Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  “We need to talk,” Val says, finally looking up and shrugging off Quinn.

  “Are you guys breaking up with me?” I pour the hell out of some sugar and stir it into my coffee.

  Valerie stands and she starts to pace. Her ombré waves nestle perfectly at each shoulder. “How long have we all known each other?”

  I offer another eye roll. I’m not a child. “Since ninth grade.”

  “And, in all that time, how many guys have you dated?”

  I chew a corner of my ChapSticked lips and feign counting on my hands. “Nine-hundred…seventy-four?”

  “Be real,” she demands.

  “Too many. I know.” I shrug.

  Quinn interrupts my coffee-perfecting ritual and takes my hands. Leads me to the table donated to the lounge by some periodontist.

  “Is this an intervention?” I snort as my ass hits the wooden chair.

  “I know it’s been hard since the divorce. Daniel was—” She glances away. Her voice is soft like when you’re trying to calm down a crazy person. Or settle a wild beast. “Mine was hard for me too. That summer you and I spent in Europe right after was just what I needed. And what you went through afterward with Jesse…” She purses her lips and stops a minute. He’s become the real Voldemort of our friendship circle; his name is not one we allow ourselves to utter often. “We know. We know you haven’t recovered yet—”

  A tickle at the back of my eyes.

  If she makes me cry before class and my students pick up on it—like they pick up on everything because that’s just their job—I’m going to rip those pearls right off that pretty little neck of hers.

  “But enough. You’ve got to stop this,” she continues. “Valerie and I just want what’s best for you. We want you to be happy. Like we are.”

  I pull my hands away and examine my ever-chipped nail polish. “Then don’t mess with a woman’s morning coffee,” I say with a grin, working hard to keep my voice even.

  Wondering how happy they really are.

  “We are the luckiest.” Her tone brightens. “Are you kidding me? We stayed friends after all these years? We all got hired to teach the same grade, at the same school? We’re a team. And that’s why—”

  “Oh no, no, no.” I rise and put up both my palms.

  “Oh yes, yes, yes.” Valerie gets in my face. “Sit your ass down.”

  “I want you in the wedding,” Quinn says. “I’m not taking no for an answer this time.”

  There it is.

  I avert my gaze over to the pencil sharpener screwed to the wall. Kinda how I feel.

  “I had a panic attack at the last wedding I went to, and I wasn’t even in it. I love you, Q, you know I love you, but—”

  “Then you’ll suck it up and do this for me.”

  There’s a hopefulness in her stare that pricks at my chest, and the tickle behind my eyes starts all over again.

  “And that’s not all.” Valerie wags her index finger like she’s reprimanding one of the nose pickers in her class.

  I groan. “We have first graders waiting—”

  “You’re going to bring someone to the wedding. Someone real. Not Jason Segel. Not some twenty-year-old from Barbie’s band of friends—” She indicates Sarah with a languid hand.

  “Hey!” Sarah laughs and double flips them off as she makes her way toward the door. “You’re on your own, fabulous,” she says to me as she exits. Blows me a kiss.

  “You have five weeks to find him, and we’re gonna help you.”

  “Like you helped with that dude from last night?”

  “No. No more setups,” Quinn says.

  My ears perk. “I’m listening.”

  “You’re gonna find love the twenty-first-century way.”

  My chest tightens, and I direct my attention upward like I’m thinking. Bite at my bottom lip. “At Whole Foods?”

  “Online.”

  “The Spark app, to be exact.” Valerie practically bursts with pride like she’s Spark’s mother or something.

  “Oh, gross.” I lean back in the chair, and it squeaks. “And I’ve already tried it. It was all gay dudes.”

  “That was Glitter, you idiot.”

  “You have to let us help you with the profile—”

  “And you have to let us help you pick which guys you talk to.”

  “Oh Lord.” I’m shaking my head. “If I say yes, can I drink my coffee in peace?”

  “Yes,” they both say, like we’re back in the eleventh grade and I’ve agreed to let them do the makeover this time.

  “All right—I’ll do it,” I say. “Now get the hell out of my way. I’ve got young minds to mold.”

