I hit F and Gmail autofilled the wrong email address.
I was too distracted at the time to check who I was sending the emails to and now I’m going to go hit my skull with a fire extinguisher and hope I go into a month-long coma.
This sort of thing has happened to other teachers before. Last year, our nurse accidentally emailed the entire school a copy of her W-2, letting everyone know how much money she makes. She was mortified. The year before, one of the volleyball coaches sent us all a gym selfie that was meant for his wife. We teased him mercilessly. Those don’t hold a candle to this.
THIS IS MUCH WORSE.
Teachers started replying to the email right away, making jokes and trying to lighten the mood. I can’t read a single one of them. My hands are shaking. I fight down the urge to vomit all over the lesson plans on my desk.
Ian calls my cell phone twice and I ignore it.
I put my head between my knees and practice breathing exercises.
Students are starting to filter into my classroom for first period. I’m supposed to teach, but I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I want to pretend like this isn’t happening, but that won’t work. Instead, I decide the best course of action is to nip it in the bud. I shoot out an email quickly, trying for honesty: “Well, this is extremely embarrassing. Please disregard my last email. It was a bad joke made in poor taste.” I decide to not even address the fact that I was openly flirting with Ian. I’m hoping if I don’t draw attention to it, no one will notice. I’m wrong.
Emails continue flying in.
HillBianca@OakHillHigh: Not dating, huh?
MillerGretchen@OakHillHigh: Yeah, is this even allowed?
If I could afford to replace it, I’d fling my phone into the nearest volcano.
I’m crying now and students are looking at me like I’m weird. One of them speculates loudly about my Aunt Flo visiting. Another posits that I’m too old to still get my period. HOW OLD DO THEY THINK I AM?!
“Ms. Abrams, are you okay? Should we call the nurse?” one gentle, sweet student asks, and I stand, shake my head, and walk out of the classroom, mumbling at them to start reading chapter 11.
I make it to the women’s bathroom before the waterworks really start. I crash into a stall, tell the lingering students to scram, sit on a toilet, and cry. I cry and cry and resist the urge to bang my head against the stall door. This is a complete disaster. I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to have to move to another city. There’s no way I can show my face at another staff meeting. I’m completely mortified.
My phone vibrates in my hand and it’s Ian again. I press ignore and try to figure out what I need to do. Right now, I want to flee. I have to get out of this school.
Yes. YES. I’m leaving. It’s completely inappropriate to bail in the middle of the school day, but there’s a protocol in place in case an emergency arises. Valid emergencies include: you’re sick, or your kid is sick, or you accidentally sext all your coworkers and you need to get the hell out of Dodge.
I email our admin and ask him to pull in a sub ASAP, get Mrs. Orin to cover my first class, and then haul ass out of school. GOODBYE OAK HILL. HELLO AZERBAIJAN.
My first destination is a bridge about a mile away from school. I don’t think I’m suicidal, but this seems like a nice place to contemplate it. I park my bike, walk to the very center, and look down. I guess I thought the bridge was a lot taller—there’s no canyon underneath and there’s definitely no rushing river. It’s a trickling creek at best. If I jump, I’ll be lucky to twist an ankle. So much for a dramatic gesture. Instead, I keep riding to the froyo place down the street.
“Welcome to Fro-yo-yoyo!” the middle-aged pot-bellied man sing-songs as I walk in the door. His enthusiasm is worrying. The place is empty. It’s nine o’clock on a Monday morning.
“Do you allow samples?” I ask, dropping my purse on a table without pause and heading straight for the machines. If they don’t, I’ll just stick my mouth under one of the nozzles and hold on until they drag me out.
“Oh sure. Here ya go!”
He hands me a thimble-sized paper cup, and just as I begin to fill it my brain reminds me that dessert was what started this mess. My vision goes black as I replay the email over and over in my head. Sure, but what’s for dessert? Sure, but what’s for dessert?
“Lady, you’re getting it everywhere.”
When I snap back to the present, my hand is cold. I look down to see thick ropes of frozen yogurt piling onto the overfilled cup, my hand, and my shoes.
How long was I out?
After a quick apology and cleanup, I opt for the largest to-go tub they offer and start to fill it. When that’s done, I get another. I wonder how many mini M&Ms I’d have to force into my stomach before a doctor would determine my body is made up of more chocolate than water. I’d rather be remembered for that than be Email Girl for the rest of my life.
After I pay, I take my tub to a lonely table while Mr. Fro-yo-yo watches me like a hawk from behind the counter. He’s scared I’m going to cause another mess. As I eat in silence, Ian keeps calling me, but my phone is on silent and halfway across the table. There’s nothing he can say that will make this situation any better.
He did this is to us. Yes. Oooh, that feels good. Deflect. Put the blame on him. He decided we should explore this simmering need churning within us instead of leaving well enough alone. I was doing just fine! I had my dirty dreams and my fantasies and I could have used those to sustain me for another 1000 years.
This entire situation is exactly what I was afraid of. EVERYONE KNOWS. Everything is changing and I can’t go back to school without everyone staring and gossiping behind my back. The other teachers will make lewd jokes about whipped cream and I won’t have the strength to laugh it off—and oh god, the students are going to find out and we’ll never hear the end of it. This thing is so new—a baby bird of a relationship—there’s no way we’ll survive. This is the beginning of the end.
My phone lights up again and my gaze snaps to the screen. If it’s Ian, I’m going to have to answer and tell him to stop calling, but it’s not.
It’s an incoming email from Principal Pruitt.
I read it while holding my breath.
He wants to set up a meeting with Ian and me to discuss the “situation” and the “potential consequences”.
I slam my froyo tub on the table and dart to the bathroom, throwing up every sugary morsel I just stuffed down my throat. More tears spill out.
I can’t believe it. I’m in trouble. I don’t get in trouble! Back when I was in high school, I never served time in detention, and I never brought home a grade below an A-!
“Lady, are you doing what I think you’re doing in there?”
Froyo man pounds on the door, clearly sick of my shit.
“I’ll be—blughhh—I’ll be out in a minute!” I shout between heaves.
“Gah, and I just put the mop up.”
I stumble weakly to the bathroom door, yank it open, and sear him with my eyes. “My life is over.”
He doesn’t look very sympathetic. “Well can you take it somewhere else? And for the record, I’ve never seen someone so little eat so much frozen yogurt.”
If this were any other day, I’d take that as a compliment.
I have no clue where I’m going when I hop on my bike a few minutes later. I’m saddled with a metric ton of frozen yogurt. My breath smells like a wrestler’s perineum. My eyes are swollen and red. It’s only 9:35 AM. I have an entire day of despair ahead of me, and I need to pace myself. All I want to do is call Ian, but I can’t. Usually, if something like this were to happen to me, I’d run straight to him. He’d distract me with a horribly embarrassing story of his own, but that won’t work this time.
My friend Ian is gone.
I take off on my bike and my froyo slips out of my hand immediately after I make my first turn. My M&Ms scatter across the pavement.
Even the candy gods have forsaken me.
I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
15
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