Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Natalie Charles

  “Seems that way.”

  Eric went to open the door, but Lettie reached it first. “Have a good night,” she said.

  “You too.”

  He waited for her to exit the administrative hall before he closed the door again. A sex contract. He shook his head. It was absurd. You’re wrong for me. Her words echoed.

  Funny. He’d thought that there was a good possibility they were perfect together.

  WHEN I GOT HOME after the Winter Concert Committee meeting, I made myself a large bowl of whipped cream and devoured it all while standing at the kitchen counter. Then I found a bag of chocolate chips in the pantry and ate them by the handful. Odin tilted his head at me at first but then got bored and wandered over to sit on the couch. I didn’t have the energy to correct him.

  I’d proposed a sex contract to Eric. I closed my eyes. Had that actually happened? A sex contract. Which he—correctly—noted was “degrading” to both of us.

  What was wrong with me?

  All I knew was that when we were standing there in his office and he was coming on to me, I felt great. It was true that he pushed all of my buttons. When I looked at him, I saw myself reflected back the way I’d always wanted to be: Desirable. Sexy. Wanted. I’d panicked. Sex was one thing, but I wasn’t ready for him to actually like me.

  My chest was too tight, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I realized what I’d done. I’d come on to Eric, I’d suggested a no-strings-attached kind of arrangement, and he’d completely rejected me. There was no experience in my life from which to draw advice for this circumstance. Once again, I’d messed up in an all-new, colossally terrible way.

  “Okay. Get ahold of yourself,” I whispered and set my hands on my knees. “Breathe.”

  It wasn’t like me to be so brash. I wasn’t Faye, with her open marriage and her array of partners. I was Aletta, the plain one. The nice girl. Nice girls didn’t come on to men or propose contracts. They waited for the men to come to them.

  I could leave town. Get into my car and drive until I hit some other state. But my sorry bank account wouldn’t support starting a new life, and I had my students to think about. I walked into the living room and looked at Odin sprawled out on the couch, his head on my “Happiness” pillow. He tensed slightly and eyed me, maybe because he feared my state of mind. Probably because he knew darn well he wasn’t allowed to sit on the furniture. But I patted his neck. He licked my hand and rolled onto his back, lifting his paws into the air so I could scratch his belly. “Rejection sucks, Odie.”

  I went into the kitchen, poured myself a tall glass of red wine, and drank it quickly. Then I picked up my cell phone and called Dr. Bubbles. “This is Dr. Bubbles’s office, Patricia speaking.”

  Of course I reached the after-hours reception service. “It’s pronounced Boo-blay,” I said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s Boo-blay, not Bubbles.” I was operating on a special combination of shame, whipped cream, chocolate, and red wine, and my head was starting to buzz. “I need to speak with G.”

  “Who?”

  “G. Bubbles. I think it stands for Gordon, but it could be Gustav.”

  Patricia paused for a moment. “This is the answering service. May I take a message?”

  “Yeah. You can tell Bubbles that I just proposed a sex contract to one of my bosses, and then I ate a bowl of whipped cream and half a bag of chocolate chips and drank a glass of wine. I’m hitting rock bottom, Patricia. He talks about focusing on gratitude, and I’d be grateful if he got off his easy chair and called me back before I have a complete breakdown.”

  Another pause. “All right. And who, may I ask, is calling?”

  I gave her my name and number and waited patiently while she repeated the message back to me. “You got it. Sex contract. Thanks, Patty. Have a nice night.” I disconnected the call.

  This will all be fine, I thought. No problem. I sat on my couch and gnawed on my thumbnail, and then I called Mindy. She picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Lettie. How are you?”

  “Not so great.” I rose to my feet. “I suggested to Eric that we enter into an arrangement. A sexual one.”

  “Wait, I have to turn off the television for this.” She came back moments later. “Now, you wanted to enter into what kind of arrangement?”

  “Just sex. No commitment. And he said no.” Oh God, it sounded even worse out loud. “I have to quit my job and move to Siberia. How can I continue to work there?”

  “Okay. Wow.” Mindy released a breath. “Well, you two did have sex, so technically this is all fine. If you’ve handled his pocket puppet, then he can handle your crazy, you know what I mean? Take the good with the bad.”

  “What, is that— You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “Sort of, yeah. But trust me, I’ve made a fool of myself lots of times post-sex. It can mess with your head.”

  But I couldn’t imagine Mindy doing something so reckless. Also, that red wine was not sitting well with the heavy whipping cream. Her pep talk was not working and my life was over. I wandered into my bathroom to find some antacids when my cell beeped. I glanced at the caller ID. “Mindy, my therapist is on the other line. I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay, but call me back if he doesn’t fix you.”

  “Will do.” I clicked over. “Dr. Bubbles. How are you doing this evening?”

  “Aletta? My receptionist tells me you called her saying something about a sex contract? Is that right?”

  I found a half-empty bottle of antacids behind a bottle of nail polish remover that purported to smell like lemons, but really smelled like the aftermath of the apocalypse. “Yes to the sex contract. With my boss.”

  A long pause. “I see.”