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  I look out over my kids and smile. Most quietly chattering away, Ollie Oswald humming to himself for some weird reason…all happily doodling and thinking it’s like a national holiday because I gave them some extra art time this morning.

  Adorbs.

  “Miss Wallace, look what I made you!” Dylan struts over and hands me his masterpiece.

  “It’s—an elephant?” I bug my eyes at what pretty much looks like a big gray phallus.

  “Like the one we read about last week!” he chirps, aglow at my recognition, the poor little thing!

  I want to hang it up—I really do—but I also don’t want to get fired.

  “Looks awesome, pal. Thank you so much!” I squeeze his arm. “Why don’t you draw me a different animal from that lesson. Maybe a lion—”

  “Or a giraffe?” He beams.

  I can’t stop a conceding grin at the picture of a yellow, orange-spotted penis-looking thing he’ll inevitably be showing me a few minutes from now, and I give his hands a pat.

  “That sounds awesome, sweetie. Math time in fifteen,” I say to the class as he scampers back to his desk.

  The kids groan, and I giggle. Been there.

  And then I grab my phone.

  Me: I know “Coffee Fairy” isn’t in your job description as Deborah’s administrative assistant, but we’ve been friends for a few years, I was good to your boys when I had them in class, and I look like this today:

  I take a puppy-dog face selfie and send it to the mom of the school, Ida.

  My phone buzzes not three seconds later.

  Ida: I may be able to send you over a little something in a few. Sit tight. ;)

  Me: God. Bless. America.

  Ida: Good thing I like you.

  For the next ten minutes, my computer screen hypnotizes me. I’m trying to plot out the end of this magnum opus, but all the words run together except the ones I could get fired for having visible, of course. Like ORGASM and NIPPLES. Those seem to be in 60-point font and highlighted in flashing neon.

  Or maybe I’m imagining it.

  “Knock, knock,” comes a male voice, and I start at the sight of Hot Sub Guy leaning half in the doorway, a boyish charm gleaming from his wide smile. “On second thought, maybe I should take this coffee back?” He laughs and makes like he’s leaving.

  “Mr. Greene!” the class cheers.

  He was in for the PE teacher last week, so I guess that’s why they know his name?

  “For me, uh—Mr. Greene?” I gesture toward the Wesson Academy mug in his hand and clap a Southern belle palm to my chest.

  Pixie dust swirls all beneath my skin. Ida has sent me Hot Sub Guy with a cup of coffee, and I love her for this. Mental note: Buy that woman something purty. And probably Lilly Pulitzer.

  “Nick.” He takes a tentative step in, striped dress shirt crisp and bright against his dark skin.

  “Ida’s got you on coffee duty? That’s not fair.” There’s a lilt to my voice.

  Stop it.

  “Well, I’m in for Radcliffe and it’s time for third-grade Spanish, so…”

  “Ida’s making sure we’re getting our money’s worth out of you?”

  “Exactly.” His dimples deepen, two inviting recesses that make him seem just boyish and nonthreatening enough to
convince me he’s absolutely dangerous.

  “Miss Wallace?” a girl calls from across the room.

  “Yes?” I say back, but I don’t turn around.

  I glance at his long fingers, bare and cupped around the mug. Nick isn’t wearing a ring either.

  “What did this girl do wrong?” she asks.

  I shoot him a look like No rest for the wicked, amirite?—but when I twist back, sweet little pigtailed Lorelei Hunter is standing by my laptop, head cocked like a springer spaniel.

  *deafening record scratch*

  She indicates the screen with her tiny fingers. “Well, it says here she’s getting spanked. My mom and dad said spanking is bad and no one should do it—and it says here that she’s being bad, so I just wondered what she did to deserve that…” She looks like she’s about to cry—

  —and I feel like I am.

  I ’roided-up-linebacker my way to my desk, but it feels like slow motion. Complete with a low, monster-sounding NOOOOO dragging on in the background. I shove a few tables out of the path and finally dive onto the offending device. Snap the top closed and hover over it, panting and sweaty. #myprecious

  “It’s a story,” I say to the class, to Nick. Straighten my jacket. Smooth the stray wisps of hair that have wandered out of place. “A story about always listening to your parents and teachers, and following the rules.”

