The Handbook_A Contemporary Teacher Romance

by H. P. Mallory

  “Great! So now I just have to find out where it is,” I said as I wondered when he’d get to that most important point.

  He studied the screen for a few more seconds, moving the mouse to examine other information that, no doubt, was very exclusive except to people like him. “Women in Literature, A Study of the Female Character; Third Edition, from Harper & Row hasn’t been checked out in several years, actually,” he announced with a perplexed expression on his face, like he couldn’t understand how that could be. “It might have been misplaced when it was re-shelved, or mayhap, it was … I hate to even consider it, but mayhap it was … stolen.”

  Mayhap? I thought to myself. Yes, this guy definitely sported tights and outdated weapons in his free time.

  “Do you really think that anyone would steal that book?” I mocked him sarcastically, almost immediately regretting the words because the book still wasn’t in my hands, which meant I probably still needed him. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly scream interesting,” I added in a softer tone.

  He looked around to see if anyone were watching before leaning in toward me as though he intended to share an enormous state secret while hiding amongst counter espionage agents who were posted on every corner. As he did so, I figured I should probably play along and even leaned in, although I avoided getting too close.

  “You would be surprised what people try to steal from the library.”

  “Would I, now?” I asked, my eyes wide.

  “I could tell you stories,” he whispered, and it was my absolute hope that he wouldn’t start now.

  “I bet you could,” I answered with a wide grin. “I’d love to hear them once I get my book.”

  “I will do you one better,” he answered with a wink. “Let’s get together after I get off, and I’ll tell you my deepest, darkest secrets.”

  Egad. I tried not to choke on my own acid reflux.

  “Um, let’s see what happens after we find the book?” I said, trying in earnest not to let my disgust show.

  “You’ve gotta find the book on your own, sweetheart,” he said with a frown, as if he didn’t like my response. “I can’t leave my post,” he finished as he motioned to the desk.

  “Well, where am I going to find it if it’s lost?” I reacted almost violently. The thought of going back into those overcrowded stalls, without a clue as to where I could find the book I was looking for, was daunting to say the least.

  “I would start with where it’s supposed to be located,” he answered with a quick, indifferent shrug. Then he glanced at the computer screen. “And that would be in Aisle 31, Row D.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I sighed deeply and didn’t wait to hear his response before I turned away and started back toward the black hole that was the book stacks. The good news was that I didn’t believe for a second that the book had been stolen, so I decided to examine the other possibility. Someone, probably the self-absorbed Robin Hood wannabe at the circulation desk, must have shelved it incorrectly. My best bet was to return to the section of shelves that dealt with the same topic, Aisle 31 as Robin Hood had mentioned. There, I could scan through all of the catalogue numbers and various spine titles until I located my book. Sure, it was time-consuming work, but since I couldn’t have my table in the corner yet anyway, I had plenty of time to kill.

  So, for the next thirty minutes, I searched and searched and searched some more. I managed to scan through the titles in the entire D section of Aisle 31, which had to have accounted for upwards of two hundred books. When that search didn’t turn up the fugitive volume, I wondered if whoever had replaced the book on the shelf might have placed it in an entirely different section of the library stacks.

  So I turned to the second side of Aisle 31. After more than an hour, I started to believe this search was going to prove to be fruitless. With a sigh of defeat, I emerged from the library stacks, only to find “my table” was still occupied, unfortunately.

  Now fully frustrated, I sat down at a neighboring table, leaned back in the chair, locked my fingers behind my head and stared at the ceiling. I tried to figure out what the hell I should do next. Going back to the circulation desk and talking to the smooth-tongued geek didn’t appeal to me in the least and seemed pointless anyway since he hadn’t been able to help me much in the first place. Maybe it would be better to come back when someone else was attending the circulation desk? Maybe I might have better luck then?

  But then you’ll have to head back to your room and talk to Dani, and you’re really not in the mood to do that, I said to myself, deciding I would continue to play avoidant by remaining at the library. If you’re going to be stuck here, you might as well make the best of it by continuing to look.

  With that, I stood up and plunged back into the book stacks, this time venturing down Aisle 32 with the hopes that I might find my book there. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered as I scanned each title, using my index finger to guide me. I wasn’t sure how long it took me to reach the end of the aisle, but when I did, I turned to the next row with a heavy sigh. That was when I noticed something lying on the top shelf of the row just in front of me, maybe a foot or so out of my reach. Luckily, there was a step stool beside me, so I pulled it over and took both steps which put me just out of reach of the top of the stack. Standing on my tiptoes, I reached for the overly dusty book and pulled it down from its hiding place atop the shelf. I had to squint at it in the low light to make out the title.

  “Well, I’ll be Robin Hood’s little bitch,” I whispered the second I read the book’s title. I could feel a huge smile spreading across my lips. It was the exact book I was looking for! Thrilled with my serendipitous find, I started to turn away, and that’s when something else on the top shelf caught my eye.

  NINE

  NIKKI

  An elusive book on literature and feminism and the tiniest glint of fluorescent light reflecting off the silver spiral of a small notebook were an unlikely pair to ignite the chain of miraculous events which later ensued. However, when it came to changing someone’s life, stranger things had surely happened.

