, like a three-year-old?”

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing. Thank you for explaining the situation.”

  She peers at my face. “Are you angry?”

  I want to bitch-slap Mishima-sensei, but I won’t because that woman is old enough to be my grandma. I bare my teeth in what I hope is a reassuring smile.

  “No. Just…relieved to know what’s going on.”

  She nods. “I think it is not a large problem, but some older teachers worry about the image. Well, you are American, so…we can’t expect you to be like Japanese teachers, ne?” She sits back up.

  I can’t decide if Sato-sensei is trying to be insulting or helpful. I decide on the latter. “No. Of course not.”

  Just then I see the originator of my problem walk by in the hallway. I get up and go out after her. “Mishima-sensei!”

  She stops and turns, looking like a barely rehydrated mummy—all skin and bones and as thin as a tarp. Her clothes—a pink sweater and ankle-length navy skirt—flap limply around her short frame. Her mouth is flat as usual. I’ve never seen the woman smile, ever. But the eyes are extraordinary—they glitter with almost frightening intensity, like those of a hawk before swooping down upon prey. She has a reputation among the students for being terrifying.

  “Can I talk to you for a moment?” I say.

  She looks at me coolly. “Most certainly.”

  “I heard you spoke with Kouchou-sensei.”

  “It seemed like something she should be aware of.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me first if you have a problem?”

  “It is obvious you did not realize it was
a problem. If you did, you wouldn’t have done it. And I am not your mother. Nor am I in position to officially correct behavior.” She peers at me, the corners of her mouth curving downward.

  I force my hands to relax. “I did nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Do unmarried teachers in America often go to hotels late at night with men?”

  There. That judging tone. And late at night, my ass. NHK news was on when I came home, and it runs from nine to ten.

  “Is it customary for elder teachers to gossip about others behind their backs?”

  Red shows on her powdered cheeks. “I can’t believe you are talking back to me.”

  “I can’t believe you not only spoke with Kouchou-sensei, but to every other teacher in the school except me. I find that petty and immature, if you must know.”

  “Do you think you can talk to me like this? I’ve been with this school for over ten years.”

  “Then perhaps as my elder, you should have set a better example and guided me, don’t you agree? Next time you have something to say about me, just say it to my face.”

  “This is why we can’t accept foreign attitude.”

  Normally I would’ve ignored her because it’s not worth the fight. Mishima-sensei has been around a long time, and seniority carries a lot of weight in Japan. But with a job offer in hand, I don’t feel like biting my tongue just to satisfy this superior busybody.

  “You know what? At least foreigners don’t jump to conclusions and spread ugly rumors. Are you happy that you made all the other teachers look bad by association?”

  This barb hits home. She flinches. Japanese people are so focused on the group identity rather than the individual’s.

  “You are American. You are not like us.”

  “I’m still a teacher at this school,” I call out over a shoulder as I walk away.

  Even though the parting shot feels great, I know I’m finished at the school. They won’t fire me, but they probably won’t renew my contract. It’s okay though. I have a position waiting for me in Chiang Mai.

  And there’s Lucas. He’s willing to support you so you can write.

  I smack myself inwardly. What the hell is wrong with me? I’d rather just never be a writer. Accepting what he’s offering would be admitting that I deserve to be treated like a cheap prostitute men fuck in an alley, trousers down around their knees.

  Gifts

  The girl hides behind the bathroom door and peeks through the gap. Her mother stands in the living room with her arms crossed. Under her feet, what’s left of the carpet is brown, and the walls are so dingy it’s hard to believe they were white at one point.

  The mother is petite, with pretty green eyes and pale golden hair that’s almost silver. The pictures of her on the bookcase show her as radiant, her skin smooth. She is now not even ten years older than those photos, but her cracked hands are rough with calluses, and deep lines bracket her downturned mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” she says harshly, her voice husky and raspy. Cigarettes are the only vice she can afford with any regularity. They also give her energy when she’s tired.

  “Baby, I’m sorry.” The girl’s father spreads his arms. “I had to work on our anniversary. I tried to get the day off, but it was impossible. You know how Bob is.”

  The mother’s lips tighten. “Bob’s an asshole. You tell me where he is so I can give that man a piece of my mind.”

  “Now, baby, don’t do that. If you cause trouble at work, I’ll lose my job. Then what?”

  “I don’t know, Beau. Is it worth it? It’s not like trucking pays much. I’m tired of working two jobs to make ends meet.”

  “I’m sorry.” He takes her hands in his nicer, softer ones. “Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket. “This made me think of you.”

  He gives her a black box. It has no label or brand, and inside is rather sad with a pair of golden earrings shaped like strings of hearts. Still, the mother’s face brightens. “They’re pretty.”

  “Just like you.” He reaches out and runs one hand softly along her hair. “You’re the only one for me.”

  Smiling, the mother lets him lead her to the only bedroom in the apartment. Their moans and grunts keep the girl awake for a long, long time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ava

  Tuesday passes without incident. Teachers still eye me speculatively, but I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Neither Kouchou-sensei nor Mishima-sensei has bugged me since then, so I act like Monday never happened.

