Down and Out in Bugtussle (5 page)

Fourth period creeps by at a snail’s pace, fifth turns out to be another class of rowdy freshmen, and sixth is a class of somewhat-less-rambunctious sophomores. Seventh is freshmen again, and they are buck wild and crazy from start to finish. I wonder why Stacey didn’t mention this group to me, because they are, by far, the rowdiest and most noncompliant of the day. When the bell finally rings at 3:05, I’m seriously questioning my decision to be a permanent substitute teacher. Sitting in my car waiting for the buses to
leave, I text Lilly and tell her I’ll have to call her tomorrow. Today I have to go home, get these damned pants off, take a long nap and then drink lots of cold beer.

When the buses finally pull out, I bark a tire out of there and don’t care who sees me. I drive home like a bat out of hell and turn into my driveway on two wheels. I hop out of the car and unbutton my pants on the way to the door. When I get inside, I go straight to the laundry room and dig a pair of cutoff sweatpants out of the dryer. I take off my bra, which had also started to squeeze me in all the wrong places, and put on a tank top and a sweatshirt. I go to the kitchen, get two beers out of the fridge, and retire to the living room where I plop down on the sofa. After turning on the television, I realize I can’t stand the racket, so I hit the mute button and close my eyes for a second. I prop my feet up on the couch and drink my beer in silence. Buster Loo creeps out from behind the love seat and joins me on the couch. He nudges my hand with his snout. I put the beer on the end table, pick him up, and give him a good hug.

“Oh, I love him,” I say, and he gets excited. “Oh, I love him so much. He’s a good dog.” Buster Loo gives me a quick lick on the cheek, then leaps off my lap and starts running in circles around the living room while I tell him what a good boy he is. That makes me laugh, which makes me feel better. Buster Loo is good at that. After three beers and a few rounds of indoor speedy-dog fetch, I feel like I might be able to get up and go back to work tomorrow.

I walk into the kitchen and think about what I want for dinner. What I need more than anything is some of Gramma Jones’s creamy chicken noodle soup. I dig through the pantry until I find her cookbook, which is a small binder filled with recipes written on
note cards. I flip to the soup section, and the recipe I’m looking for is the second card on the page. I reach under the cabinet and get the pot she always used. I wonder what she would think of my using canned chicken instead of boiling a fresh breast like she always did. She’d probably think my soup wasn’t quite as good as hers. And she would be right.

Sometimes I think I should box up all of these old pots and pans and dishes and go buy myself some new ones, but then I remember how happy it makes me to be in this kitchen with all her stuff: plates I’ve eaten on since I was a child; a cast-iron skillet that belonged to her grandmother; the old wooden spoon she always used to stir the sugar into the tea. It all gives me a sense of security that I don’t think belongs in a box in the attic. Not to mention that when I donated her old living room furniture to Goodwill several years ago, it took me almost two weeks to get over it. I line the ingredients up on the counter and smile, thinking I’ll just hang on to my old-fashioned kitchen goods. I flip the pot over and look at the bottom.
Revere Ware Clinton, Illinois
. A stamp like that might be hard to find these days.

T
uesday is a repeat of Monday, too-tight pants, smart-ass Brittany and all, and the only thing keeping my spirits from going into a nosedive is that the weather has warmed ever so slightly.

I drive home with the windows down and find my faithful companion, Buster Loo, snoozing in the backyard. When I open the gate, he spins onto his paws in one swift motion and then runs across the yard to greet me. I scoop him up and take him inside where he wiggles out of my arms and runs to the front door.

“Buster Loo wanna go for a walk?” I ask him, and he starts jumping up at his leash. “Just a minute, little buddy.” I run back to the bedroom and put on some fleece pants and a long-sleeve Bugtussle Rockets T-shirt. When I get back to the foyer, Buster Loo is still bouncing like a basketball. I grab his leash and we head out the door to the park.

I call Lilly and tell her about my two terrible days, and then we get off on the subject of Stacey Dewberry.

“And, boy, she can chatter,” I say. “Ask one simple question, and she’ll tell you all kinds of crazy stuff.”

“Poor thing,” Lilly says. “I’ve overheard other teachers making fun of her. I feel sorry for her.”

“I do, too,” I say. “Today she told me an awful story about a kitten she had when she was little. She said it followed her inside one day, but she didn’t know it was behind her until she slammed its tail in the door and then her grandma had to take it to the vet and get its tail amputated.” Lilly starts sniggering. “What are you laughing about? That was not a funny story!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was just imagining you sitting there listening to that,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “It’s nuts. She’s kind of pitiful, but then she’s kind of not because she’s so freakin’ cool in her own outrageously weird way.”

“That ball of hair on her head is not cool,” Lilly says. “God bless it.”

“Well, I didn’t mean her hair. I meant her,” I say, and then tell Lilly about the alphabetized cassette tapes. She doesn’t believe me until I ask her if she’s seen the black Iroc-Z28 with what has to be illegal tint on the windows parked in the teachers’ parking lot. “That’s her car!”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Lilly says. “Did she get it when she graduated from high school?”

“No, she got it ten years after she graduated when the car was fourteen years old, and she’s been driving it ever since. She said it was her dream car.”

“That’s hilarious,” she says. “But it is a pretty badass car.”

“I want to ride around in it sometime. With the T-tops out, listening to a Whitesnake CD—oops, I mean tape.”

“Ace! Don’t you start making fun of her, too.”

“I’m not making fun,” I say. “I’m dead serious. I think Stacey Dewberry knows how to have a good time. During afternoon break today, she was telling me that she goes honky-tonking all the time. Then she invited me to come along this weekend. I hated to say no, but I just don’t think I’m ready for that kind of excitement right now.”

