The Other Girl

She hesitates at the door before backing out. Once she’s gone, I pluck a couple squares of tissue and ball them in my hands.

Sue has tainted my newfound belief in people, that they can be good. Here I am again, after all these years, with the sour taste of deceit rotting on my tongue. People like Sue ruin things for people like me—and they need to be taught a lesson.

Victim

Ellis

The toxicology maxim touts: the dose makes the poison.

People are so unaware of the dangers that lurk around them in the simplest, most unexpected forms. A tomato leaf. An unassuming house plant. A seemingly innocent pack of black licorice. Even drinking water. Granted, most of these things are harmless in small quantities and can even be beneficial—yet, that’s what makes the adage so clever, and true.

Anything can become hazardous in a large enough dose.

I find toxicology fascinating. If I hadn’t majored in psychology, then it would’ve been my second calling. While I spent many nights alone during school, I read. A lot. From Renaissance theologies, to more recent medical journals. There is so much knowledge in the world, at times, it feels overwhelming.

I touch the plastic baggie in my pocket as I walk the hallway toward the faculty lounge.

Five red kidney beans are wrapped tightly in that little baggie.

Five raw, red kidney beans is all it takes to have an exceptionally bad day.

When soaked and cooked properly, they’re harmless and to some, delicious. Personally, after discovering what these little fuckers are capable of, I don’t trust them and steer clear.

When ingested raw, one consumes a toxic chemical known as… Well, I can’t remember, but it’s a long word that causes one to feel like hell. Symptoms can vary, but usually cause severe nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. Sure, the symptoms don’t last more than a day—for most—but it’s long enough to get Sue out of my way and give me time to think.

With any luck, the academy will be extra cautious and ask the head of the calculus department not to return for a while.

As I enter the lounge, I smile at the pretty librarian who I believe is Ms. Richards. She’s petite like me, and I see her around often enough, but we’ve never officially met. She scoots out of the way of the coffee bar, and I busy myself fixing my usual travel mug of coffee.

I lean against the wall and take out my phone, scroll through my already checked emails, as I wait for her to leave. She gives me a tight-rimmed smile as she heads out, and I wait another few seconds before I make my move.

My heart beats faster as I open the refrigerator where I know Sue keeps her lunch. I’ve seen her place it here in the mornings. With measured breaths and, as casually as I can, I remove the plastic container and pop the lid.

Leftover stew.

Oh, Sue…how sad. Rather convenient for me, however, that poor lonely Sue cooks large meals for one to eat on all week.

I watch the doorway as I stealthily remove the baggie from my pocket and sprinkle the crushed beans over her food. I use my finger to stir them in before replacing the lid and shoving it back onto the fridge shelf.

It’s rather difficult to trace…but just in case, I purchased the beans at the chain grocery store with cash before my lunch break.

The bell rings to denote the lunch hour.

I’m clear of the faculty lounge before the troops arrive.

Sadly, I won’t get to witness the event. I’d love to look her in her dull, boring eyes when the symptoms take effect. I’d love for her to somehow know I’m the cause for her instant karma.

Luckily, Sue works in the school atmosphere that is always ripe with whatever seasonal virus is going around. A bout of “stomach flu” won’t garner too much attention.

But what it will do is get her away from Carter and any villainous plans she has for him.

From what I can deduce of Sue, she’s played the victim her whole life. I just made it true.

When I was a little girl, I used to play a game with the big clock in my mother’s dining room.

My mother always called the wooden antique a grandfather clock—and so I thought that, in my child’s mind, it was somehow this grumpy old man standing stoic in that dark room, watching me.

The clock hands were his mustache, of course, and I would try to race from one end of the house and back to the dining room before the mustache got all the way around his face.