Down and Out in Bugtussle (9 page)

M
onday, I dread getting to work partly because I’m already burned-out after only one week and partly because I don’t want Chloe to go apeshit crazy on me when she finds out I ditched the date Friday night. Lucky for me, Stacey Dewberry is already in the conference room when I arrive, but despite that, Chloe has no kind words for me as she goes over the day’s assignments. On the way to our hallway, Stacey remarks that Chloe seemed a little irked with me.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, thinking I better dream up a king-sized lie to tell Chloe later. I expect to be called to her office at some point during the day, but I’m not.

On Tuesday, Chloe is still giving me the cold shoulder, and I just let her do her thing and don’t say a word. I leave the conference room and head straight for the teachers’ lounge where I run into Freddie Dublin who is so nice to me it makes me nervous. I think
about what Lilly said and try to keep my mind sharp as we exchange unusually polite banter. Lilly was right; I am blinded by his fabulousness. He’s beautiful and his cologne is intoxicating. After speaking with him for five minutes, I don’t even care if he’s trying to manipulate me; I love this guy. He’s downright enchanting and I want to be his friend.

Later in the day, I catch a bunch of freshmen making fun of Stacey Dewberry, so I give them a lecture, which they ignore, so I threaten to call some of their parents if I hear them talking about her again. That’s much more effective, and I pat myself on the back for perhaps eliminating some small part of the grief Stacey has to put up with at school.

Wednesday, Stacey and I are off sixth and seventh, the latter of which turns out to be Freddie Dublin’s planning period. Stacey takes it upon herself to tell us her whole entire life story, after which Freddie appears to be on the verge of tears. I watch him closely, looking for signs of insincerity. He turns the charm on full blast and starts counseling Stacey about her life, love, and otherwise. I say nothing during the entire conversation. I just watch and listen. His voice is smooth and mellow, and Stacey is eating it up.

“Do you moonlight as a therapist?” I ask when Stacey goes to the restroom because she drank too much Dr Pepper.

“No, I watch a lot of Oprah and Ellen,” he says, smiling at me.

“So are we cool now?” I ask. “Because we had that little altercation last week and you were kind of snappy with Stacey then, too. But this week, it’s like we’re all pals.”

“Oh, we are so cool,” he says. “Cameron was just really upset and she had my feathers ruffled, but we’re going to work on her teaching techniques before her final evaluation at the end of the
year, so everything should be fine.” He looks at me and I hold his gaze, searching his eyes for ill intent. “I’ve never heard of a school district doing evaluations the way they do here, but whatever. At least she has a chance to redeem herself.”

“Okay,” I say, but I’m thinking, This is your first year teaching. How would you know? We sit there and look at each other for a minute. I get the distinct feeling he expects me to say something. I don’t.

“Mrs. Stacks seems to have turned on us these past few weeks,” Freddie says. “Wonder what’s going on with her?”

“Who knows?” I say in an effort to be elusive even though I’ve been wondering the exact same thing.

“Love life troubles?” Freddie says. “Has the handsome sheriff been cuffing and stuffing some other ladies?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, trying not to smile. “He’s not that type at all.”

“Too bad,” Freddie says, and flashes a naughty grin.

I laugh out loud despite my best effort not to and don’t give any indication of how startled I am by Freddie’s forthrightness. I’m almost relieved to hear Stacey opening the restroom door because I’m keenly aware that I’m falling into exactly the same kind of conversational entanglement with Freddie D. that Lilly warned me about. Stacey takes two steps out of the restroom, shoots me a panicked look, then goes back in without closing the door. A second later, I hear the air freshener.

“No dukes. Just poots,” she says matter-of-factly, backing out of the restroom as she sprays. “Can’t be stinkin’ up the place.”

“I regret to inform you that’s exactly what you’re doing with that
spray,” Freddie says, waving a hand over his face. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “The bell is about to ring anyway.”

*   *   *

Thursday, Chloe calls me to her office and asks me, very nicely, if I plan on going on my date this weekend. Since she’s being nice and I don’t wish to rock the boat, I assure her that I will.