  “We had sex a couple weeks ago. At a bar. And the attraction is still there, you know? And I guess it’s fine if we ended up dating, but we’d have to disclose our relationship and maybe one of us would have to transfer schools or something.” Now that I thought about it, it really didn’t seem like that big of a deal. “Anyway, he wants to get to know me, and I’d rather we just keep it casual and have lots of sex. But he thinks that’s degrading, and I see his point.”

  I stopped to take a breath, which was just long enough for Dr. Bubbles to ask, “Is this an emergency?”

  Just when I’d thought we were feeling connected. “Uh, yes, clearly. Because I’ve made a fool of myself and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s like I have these two different sides, and they’re both fighting it out.”

  “And which one proposed the sex contract?”

  “The bad side, of course!”

  “Which side is your bad side?”

  “The one that writes erotica and likes it. And has crushes on my boss and doesn’t care about propriety. That one.”

  “Are you currently suicidal?”

  “What? No.”

  “Are you thinking of harming yourself?”

  “Does eating whipped cream and chocolate for dinner count?”

  He sighed into the phone. “Aletta, it sounds like we have some things to talk about if you’d like to make an appointment, but this is not an emergency.” Before I could protest, he added, “Listen. We all have a dual nature. There is the side we show to the world and the side we hide from it. There’s nothing about what you’ve told me that causes me alarm. But let me leave you with this: What were the terms of your contract?”

  It hurt to even think about it. “No strings. No feelings. Just sex.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for Dr. Bubbles to tell me how perverse that was. Instead, he said, “Are you sure your bad side wanted that contract? Because it sounds to me that the side you refer to as your bad side is the one that craves intimacy, while your good side is the one that wants to keep people at a distance so you can’t get hurt again.”

  I stopped cold in the
middle of my hallway as his words soaked in. He was a clever one, that Dr. Bubbles.

  I BRUSHED my teeth and climbed into bed, resigned to facing the next day. Just as I was turning out the light, my cell phone chirped. I had a new e-mail. My heart skipped. It was from Eric. Lord.

  Hey—

  If I know you, you’re beating yourself up about our meeting. I wasn’t happy with my own performance. Can we agree to start over? I think you’re a great teacher, and I enjoy your company.

  Eric

  I smiled, and my stomach relaxed. I typed back a quick reply:

  I like new beginnings.

  Then I hit send. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought of what Dr. Bubbles had said. He was right. I’d been holding myself back and closing myself off. Aletta Osbourne was full of fear. I didn’t want her to be that way any longer.

  CHAPTER 16

  I WENT TO SCHOOL the next morning determined to block out the drama of the previous few weeks. I had no choice, because it was early November and my class was becoming a handful. They may have been excited about the approaching holidays, or maybe relaxing after the initial transition to kindergarten. Whatever was going on, some days I felt like all I did was remind children to sit down or put them in the calm-down chair. The leader of the shenanigans was a boy named Oscar.

  Oscar had wide blue eyes and bright blond hair that seemed to always stick up a little in the back. When we had story time and I told the children to sit crisscross applesauce, he knelt so that I would correct him. When we practiced coloring shapes, he went outside of the lines on purpose and gave me a sneaky smile to see if I’d noticed. All of the misbehavior—the talking out of turn, the failure to follow directions, the sometimes mean remarks to other children—I could have chalked up to his being a five-year-old boy. It was a special age in so many ways. But I’d made notes in Oscar’s file. He’d come to school unusually tired, or he wouldn’t eat his lunch for days at a time. The day after Eric and I agreed to start over was the day I’d asked the children to share a hand-drawn picture of their family. When I saw Oscar’s, I was deeply troubled.

  Once Max brought my class to phys ed, I took Oscar’s picture and headed straight for the administrative wing where the school psychologist worked. Budget cuts being what they were, Noah Webster Elementary didn’t have a school psychologist of its own. We shared one with the other elementary school and the middle school, so we only had her on Monday mornings and Fridays. It was Thursday, so I thought that if I left her a note—

  “She’s not in today.”

  I didn’t need to turn to know that it was Eric’s voice, but I did anyway. He was dressed more casually than usual, in gray slacks and a light green shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar. No tie. My traitorous body took very careful notice of his long fingers pressed to his waist. I had sworn off Eric Clayman. Would be nice if you’d get on board, Lady Bits. I thought I’d sent the memo.

  We were starting over, and that was a relief, I told myself. And yet I didn’t feel relieved when he smiled at me with that knee-weakening kindness in his eyes. I felt like I should’ve just gone ahead and let him pound me on the desk. Everything about him made me nervous and set my skin on fire. I had to look back down at the drawing in my hand in order to appear that I was playing it cool.

  “I know she’s not in today,” I said, “but I—I have an issue. Here. Look at this.” I held out the drawing and watched him as he unfolded it for examination. “I asked the kids in my class to draw pictures of their family, and one child brought this in.”

  The picture was drawn entirely in dark colors: black, purple, and blue. There was a mother and a boy, each of them drawn without a mouth. Each of them dwarfed by a looming figure scribbled over in black. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said.

  Eric frowned as he took in the images. “Who drew this?”

  “Oscar Dellacourt.”