  Having tucked the large volume I was so desperately seeking under one arm, I stretched up on my tiptoes in order to hook a fingernail through one of the spirals binding the notebook, which I then pulled toward me. The reward of my efforts was a musty blanket of dust that covered my face and chest. I coughed and sputtered for a few minutes, even after I brushed the thick dust onto the thigh of my sweats and returned the stool to its place at the end of the aisle.

  Of course, I figured someone had just forgotten his or her notebook while trying to find whatever textbook they’d been searching for, but I couldn’t help feeling like a giddy child who’d just uncovered some ancient treasure. It was a silly feeling, certainly, over something as uninteresting as a notebook.

  Once I reached the end of the aisle where the light was significantly better, I glanced down at the notebook and was instantly intrigued by the block letters I found scratched into its cover. Boldly in red ink, it pronounced itself to be: The Femme Fatale Handbook. Inhaling a sharp breath, I flipped through the first few pages and started to read:

  The Femme Fatale Handbook, A Guide on How to Become the Ultimate Seductress

  By Jane Doe.

  “Good-bye Women in Literature and hello Femme Fatale Handbook,” I mumbled to myself as I emerged from the book stacks and made my way back to the table, bumping into a few chairs along the way because I couldn’t pull my attention from the first page of this bizarre manual.

  Clearly my name isn’t Jane Doe, I continued reading. But my name doesn’t really matter because I am every woman. I am you, your best friend, your sister, any woman who has ever been dumped by a man and left brokenhearted. I am also your ally. I am your guide, and I will be your strength during a time where you probably have very little left.

  “Amen to that sister,” I said as I felt my way into my chair and then plopped the notebook onto the tabletop before leaning over it with my elbows on eithe
r side of me as I continued to read.

  I was you once. I was innocent and naive in the ways of men. I opened myself up, in the hopes of finding love, and I was rewarded with heartbreak, regret and self-loathing. Well, I am happy to tell you that I will never be that girl again. And I haven’t been that girl since I found the answers, answers that I will spell out for you in this notebook. Consider yourself lucky to have found this guide—a guide that took me years to write. Years due to the extensive research I conducted on the ways in which men think as well as research into those women throughout history who have gotten it right. It also took years of experimenting to see what did and didn’t work. I was my own guinea pig, and so shall I be yours.

  I glanced up at the book stacks in the distance as I bemused my own good fortune in discovering such an invaluable gift. I couldn’t believe it! It was almost as if the gods of those dumped and left for dead had placed this notebook in my path on purpose! It was as if I were Joan of Arc stumbling across the sword that would lead me to victory against the English, or in this case, those of the male persuasion.

  What if I told you that you could seduce a man, any man, into giving you anything you wanted? What if I told you that you could be the one calling the shots, rather than the other way around? What if I told you that you could have any man begging to be your boyfriend? What if I told you that no matter what you look like, how old you are, how smart you are or how rich you are, you could be the maker of your own destiny?

  Um, I’d be convinced you were trying to sell me something, I thought to myself. But I continued to read on.

  What if I told you that artful seduction is not an impossible holy grail that only gifts itself to a select few? What if I said I could teach you how to become a natural seductress? What if I promised you that you could land ANY man without the current level of effort you’re putting in? Would you take me up on it? Would you allow yourself to become the ultimate temptress?

  Well, currently I wasn’t putting in any effort where men were concerned, but that didn’t take away from Jane Doe’s point. And, yes, I had to admit that I most probably would take her up on her very appealing offer. Well, that is to say, once I knew what she expected me to do … if it had anything to do with sacrificing a goat or getting the pee from some guy I was interested in, then I was out.

  Believe it or not, you can be respected, admired and pursued by any man you select, and just for being YOU! With the right guidance, it’s possible for any woman to always remain true to herself, while also becoming a valued prize at the same time.

  At this point, you’re probably thinking all of this sounds too good to be true. That you couldn’t possibly become a femme fatale who gets whatever and whoever she wants, all men landing at her feet.

  Again, Jane had a good point. I wasn’t sold yet.

  Well, at least admit this—you know this type of woman exists. You know because you’ve seen her before—maybe she’s a friend of yours, maybe she’s a relative, or maybe she’s just a woman with no connection to you whom you’ve just admired from afar. Well, I have news for you, these women were not born this way! They became this way. They or someone taught them what it means to become Venus, a woman like no other. And I am going to pass those teachings on to you.

  It’s okay if you don’t believe in yourself at this point, because I believe in you. All I’m asking you to do is make me and yourself a promise to continue reading! If you just listen to what I have to say, I will do the rest!

  So, are you ready to embark on a fantastic journey which will leave you not only loving yourself but adoring yourself? Are you ready to become that which you never imagined you could be? If so … turn the page.

  I took a deep breath. I wasn’t convinced. I was intrigued, that much was certain. But I couldn’t help but think that Jane sounded like one of those women at the top rung of a pyramid scheme. She was right—I didn’t see how this notebook of hers could do anything for me personally, especially considering how I was currently living my life.