“Ace, I’m sorry I’ve been so edgy this week,” she says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I mean, my cabinets were all wrong and they had to rip them all out and redo them and that was quite a frustrating experience. They’ve finally got everything back in place and like it needs to be, so I’m going to be able to put all of my groceries in there over the weekend. Maybe that’s what’s been making me so crabby. I don’t know.”

“Cans stacked in weird places will do that, I guess.”

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, and then remember what Freddie Dublin said in the lounge earlier in the week. “So is everything okay with you and J.J.?”

“Of course it is!” she says defensively. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say, backing off fast. “It’s just that you haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

“We’re great,” she says, then looks alarmed. “At least I think we are.”

Dammit! Why did I even open my mouth?

“Well, that means you are then,” I say. I get up because I’m anxious to get away from her while things are still pleasant.

“So you’re going out with Gaylen tomorrow night?”

“Gaylen!?” I say, turning around. “I thought his name was Blake!”

“That’s his last name.”

“No wonder he used that while we were texting,” I say. “I can’t believe you’ve fixed me up with a guy named Gaylen!”

“What’s wrong with the name Gaylen?” she asks, and I hear that edge creeping back into her voice.

“Nothing,” I say, turning to go. “Nothing at all.” Because I’m sure it’s going to be a freakin’ disaster date anyway, so why bother.

“Let me know how it goes,” she calls as I walk out the door.

“Will do! Thanks!” For nothing!

*   *   *

Standing in front of the mirror, I wonder if Gaylen would prefer my hair up or down. Then I laugh out loud because I couldn’t possibly care less. I wonder what would happen if I shaved my head bald and showed up at the door wrapped in a toga sheet. That cracks me up again.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings and Buster Loo goes nuts. I spend a minute calming him down before placing him in my bedroom and pulling the door closed, apologizing the whole time. I go into the kitchen where I take two quick shots of Crown, and then I go open the front door.

Oh my,
I think.
What have we here?
Gaylen is standing on my porch in light wash denim jeans about two inches too short and he’s running a big, beefy hand over his shiny, bald head. His shirt appears to be sprayed on, and I think his pants might cover his ankles if he pulled them down off his waist a little bit. I wish I had
my phone so I could snap a picture of this hot mess and send it to Lilly along with a single word: “Why?”

At first, he doesn’t notice the door is open because he’s too busy admiring his reflection in the glass of my storm door. So I just stand there, looking. Then I get the feeling that he knows the inside door is open but continues to primp because that affords him the opportunity to flex his rather large biceps. Thank goodness I’m wearing this dress with fifty yards of slimming fabric, because I’m going out with a stud-muffin tonight! I giggle to myself as he stands there, flexing. I resist a strong and sudden urge to push the door open and “accidentally” pop him on the end of his oily, pointy nose. But then I think about Chloe and know that my only option is to politely tap on the door. So I do that.

“Hello,” I say, then carefully push the door open. “You must be Gaylen.”

“Garlen,” he says indignantly. “Is Ace Jones here?”

“I’m Ace Jones,” I say.

“Oh, I thought you might be the sister”—he looks me up and down—“or something.”

Yes, you barrel-chested fool, I’m the sister who answers the door in a fucking strapless dress on a Friday night.

“So if you’re Garlen, then where is Gaylen?” I ask, just to be contentious. I can come across like a real bitch if it’s absolutely necessary and I feel that it is. “I have a date with Gaylen.”

“I don’t know a Gaylen,” he says arrogantly, and I think again about hitting him in the nose with the door.

“Oh,” I say, sighing in disappointment, and he immediately looks more interested. “So it’s Garlen, then?” I look at him like he’s already boring me to death. He smiles.

“Did I hear a dog barking in there?” he asks, peering into my house.

“No,” I say. I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me. “That was my cat.” Then I look him right in the eye and say, “That pussy is ferocious.” I smile, thinking that will surely send him screaming off my steps and then I can call Chloe and blame this failed romantic interlude on him. Instead, he bellows with laughter and slaps me on the back.

“That’s a good one,” he says. He lets his hand brush my butt and then, in a most unexpected gentlemanly maneuver, extends his arm toward the sidewalk. Disappointed that my plan to send him running didn’t work, I walk down the steps. When I get to his truck, which appears to be a foreign-made two-wheel-drive model decked out with mud tires for some odd reason, he surprises me again by opening the passenger side door.
Nice,
I think. Maybe I could get used to that waxed dome and light-wash denim after all. Ha-ha! Never!