  Yeah. That’s it.

  “Or you’ll get spanked?” Lorelei asks.

  “Teachers aren’t allowed to spank us.” Grayson huffs.

  GOOD LORD, CHILDREN—STOP SAYING SPANK!

  I’ve clapped my palm over my forehead now, my headache returning. “Of course teachers are not supposed to…do that. You don’t have to worry about that, guys. None of us would ever spank anyone.”

  Nick narrows his gaze at me from across the room and starts coughing with laughter.

  I catch the giggles too, and my body quakes with it. I’m trying so hard not to snort in front of this gorgeous dude.

  The kids? Goners at this point. They don’t even know what they’re laughing at—they’re just laughing because we’re laughing—but I need to rein this in.

  Now.

  “Girls and boys…” I silence them with a wave of my hands. Bibbity bobbity BE QUIET.

  Even I’m impressed.

  “Can anyone remind me what I’ve said about reading over someone’s shoulder or looking at my computer screen?”

  “Don’t do it,” they all chant.

  “Right.”

  A hand in the back flies up.

  “Yes, William?” I sit on the stool at the front of my class and fan myself with last week’s spelling quiz.

  Is it hot in here?

  “Can you tell us more about your story?”

  “Oh yes,” Nick says. He crosses his way to the back of the room and leans against the bookshelf like he owns the place. “I definitely want to hear more about that.”

  I sputter and then grin through a glare. Take a breath, for composure. “Okay, sure. What do you want to know?” I can make some crap up on the spot. No prob.

  Jimmy-with-Perpetual-Kool-Aid-Lip’s hand shoots to the ceiling, but he doesn’t wait for me to say his name. “What else is in it?”

  “Yeah, Miss Wallace.” Nick sips my coffee. The muscles in his well-defined calves are evident as he crosses one leg over the other, all slow. “For instance, I’m wondering: Are there any…colors in this story?”

  I narrow my gaze in confusion, and the kids riff off this idea.

  “You should put pink in it!” one of the girls says. I’m too distracted and my adrenaline is whooshing around on high alert too much for me to see who it is.

  “And blue?” someone else asks.

  “Why not?” I shrug.

  I should not have requested coffee; I should have requested vodka.

  “How about gray?” Nick calls from the back.

  And I quirk an eyebrow his way. Did he see the elephant drawing too?

  He continues, amusement touching his cheekbones. “Like, how many shades of gray do you think you could feasibly put in your story, Miss Wallace? Forty-nine? Fifty-one?”

  The room explodes into excited chatter, and I give up. Walk swiftly to Nick’s spot.

  “Gimme that.” I rip the mug from his hands and chuckle. “You trying to get me in trouble?”

  He scrunches his face and touches an index finger to his chin in faux consideration of that. “Something tells me…you don’t need my help in that area.”

  Big smiles and then he makes his way toward the door, but he spins on his heel just before he reaches it. Gives his fingers a snap. “By the way—Deborah told me this morning she wants me helping you guys with set design on the first-grade play, so here.” He reaches into his pants pocket for a Post-it pad and scribbles his number as he talks. “I used to build sets in high school and for a few other schools, so I’m happy to offer my services.”

  Before I can respond, he slaps the digits into my hand, he smiles again, and then he’s gone.

  * * *

  “Get. Out!” Valerie shoves me—but in a playful, hasn’t-had-sex-since-the-millennium kind of a way. At this, her sunglasses slip halfway down her nose, the picnic table wobbles, and Quinn tsks at her tea, which sloshes near her iPhone.

  “Hand to God,” I say, making the gesture and preparing to swear on anything they put in front of me. “And get this.” I tap Quinn’s forearm from across the table. “No ring.”

  “Well, he’s got a girlfriend, I’m pretty sure.” Quinn’s scrolling through her Twitter feed, her hot-pink fingernails tapping away on the phone screen. Then, just as astutely: “Let the girls have a turn!” she yells toward the cluster of boys hogging the merry-go-round.

  “Is it, like, a club or something? Are there, like, meetings all you attached people go to, where you find ways to torture your single friends? How do you know he’s got someone?”

