Too Good to Be True

He held up his team’s wipe away board. I winced. “No. Sorry, Hunter. Stephen Crane is not the answer. But he did write The Red Badge of Courage, which is about the Battle of Chancellorsville, so nice try. Tommy? What did you bet?”

“We bet it all, Ms. Em,” he said proudly, glancing over at Kerry and winking. Emma’s smile dropped a notch.

“And your answer, Tom?”

Tom turned to his team. “Who is Margaret Mitchell?” they chorused.

“Correct!” I shouted.

You’d think they’d won the World Series or something—screams of victory, lots of high fives and dancing around, a few hugs. Meanwhile, Hunter Graystone’s team groaned.

“Tommy’s team…no homework for you!” I announced. More cheering and high-fiving. “Hunter’s team, sorry, kids.

Three pages on Margaret Mitchell, and if you haven’t read Gone With the Wind, shame on you! Okay, class dismissed.”

Ten minutes later, I was seated in the conference room in Lehring Hall with my fellow history department members—Dr. Eckhart, the chairman; Paul Boccanio, who was next in seniority; the unfortunately named Wayne Diggler, our newest teacher, hired last year right out of graduate school; and Ava Machiatelli, sex kitten.

“Your class sounded quite out of control today,” Ava murmured in her trademark phone-sex whisper. “So much chaos! My class could hardly think.”

Not that they need to for you to give them an A, I grumbled internally. “We were playing Jeopardy!” I said with a smile. “Very invigorating.”

“Very noisy, too.” A reproachful blink…another…and, yes, a third blink.

Dr. Eckhart shuffled to the head of the table and sat down, an activity that took considerable time and effort. Then he gave his trademark phlegmy, barking cough that caused first-years to jump in their seats until about November. A distinguished gentleman with an unfortunate aversion to daily bathing, Dr. Eckhart was from the olden days of prep schools where the kids wore uniforms and could be locked in closets for misbehaving, if not beaten with rulers. He often mourned those happy times. Aside from that, he was a brilliant man.

He now straightened and folded his arthritic hands in front of him. “This year will be my last as chairman of the history department at Manning, as you have doubtless all heard.”

Tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t imagine Manning without old Dr. E. Who would huddle in a corner with me at trustee functions or the dreaded Headmaster’s Dinner? Who would defend me when angry parents called about their kid’s B+?

“Headmaster Stanton has invited me to advise the search committee, and of course I encourage all of you to apply for the position, as Manning has always prided itself on promotion from within.” He turned to the youngest member of our staff. “Mr. Diggler, you, of course, are far too inexperienced, so please save your energy for your classes.”

Wayne, who felt that his degree from Georgetown trumped all the rest of ours put together, slumped in his seat and sulked. “Fine,” he muttered. “Like I’m not headed for Exeter, anyway.” Wayne often promised to leave when things didn’t go his way, which was about twice a week.

“Complete your sentences, please, Mr. Diggler, until that happy day.” Dr. Eckhart smiled at me, then gave another barking cough. It was no secret that I was a bit of a pet with our elderly chair, thanks to regular infusions of Disgustingly Rich Chocolate Brownies and my membership in Brother Against Brother.

“Actually, speaking of Phillips Exeter,” began Paul, blushing slightly. He was a balding, brilliant man with glasses and a photographic memory for dates.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Dr. Eckhart. “Are congratulations in order, Mr. Boccanio?”

Paul grinned. “I’m afraid so.”

It wasn’t that uncommon, prep schools poaching teachers, and Paul had a great background, especially given that he’d actually worked in the real world before becoming a teacher. Add to that his impressive education —Stanford/Yale, for heaven’s sake—and it was no wonder that he’d been nabbed.

“Traitor,” I murmured. I really liked Paul. He winked in response. “That leaves my two esteemed female colleagues,” Dr. Eckhart wheezed. “Very well, ladies, I’ll expect you to submit your applications. Prepare your presentations in paper form, none of this computer nonsense, please, detailing your qualifications and ideas for improvements, such as they may be, to Manning’s history department.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” Ava murmured, batting her eyelashes like Scarlett O’ Hara.

“Very well,” Dr. Eckhart said now, straightening his stained shirt. “The search begins next week, when we shall post the opening in the appropriate venues.”

“You’ll be terribly missed, Dr. Eckhart,” I said huskily.

“Ah. Thank you, Grace.”

“Oh, yes. It won’t be the same without you,” Ava hastily seconded.

“Indeed.” He hauled himself out of the chair on his third attempt and shuffled out the door. I swallowed thickly.

“Good luck, girls,” Paul said cheerfully. “If you’d like to have a Jell-O wrestling match, winner gets the job, I’d be happy to judge.”

“We’ll miss you so,” I said, grinning.

“It’s so unfair,” whined Wayne. “When I was at Georgetown, I had dinner with C. Vann Woodward!”

“And I had sex with Ken Burns,” I quipped, getting a snort from Paul. “Not to mention the fact that I was an extra in Glory.” That part was true. I’d been eleven years old, and Dad took me up to Sturbridge so we could be part of the crowd scene as the 54th Massachusetts Regiment left for the South. “It was the best moment of my childhood,” I added. “Better even than when that guy from MacGyver opened the new mall.”

“You’re pathetic,” Wayne mumbled.

“Grow up, little man,” breathed Ava. “You don’t have what it takes to run a department.”

“And you do, Marilyn Monroe?” he snapped. “I’m too good for this place!”