  All she’s asking you to do right now is continue reading, I reminded myself. And on that subject, I decided I would grant Jane that which she was asking, if nothing more than to satisfy my curiosity as to where Jane was going with all of this. So, I turned the page.

  You made it! Good for you. I’m pleased you believe in yourself enough to keep reading! In this introductory section, I will outline exactly what it means to become a seductress, a temptress. That way we will be on the same page moving forward.

  So what exactly is a temptress or a seductress? Well, according to Webster, a seductress is: “An attractive woman who seduces someone.” Okay, what about a temptress? Webster: “A woman who entices.” Hmm. Okay, not exactly thrilling definitions by any stretch. And I actually don’t agree that a seductress has to necessarily be attractive. Case in point? Cleopatra. Ah, you weren’t aware that good ol’ Cleo wasn’t born with it and it definitely wasn’t Maybelline? No doubt the legend of Cleo’s unsurpassed beauty is based mostly on her infamous seductions of both Caesar and Antony. Hmm. Interesting.

  “Hmm, that is interesting,” I said to myself, not even realizing I was talking out loud. I quickly glanced up to see if I was alone and was relieved to find that I was. That was when I realized my table of choice was empty and probably had been for a while. Strangely enough, I didn’t even bother to move my things and relocate. Instead, I dropped my head back down as I searched for the place I’d left off in Jane’s handbook.

  So, if Cleo wasn’t all that and a box of soap, how the hell did she manage to wrap not one but two extremely powerful Roman men around her itty, bitty little finger? Easy. Cleopatra was the supreme example of a seductress. Pure and simple.

  And that brings me to my own definition of a seductress or a temptress. Jane’s definition: A seductress is a woman who knows how to use the power of her own innate sexual instincts in order to achieve her goals.

  And. That. Is. It.

  I want you to become Cleopatra, and I’m going to teach you how.

  Almost immediately an image of bad eye makeup, horse drawn chariots and men with too much tanner entered my head like a clip from a bad movie. I glanced up as I wondered what in the hell I was doing. I was wasting my time reading something that was absolutely of no use to me, all the while my research book sat there unopened like the last kid picked in PE. I almost felt like apologizing to it.

  Instead, I pulled my phone out of my purse and checked the time. It was already nine thirty, which meant Dani would probably be wondering where the hell I was.

  Dude, where the hell are you?

  The text suddenly appeared on my phone and I had to wonder if I’d been somehow channeling her inner psyche. I typed back: At the library but headed back.

  Good. I thought you were dead.

  Jump to conclusions much? I typed back.

  Maybe. See you soon, she responded.

  I took a deep breath for no apparent reason and then started tidying up my work station, putting my books into my backpack. When I faced the notebook, I momentarily considered returning it to its place high atop the book stacks where some other unfortunate idiot could come across it and decide to transform herself into Cleopatra if she so chose. But for some unknown reason, I grabbed it and shoved it into my backpack before kicking my chair back and starting for the front door.

  TEN

  The Femme Fatale Handbook

  Introduction

  The difference between lust and love.

  This part is simple. Love beats lust. Period. End of story. The return on getting someone to fall in love with you will always trump that of making someone want to sleep with you. Why? Because lust is too simple. Men want to have sex with women. Well, heterosexual men, anyway. A man who is simply in lust is less capable of being manipulated, and once the lust wears off after two, four, seven or whatever the number of sessions in bed with you, he could easily leave you. Love, on the other hand, is power.

  We’re talking about the game of se
duction here, girls.

  Yes, I call it a game because that’s exactly what it is—just like a round of battleship. You make a move, he makes a move, you make a move, and back and forth until one of you sinks the other’s ship.

  Seduction is a game and the rules are based on psychology, not beauty, wealth, fame or anything else.

  ***

  NIKKI

  Yes, I was reading The Femme Fatale Handbook again. My Women in Literature, A Study of the Female Character book continued to sit on top of my desk, unopened. But I just couldn’t seem to convince myself to focus on my term paper. Instead, Jane Doe’s instruction manual was as difficult to ignore as the song of the harpy was to whatever Greek dude happened to be sailing by.

  I wasn’t sure what it was about the notebook, but this was the first time in a long time that I felt a tingle of excitement, and furthermore, it was the first time in months that I wasn’t thinking about Brandon, Beau or man-hating in general. When I was reading Jane’s words, I was completely sucked into her world, even though I hadn’t completely convinced myself that I believed everything she was saying. Actually, it was probably more fitting to say I didn’t believe much of it. But, even so, it was still exhilarating to read. And the very thought that I could transform myself into a bad-ass seductress sent rivulets of excitement through me that I had a hard time suppressing.

  Over the next few days, Women in Literature, A Study of the Female Character; Third Edition, from Harper & Row was forgotten completely, as was my research project, which I knew I should have been working on. As it was, I only had two weeks left before I had to turn the paper in, but I couldn’t say I really cared. Instead, I consumed the words written in the notebook; gulping them down as though they were glasses of water being offered to a thirsty woman who just stumbled out of the desert. The Femme Fatale Handbook not only provided a respite from the depressing memories that had dominated my thoughts in recent months, but also became a measure by which I could feel my strength and my interest in life returning.