“So where would you like to go?” he asks when we’re on the road.

Somewhere I don’t know a soul and can get shit-faced drunk. “Wherever you like,” I say, deciding to act like a full-fledged crazy bitch whore all night so I can at least enjoy that part of the evening. “I’m easy.”

He looks at me and smiles, and I can tell by the look in his eye that he thinks he’s going to get laid tonight. I smile back at him because Cupid will shit a golden egg filled with tequila worms before that happens. As we debate going to Memphis or Tupelo, I try to decide which would be worse: a longer ride with him or the risk of seeing someone I might know.

“I like Buffalo Wild Wings,” he says.

“You know what? Me, too!” I tell him, thinking,
Please don’t let me see anyone I know.
I look at him and he looks at me and I can see that I’m moving up his I’d-hit-that list with speed and finesse.

“So, where are you from?” I ask.

“Everywhere,” he says.

“How do you know Chloe?”

“Who?”

“Chloe.”

“Is that the sheriff’s piece?”

“Piece of wha—,” I begin, then stop and cringe. I look at Garlen and, seeing I’ve figured it out, he starts sniggering. Really, Chloe. Really? I think. She would die if she knew she’d just been referred to as a “piece.”

“Met her at a cookout. When she found out I was single, she said she’d fix me up with a fireball.”

“Did she really say that?”

“Well, no, but I assumed that was what she meant.”

“Right.” Thank goodness I opted for the shorter ride.

I glance over at him and he’s grinning, looking all smug and shit. I imagine he thinks he can startle and shock me all night long with his scuzzball words and phrases, but he doesn’t know what he’s up against if he thinks he can out-shock me. He hears a song he likes on the radio and turns up the volume, and I spend the rest of the ride thinking up outrageous things to say to Gaylen or Garlen or whatever the hell his name is.

When we walk into Buffalo Wild Wings, I scan the area looking for familiar faces. I’m thankful that I don’t recognize a soul. The waitress tries to seat us right in the center of the restaurant, but I
insist on a booth in the corner, claiming I want to be closer to the television. This impresses my waitin’-for-the-flood date even more. I smile as I allow him to take the seat with the best view of the TV, which allows me to face the restaurant, just like I wanted. Maybe if I am seen, whoever sees me won’t be able to see this moron who is staring at his roll of silverware like he’s not sure what it is. Goofy bastard. “You like sports?” he asks.

“I like watching men in tight pants.”

“Really?”

“Yes, football is my favorite because I love seeing all of those hot, sexy men wallowing all over one another.” Apparently, my date doesn’t know what to say to that. “Baseball is okay, too. All of those long, hard bats.”

“So you won’t think I’m a pervert if I say I watch women’s tennis just to see all of those tight asses under those short little skirts,” he says, his voice almost a growl. I realize that I’ve made a terrible mistake by opening up this can of worms. He keeps talking about watching women’s sports, and I curse myself for being such an idiot. The waitress finally shows up with our drinks and, after she takes our order, I excuse myself and go to the restroom. The way he’s looking at me now is disgusting, but I have no one to blame for this but myself. Epic fail!

I hurry into the restroom, lock myself in a stall, and call Lilly. She doesn’t answer, so I send her a text with a full description of my date. I wait a second and when I don’t hear back from her, decide to go back out there and get this over as quickly as possible. I devise a plan. I’ll sit down and immediately start talking about Buster Loo, continue to pretend he’s a cat, and rattle on nonstop about my cat/dog until our food arrives. Then maybe he’ll think I’m weird and be in a hurry to get me back home. I step out of the stall,
look in the mirror, and desperately wish I hadn’t worn a strapless dress. I take a deep breath.

“Just get it done,” I tell my reflection. “It’s just another hour. Two at the most.” A lady whom I didn’t know was in the restroom comes out of the last stall and looks at me.

“Bad date?” she asks.

“Blind date.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says as she washes her hands. “Those are the worst. Makes me glad I’m married.”

“Right.” Thanks!