“I’ll be happy to accept your resignation when I’m chair,” I said graciously. Wayne slammed his hands on the table, followed by some stomping, followed by his most welcomed departure.

“Well,” Ava sighed. “Best of luck, Grace.” She smiled insincerely.

“Right back at you,” I said. I didn’t really dislike Ava—prep schools were such tiny little worlds, so insulated from the rest of the world that coworkers became almost like family. But the idea of working under her, having her approve or disapprove my lesson plans, rankled. Watching her leave with Paul, her ass swinging vigorously under a too-tight skirt, I found that my teeth were firmly clenched.

For another minute or two, I sat alone in the conference room and allowed myself a tingling little daydream. That I got the chairmanship. Hired a fantastic new teacher to replace Paul. Revitalized the curriculum, raised the bar on grades so that an A in history from Manning meant something special. Increased the number of kids who took —and aced—the AP test. Got more money in the budget for field trips.

Well. I’d better get started on a presentation, just as Dr. Eckhart suggested. Tight sweaters and easy A’s aside, Ava had a sharp mind and was much more of a political creature than I was, which would definitely help her. Now I wished I had chitchatted a bit more at last fall’s faculty/trustee cocktail party, instead of hiding in the corner, sipping bad merlot and swapping obscure historical trivia with Dr. Eckhart and Paul.

I loved Manning. Loved the kids, adored working here on this beautiful campus, especially at this time of year, when the trees were coming into bloom and New England was at her finest. The leaves were just budding out, a haze of pale green, lush beds of daffodils edged the emerald lawns, the kids decorating the grass in their brightly colored clothing, laughing, flirting, napping.

I spied a lone figure walking across the quad. His head was down, and he seemed oblivious to the wonders of the day. Stuart. Margaret had e-mailed me to say that she’d be staying with me for a while, so I gathered things weren’t better on that front.

Poor Stuart.

“WELCOME TO MEETING MR. RIGHT,” said our teacher.

“I can’t believe we’ve been reduced to this,” I whispered to Julian, who gave me a nervous glance.

“My name is Lou,” our teacher continued plummily, “and I’ve been happily married for sixteen wonderful years!” I wondered if we were supposed to applaud. Lou beamed at us. “Every single person wants to find The One. The one who makes us feel whole. I know that my Felicia—” he paused again, then, when we failed to cheer, continued. “My Felicia does that for me.”

Julian, Kiki and I sat in a classroom at the Blainesford Community Center. (Kiki’s perfect man had dumped her on Wednesday after she’d called his cell fourteen times in one hour). There were two other women, as well as Lou, a good-looking man in his forties with a wedding ring about an inch wide, just so there’d be no misunderstandings. His rhythmic way of talking made him seem like a white suburban rapper. I shot Julian a condemning stare, which he pretended to ignore.

Lou smiled at us with all the sunny optimism of a Mormon preacher. “You’re all here for a reason, and there’s no shame in admitting it. You want a man…um, I am correct in assuming you also want a man, sir?” he asked, breaking off from his little song to look at Julian.

Julian, clad in a frilly pink shirt, shiny black pants and eyeliner, glanced at me. “Correct,” he mumbled.

“That’s fine! There’s nothing wrong with that! These methods work for, er…anyway. So let’s go around and just introduce ourselves, shall we? We’re going to get pretty intimate here, so we might as well be friends,” Lou instructed merrily. “Who’d like to go first?”

“Hi, I’m Karen,” said a woman. She was tall and attractive enough, dark hair, dressed in sweats, maybe around forty, forty-five. “I’m divorced, and you wouldn’t believe the freaks I meet. The last guy I went out with asked if he could suck my toes. In the restaurant, okay? When I said no, he called me a frigid bitch and left. And I had to pay the bill.”

“Wow,” I murmured.

“And this was the best date I’ve had in a year, okay?”

“Not for long, Karen, not for long,” Lou announced with great confidence.

“I’m Michelle,” said the next woman. “I’m forty-two and I’ve been on sixty-seven dates in the past four months.

Sixty-seven first dates, that is. Want to know how many second dates I’ve been on? None. Because all those first dates were with idiots. My ex, now, he’s already married again. To Bambi, a waitress from Hooters. She’s twenty-three, okay? But I haven’t met one decent guy, so I hear you, Karen.”

Karen nodded in grim sympathy.

“Hi, I’m Kiki,” said my friend. “And I’m a teacher in a local school, so is there a vow of confidentiality in this class?

Like, no one’s going to out me on the street, right?”

Lou laughed merrily. “There’s no shame in taking this class, Kiki, but if you’re more comfortable, I think we can all agree to keep our enrollment to ourselves! Please continue. What drove you to this class? Are you past thirty? Afraid you’ll never meet Mr. Right?”

“No, I meet him all the time. It’s just that I tend to…maybe…rush things a little?” She glanced at me, and I nodded in support. “I scare them away,” she admitted.

Julian was next. “I’m Julian. Um…I’m…I’ve only had one boyfriend, about eight years ago. I’m just kind of …scared. It’s not that I can’t meet a man…I get asked out all the time.” Of course he did, he looked like Johnny Depp, and already I could see the speculation in Karen’s eyes…Hmm, wonder if I could get this one to jump the fence… “So you’re afraid to commit, afraid things won’t work out, so you can’t fail if you don’t try, correct? All right!” Lou said, not waiting for an answer. “And you, miss? What’s your name?”