“If you go out honky-tonkin’ with Stacey Dewberry, you better invite me, because that’s a trip I don’t wanna miss!” Lilly says. “So have you had the displeasure of running into Freddie D. yet?”

“Only in passing,” I tell her.

“You should probably stay away from him,” she says.

“Why are you and Chloe so concerned about me having a conversation with him? Is he really that wicked?”

“It’s not that he’s wicked. It’s that he’s buddy-buddy with Cameron Becker, and you don’t need to make any waves there or you’ll never get your job back. Plus he’s a bit of an instigator, and we all know how you get around people like that. Just try not to get tangled up in a conversation with him, because he’ll manipulate you into saying something and then twist it around and start a bunch of crap. He’s established quite a reputation for himself as a troublemaker, and we both know you don’t need any trouble right now.”

“We might like each other.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she says, sarcastically. “Chloe said that Stacey Dewberry nailed you first thing, and if she can figure out you’re trying to get your job back, then, yeah, I’m pretty
sure it won’t go unnoticed by Freddie Dublin. He’s sharp as a tack. I don’t see y’all being friends at all.”

“Are you saying I’m not sharp as a tack?” I ask, teasing.

“I’m not joking, Ace. He’ll be onto you in a heartbeat if you try to pull something.”

“What would I try to pull?” I ask, wondering what I could pull on Freddie Dublin to make him like me better than Cameron Becker.

“Can you hear me rolling my eyes at that question?”

“Fine,” I say, smiling. “So how did he and Ms. Becker get to be such big buddies in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Both first-year teachers, I guess. Or maybe they bond over their excessive fabulousness.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes. He is fabulous to excess and so is she. You can’t tell me you didn’t notice how stylish he is.”

“Yes, I did notice. He’s dashing.”

“Just do us all a favor and stay away from him.”

“Whatever. Got it,” I lie.

“Oh and there’s something I need to tell you, but you can’t say that I told.” The tone of her voice makes me anxious.

“I get really nervous when you say stuff like that.”

“Chloe has come up with another blind date.”

“What?” I moan. “Why? Why would she do that? The guy she fixed me up with this past weekend was the pits! Who is it this time?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“So why are you telling me this now?” I sense a conspiracy.

“Just wanted to warn you. That’s all.”

“Lilly, I’m not going on another blind date.”

“C’mon, Ace, you don’t want to hurt Chloe’s feelings.” She pauses. “Besides, what can it hurt?” Yep, this is a conspiracy for sure.

“It can hurt my feelings, that’s what! I’d rather straighten my pubes with a flat iron than go on another blind date,” I say, and she starts giggling.

“What are you going to tell Chloe?”

“I’m going to tell her that I have to straighten my pubes,” I say, and Lilly cracks up. “Where does she find these poor, unlucky saps?”

“Who knows?” Lilly says. “And you never know, Ace. She might find you a good one.”

“I don’t see that happening,” I say sarcastically.

“You never know.”

“Whose side are you on here, Lilly?”

“Yours, of course! But I’m sympathetic to Chloe’s efforts, too. She means well.”

“Lilly, please,” I say, and feel Buster Loo tugging on the leash. “Hey, I’ve got to let you go. Buster Loo is trying to tree a squirrel.”

“Okay,” she says cheerfully. “Maybe I’ll see you at school tomorrow!”

“Maybe,” I say, and then slip the phone into my pocket. “Can’t wait for school tomorrow,” I mumble, wondering what kind of substitute hell is lying in wait for me then. I jiggle the leash, but Buster Loo refuses to budge. “C’mon, Buster Loo!” I say to my stubborn little dog. “Let that squirrel enjoy his nuts in peace!”

O
n Wednesday, Stacey Dewberry is wearing banana-colored pants with zippers all the way up both legs, an oversized button-up technetronic print top, and royal blue flats matching one of the less-prominent zigzag patterns in her shirt. She’s wearing either panty hose or knee-highs, I can’t tell which, and just like it has been for the past two days, her hair is hot rolled, teased to the max, and thoroughly coated with hair spray. “Good morning, Ms. Dewberry,” I say as she joins me at the conference room table. I make a conscious effort not to stare at her eye makeup, which is bright blue and heavy on the liner. I see that her complexion is just as smooth as her silk shirt, and that makes me wonder if she’s blessed with great skin or if all that foundation offers supreme coverage.

“I was almost late because this airhead lady in my neighborhood had to stop me and tell me about—” She stops talking when Chloe comes in. “Good morning, Mrs. Stacks.”

“Good morning, ladies,” Chloe says, sitting down.

“Ms. Dewberry, you’re splitting the day today. First through third, you’ll be in Mr. Harrison’s room. You’re off fourth and fifth, and then sixth and seventh, you’ll be in Ms. Gale’s class.”

“Totally groovy, Mrs. Stacks, thank you,” she says, taking the folders from Chloe.

“Ms. Jones,” Chloe says, “you’re back in Mrs. Davis’s room today.”

“Oh good word,” I say. “What’s going on with her?” I’m secretly jealous that Stacey is getting the lax schedule for the third day in row.

“Her daughter has the flu,” Chloe says evenly. “She’ll probably be out the rest of the week.”

Oh great stinkin’ balls of monkey shit! No! “Okay then,” I say, not wanting to make a scene.

“Hey, since I’m off all three lunches, I’ll just come and eat with you again today!” Stacey says.

“Thanks, Ms. Dewberry,” I say. “That’s very nice of you.”