  Her attention is now on me. “Ida told me.” She shrugs.

  I nod. “Legit source. Ida knows fricking everything. Lemme text her real quick. Just to see—”

  Me: Mr. Greene?

  Three seconds later.

  Ida: Attached.

  “It’s just as well.” I do a sweeping Ain’t-no-thang gesture. “Now, let’s focus. We’re here to make a mockery of my social life while also performing recess duty—and, by gum, we’re gonna mock me and waste time. Who’s with me?” I fist-bump no one.

  Valerie swats at my arm. “Creating your Spark profile is not a waste of your time. It’s a more efficient use of your time.”

  Hmm. I like the sound of that.

  “Okay. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do this right,” Val starts, and I get lost in her ambition for a moment. I can’t help the goofy grin taking over my face.

  This woman is a mother of four (five, if you count Mike), a teacher to twenty-five, and she still has time to give a shit whether or not her stupid friend dies alone.

  If that were me—

  My throat goes raw.

  I watch her rearrange herself so she’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, all comfortable, just like she’s sat since we were kids.

  If that were me, would I be half as good a friend?

  I cough away the answer to that and wave off her speech. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here’s the deal. I am perfectly content living out my days on a beagle farm.”

  Quinn cracks a smile long enough to join us back in reality. This is her favorite dramatic end to my life that I’ve come up with, and she usually eggs me on when I start talking about it.

  “The girl has a point.” She pretends to approve. “It’s better than being a cat lady. It’s…innovative.”

  “Exactly. I’ll be a hoarder of beagles. And they—”

  Nate Tomkins rushes our post, his face the same hue as the red paint on the swing set. “How many more minutes?” he asks, and Valerie gives an amused little chuckle.

  “Of recess or of your time-out?”

  �
��Both,” he wants to know.

  She looks at her watch, and it glints in the midday sun. “About fifteen till we go in. As for time-out…” She glances at him over her sunglasses. “You promise not to throw pencils—or anything else, for that matter—at Charlotte?”

  His lip quivers as he lowers his gaze to his tiny Sperry Top-Siders, which are ever untied, the heat from this interrogation seemingly too much for him. “Yes.”

  Her tone returns to Minnie Mouse bright. “Then I think we’re good.” She musses his dark hair and he makes a beeline for the field before she can change her mind.

  “Now then.” She’s back to business. “We need a strategy.” From the depths of her emergency bag, Valerie produces a planner she’s apparently bought for this. It’s pink and puffy and has red hearts sewn to it.

  “What in holy hell—”

  “Someone gave it to the girls for their third birthday.” She flips it open with fervor and gazes at the thing like it’s her firstborn. “They can’t even write yet. They won’t miss it.” She dismisses my laughter with a flick of her pen. “I’ve already taken the liberty of writing down some of the things that have been wrong with your previous guys.”

  On second thought, maybe Valerie has a tad more free time than I thought.

  “Oh, really…?” I snatch the notebook from her and start to skim. “‘Mark Smoley was a narcissist’?” I look up at them through an eye roll. “Are we really going back as far as high school? Because we’ll be here all fall.”

  A conceding nod. Valerie grabs the book and flips a few pages. “College? Grad school?”

  “You didn’t even know those guys!”

  Quinn fiddles with the end of her braid and deadpans, “That’s what they all say.”

  The two of them bicker about when to start—which failed relationship or failed date of mine is the worst—and I see Daniel.

  Tall. Jason Segel–like, in fact.

  The gentle giant, as Quinn likes to call my type.

  I crack a smile at this.

  I hope they don’t start in on my relationship with him because I don’t really feel like getting into all that today.

  I haven’t thought about Daniel much in the six years we’ve been apart because I haven’t allowed it. The news all but killed my older sister. How could I do this? Bridget had asked, ad nauseam. And after only five years of marriage? But the answer to that was and is always: I was young. Isolated, after I moved to Indiana for him. Sure, I could write and not worry about teaching, but the pressure of that? Of living on someone else’s dollar? And without my family and friends around to cry to when the writer’s block days hit? Brutal. I don’t know why it always felt like that, but it did.