  “Does he have behavioral problems?”

  “Mild. I always thought they were pretty normal for the age. But there have been other issues. I’ve sent him to the nurse to take a nap a few times because he comes in so tired.”

  One of the electives I’d taken for my master’s was in child psychology. In it, I’d learned that drawings of children around this age are frequently used to obtain a glimpse into the child’s psyche. “I can excuse the colors he chose. He was at home and maybe those were the only crayons he had. But the drawing? Children who are being abused draw things like that. Blacked-out, threatening figures.”

  Eric ticked his index finger, motioning for me to follow him. We headed into his office, and this time he closed the door behind us. “Did something prompt the assignment?”

  I shook my head. “It was a basic draw-your-family assignment. We’re doing a unit on community.”

  We were standing in the middle of his office, which, now that I looked at it, was pretty sparsely decorated. There was the standard-issue administrator desk, cheap pine stained to look more expensive. A bookcase in the corner was filled with textbooks and handbooks containing the various rules Eric would need to refer to when he had to enforce someone else’s bidding. A photograph of a covered bridge in autumn hung on the wall, and his framed degrees were stacked in the corner. Everything about that office looked like he was reluctant to move in. An ache pricked in my chest at the thought of him leaving.

  “I’ll talk to Moira in the morning, first thing,” he said. He held up the paper. “Mind if I keep this, or do you need it back?”

  “You can keep it.” I reached out to touch the nearly bare surface of his desk. “Are you leaving?”

  He must have heard the note of interest in my voice because he smiled and said, “I thought my office looked moved in?”

  “Not so much.”

  He’d never been one for decorating. His home was a perpetual bachelor pad, with dishes piled in the sink and laundry haphazardly stuffed into drawers or resting on the tops of dressers. There was a loneliness in that. It needed a woman’s touch. And so did he.

  He sat back on his desk. “It was made clear to me from the beginning that this was a very temporary assignment—more so now that we know what’s really going on with Marlene.”

  I’d been following the story in the paper. The latest development was that Marlene had not only used school resources and her professional time to campaign for the senator, but she’d submitted falsified receipts to obtain reimbursements for expenses she’d never actually incurred. The theory was that she’d used this money to hire the hit on her husband. Fortunately for her husband, the would-be hit man went to the police. Needless to say, things were not looking good for Marlene.

  “Is the board looking to hire a permanent replacement?”

  “They’re soliciting applications. It’s early in the process, but someone may be hired as early as spring semester.”

  “And then you’ll be . . . where?”

  “Back at the middle school. Assuming they let me return.”

  That charming grin. I looked away, unable to handle the sudden sadness of it all. I liked Eric. I liked having him around to balance out Brunhilda. And lately, I liked the way I saw myself reflected back when he looked at me. If he returned to the middle school, he was gone. We could talk about making lunch plans and following each other on social media, but it wouldn’t happen. He’d be gone, and I’d miss him. I looked down at the scuffed surface of my brown leather boots. “You could apply for this job—”

  “I like the middle school. I miss my colleagues there.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. And Brunhilda’s no peach.”

  He tilted his head. “Brunhilda?”

  I clapped my hand across my big fat mouth as my cheeks began to burn. “Forget it. Nothing.”

  “Who’s Brunhilda?” He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and gently tugged my hand down. “Who’s Brunhilda?” I shook my head at him, keeping my lips s
ealed tightly, but then the realization crossed his face and his eyes widened. “Are you talking about Gretchen?”

  “How could you think that?” I said in mock horror. It didn’t matter. He was laughing so hard he was nearly convulsing. I reached up to feel my scorching face. “Are you going to write me up for that?”

  He shook his head, still laughing. “No. It’s actually a good fit for her. But you can’t repeat what I just said.”

  I made an X above my heart. “Promise.”

  They had reached an understanding as they stood there in the office—the very office he’d offered to bang her in. He congratulated himself on being so nearly professional around her. Maybe he’d approach her later, after hours. Tell her he’d like to enter into that contract after all.

  I glanced back at the clock on the wall. “I have to get back to my class. Max is going to be pissed if I’m not there.”

  Maybe it was my imagination, but Eric’s posture stiffened ever so slightly. Was it the mention of Max? “I should come with you,” he said, and set Oscar’s picture on his desk. “I’d like to meet Oscar. Maybe I can talk to him.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with him. If Eric was talking with Oscar, that meant Oscar would be distracted enough to probably behave himself. I considered that a win.

  MAX WAS coming down the hall with my line of chickadees as Eric and I approached the classroom from the opposite direction. I noticed that he and Eric exchanged a manly head nod, and I waited for some chest-thumping to follow. “How were they?”

  “Energetic. I made them run laps around the gym.” Max stood against the wall as the children filed into the classroom. “They should listen better now.”

  “They always do after phys ed.” I patted Max on the upper arm. “Thanks.”

  Again, I may have been projecting things, but I thought I noticed a flash of jealousy on Eric’s face. I elected to ignore it and head into the classroom. “All right, everyone. We’re going to have some circle time and then we’ll do stations. Mr. Clayman is going to be helping us out for a little while.”