  Even if I have a job offer, I still need to finish out my contract with the school, and I don’t want to have any pointless tension here.

  Thankfully Lucas doesn’t bother me with another bouquet of nonsense. Hopefully he’s flown back to America by now, where he belongs…with Faye Belbin. The idea stirs a crazy cocktail of jealousy inside me, and I breathe deeply to calm myself. It’s better this way. Don’t I know that?

  But Wednesday morning Mishima-sensei comes and tells me that Kouchou-sensei wants to talk to me again. I raise my eyebrows. I haven’t gone out or done anything that could be construed as inappropriate, so I don’t know what Kouchou-sensei can possibly want to talk about.

  “Before your first class,” Mishima-sensei clarifies.

  “Arigato gozaimasu.”

  I make my way to the office. Yamamoto-san fidgets when she sees me. She won’t meet my eyes.

  A bad sign. What’s the problem now?

  “You can go in,” Yamamoto-san says.

  I murmur my thanks and walk inside. Kouchou-sensei is again seated at her desk, and she offers the same chair. I sit down, feeling a bit of déjà vu. Maybe I’m hallucinating. That wouldn’t surprise me. I haven’t been sleeping well—thanks to Lucas’s sudden reappearance and demands—and I could be dreaming with my eyes wide open…

  Her thin hands are on the desk, folded neatly. “It’s come to my attention that there is a problem other than the hotel incident.”

  I stare at her. What crime have I committed? My Facebook account has nothing that could come back to bite me in the butt. I didn’t even start one until I left the States, mostly so I could keep in touch with Darcy and Ray. Bennie and I used LINE and Skype to communicate with each other until I joined him in Osaka.

  When I don’t give her the reaction she was obviously expecting, Kouchou-sensei asks, “Is it true you’re cohabiting with a man?” There is a subtle emphasis on cohabiting, as though I’ve been hosting and participating in orgies or something.

  “If you’re asking me whether I have a roommate, yes, I do.”

  “And this roommate… Is he a man?”

  “Yes. He’s my best friend. He’s been my best friend since I was a small child.”

  “But he is a man.”

  I can see where this is going. “Yes.”

  “And he is not related to you.”

  “No, but he’s like a brother to me. We grew up together.”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Yet he is not your brother, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  She stares at me as though surprised at my frank answers. “You must realize how this appears.”

  “He is homosexual. He looks at me the way you look at Mishima-sensei.”

  I’d bet my gaijin card that that hateful busybody is behind this. She’s probably pissed off over our confrontation and wants to show me who’s boss.

  “But do you see him the same way?”

  My mouth parts. The question is so preposterous it takes me a moment to process. “Like I said, he’s my best friend, and he is not at all interested in women that way. How could I possibly see him as a…romantic partner?”

  “Men and women cannot be friends.”

  “Of course they can.”

  “Even if that is the case, there is the matter of appearance. Teachers are the moral pillars of society. A young unmarried female teacher cannot cohabit with a young unmarried man who is not related to her.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to
ask if it’s acceptable if the man in question is a young married male adult who isn’t related to her, but I swallow my sarcastic comment. That would be pouring gas on the fire.

  “This isn’t Edo-jidai, Kouchou-sensei,” I remind her, referring to the medieval Tokugawa Era when the shoguns ruled the country.

  She gives me a bland look. “Very fortunate for you. Foreigners were not allowed in Osaka during that period.” She lays her hands on the desk, her spider-leg fingers linking loosely. “Regardless, your female students may look at your behavior and assume that it is acceptable to cohabit in such amoral manner. And your male students may feel that it is natural for them to expect women to cohabit with them. This will not do. I cannot allow it.”

  “What are you saying?” Is she going to try to put me into some kind of dorm or some—

  “I’m afraid I will have to terminate your employment.”

  My mouth parts, and it takes two attempts before I can gasp, “What?”

  “Your contract has a clause that specifically prohibits you from behaving immorally, which you have done.” She pauses meaningfully. “Twice.”

  I feel heat traveling from my chest to my face. Goddamn it. I cannot believe how narrow-minded Kouchou-sensei is being. Mishima-sensei probably egged her on to get me fired. I clench my trembling hands into fists and stiffen my body. I will not show weakness.

  “You’re going to say I’m guilty without a hearing? Giving me a fair chance to defend myself?” I ask.

  She looks at me like I’m slightly slow. “I gave you a chance, and you admitted to everything. I don’t know what more you expect. I have been more than fair.”

  Shit. This is it. I’m not Japanese, I’m not a permanent employee, and I don’t get the consideration that a unionized teacher here might get. The situation galls me.

  “We have a substitute teacher to replace you today. I do not expect you to teach.” Kouchou-sensei puts a subtle emphasis on “expect,” making it clear she will not allow me to have any further contact with the students. “Now. Very sorry to have to say this, but it is required that you will leave.”

  “Fine,” I say, shaken by how coolly and swiftly I’ve been dismissed.