Page 14 of The Other Side
6
The mixer was even worse than I had imagined it would be.
I should have known after Lenny’s tip-off about the donors being on the guest list. Conversation was stilted, and while drinks were being served and consumed en masse, I was far too nervous I would look at the wrong person in the wrong way to do much more than nursing the same flat glass of champagne I’d been served when I’d arrived over an hour earlier.
I adjusted my pantyhose in the knee-length dress I was wearing. It was black, thankfully conservative, despite being form-fitting, and conveniently the only dress I owned. I’d thrifted it during high school, for a funeral, and I was lucky it still fit over ten years later, thanks to the spandex and polyester blend.
I had hoped to lurk in a corner and gossip with Jolene during the event, but Winston continued to find things going awry that he tasked her with handling. Heaven forbid the donors ingest a lukewarm canapé.
I watched Jolene’s frizzy, permed, blonde hair bob and weave amongst the guests as she hustled to put out whatever non-existent fire Winston had noticed. I’d offered to help her when I’d first arrived, but she’d refused, saying she’d get in trouble with the headmaster.
I was surprised she had decided to forgo her usual sweaters to wear instead a grape-colored, floor-length velour skirt with matching short-sleeve mock neck top, complete with a very large beaded necklace that I had a sneaking suspicion she had made herself.
I loved her and her quirky, yet dated style. I didn’t even bother looking at her shoes, knowing she only owned one hideous pair of black chunky mules. She was a lost cause in the fashion department—not that I wasn’t in my own way, but I adored her just as she was.
Watching the room full of elites over the rim of my champagne glass as I feigned another sip was like watching a secret dance in which nobody knew the moves they were supposed to make, only those that others should be making.
The faculty fawned over the donors with overly enthusiastic laughter and suggestive touches. The whole thing felt so pretentious.
I didn’t want to be paraded around to impress donors. I wanted to teach and return to my little hovel.
I didn’t want to act like Montgomery was some bastion of civility when I could see the tendrils of corruption winding through every piece of the institution.
I didn’t want to pretend that a student hadn’t gone missing and that everyone in the room was complicit in preventing his disappearance from being properly investigated.
My cheeks strained to maintain the fake smile plastered across my face. It was disingenuous, like everything else at Montgomery.
I felt someone watching me from across the room. My gaze bounced around until I was able to see Milton Cox shift his attention off me the second he realized I had spotted him. He was a combination of all the worst stereotypes of men who worked in IT. Greasy hair, wireframe glasses too large for his face, an unfortunate sense of fashion that rivaled Jolene’s, body odor, and socially awkward to the extreme.
Jolene had long harbored a crush on him, and had he not given me the ick immediately upon meeting him, I might have encouraged her to pursue something. Milton gave off “nice guy” vibes in which he did and said all the right things, but they lacked sincerity, as if he was expecting praise or a reward for treating women like they were equals.
“I thought they didn’t allow students into the mixer.”
Startled from my thoughts, I didn’t have to glance up to recognize the low, seductive tone of Montgomery’s resident cougar, the art teacher, Serena Lawrence. Once a model in her youth—which she found the most ingenious and obscure ways to bring up in any conversation—as with most women over a certain age, she had been discarded by the men who had previously doted over her and had taken to focusing on a younger set of gentlemen. Or at least that’s what she’d told me.
I didn’t judge her for wanting to date younger men, being hypersexual (her words), or being very open about her latest conquests. What I did judge her for was the fact that it was painfully obvious she didn’t like me. I toyed with the idea that she was threatened by me, but if anything, it was simply my youth, something which neither of us had any control over.
She was gorgeous, despite the sour disposition. Wearing a deep green cocktail dress that snuggly fit every curve of her body, perfectly manicured nails, and a bright red lip that matched the sole of her stilettos, she always looked stunning. If she hadn’t made up her mind so quickly to target me sooutwardly, I thought there might have been a world in which we could have been friendly. I found her commentary on our chauvinistic male colleagues quite entertaining.
Still, she relied on the same few jabs to try to get under my skin. Her favorite being my small stature. At four foot, eleven inches, I was mistaken for a student more often than I would have liked. My height was a bit of a sore spot for me, admittedly, but there wasn’t anything I could do to change it.
“Nice to see you too, Serena.” I sighed, not wanting to give her any more ammunition.
“How’s my favorite little misanthrope doing this evening?”
I rolled my eyes, not deigning to respond.
“Have you seen the new English teacher? Fucking gorgeous.” Serena leaned in closer. “How long do you think it’ll take for me to get to know him a little better?”
I scoffed. “You know very well there is a strict non-fraternization policy at Montgomery. If Winston or Jones get a whiff of you fucking him, they’ll fire you.”
Serena replied with a tinkling laugh, clearly amused by my assertion. “If that were true, I would have been let go a long time ago. Discretion is the key. As long as the men don’t see you as a threat, they won’t do anything drastic.”
She leaned down further; the wine on her breath was heavy. “Worth it for the fun, don’t you think?”
“Do I strike you as someone who has fun?” I deadpanned.
Serena cackled at that.
