“Definitely not. But I am required to set up a meeting to respond to a formal complaint.”
“I’m sorry?” Sure, I’ve slacked on some of my duties due to book and movie buzz, but I certainly haven’t lost my shit in class (so far!) this year.
As if on cue, Bill Rhodes bursts into the office, glasses slipping down his nose, face red. He waves his phone like a gleaming trophy.
Smiling smugly, he sits in the chair next to me, just across from Dean MacGregor.
“As I said in my formal complaint, Dr. Wells has behavedunbecominglyduring her leave and does not represent the values of Willoughby College. The evidence I hold here in my hand warrants her immediate dismissal.”
“What the hell, Bill?” I say.
Then I see a paused video on his phone.
Oh.
Why didn’t I think of that? Yes, of course I’ll be fired. Although there’s nothing specific in my contract, I’m pretty sure baring one’s undies on a burlesque stage is not permissible as a Willoughby faculty member.
“Watch this! Just watch it!” Bill demands, thrusting the phone in Dean MacGregor’s face.
Heat rushes to my face as I see myself dancing on grainy video in the flouncy costume. I’m belting out “Circus” and strutting about with the twirling ribbon. August lifts me into the air, and even now, I flush remembering the high of that moment, how I felt wonderful and confident and on top of the world.
“I really don’t think we need to keep watching...” I mumble, not keen at all on Bill Rhodes and the dean seeing my silvery bra.
“We certainly do, Dr. Wells,” Bill snaps.
“Bill...” Dean MacGregor warns. “I’m not watching any more of this...”
But Bill keeps the phone screen shoved in both our faces, and there it is—me ripping off the costume, baring myself to the crowd. Strangely, I’m not ashamed. I did it. It was liberating.
“Do you see? She’s been playing the prim-and-proper grieving widow, dressing head to toe in black, butthisis what she’s been up to while she’s been away!”
Dean MacGregor leans back in his chair and sighs loudly. “Come on, Bill, are you really one to cast the first stone? I had the xeroxed letter from 1987 in my mailbox detailing a fantasy between you and Dr. Caldwell involving togas and grapes.”
“Ewww...” I mutter. “Also, where did you find that video?”
“What do you mean, where did I find the video? You’re trying to divert from the fact that you were dancing about on a London stage in yourunmentionables.”
“It’s a legitimate question,” Dean MacGregor says, a twinkle in his eye. “How did you find the video—I can’t imagine it would be on YouTube?”
“Fine, I stumbled upon it on a burlesque fetish site,” Bill says, face as red as a beet. “It could happen to anyone.”
There’s two seconds of awkward silence before Dean MacGregor and I explode in laughter. I’m laughing so hard, a tear slides down my cheek. Never in a million years would I have expected a formal professional complaint to be made about me for burlesque dancing. And never in a trillion years would I expect to be having this conversation in my semi-reputable place of employment.
“Oh,yes, naturally. We all stumble on those sites, Bill,” I say, wiping away the tear.
He stands, flustered, pointing his phone at the dean. “So you’re not going to do your job and fire her on the spot?”
“Considering the notorious love letters between you and Dr. Caldwell, how about we call it a day?” Dean MacGregor says.
Bill Rhodes aims the phone at me now. “This isn’t the end, Wells. You are not immune to termination or censure!”
After Bill Rhodes storms out, Dean MacGregor exhales loudly, a twinkle in his eye.
“Look, you’re not fired. If anything, we need more faculty like you, Lizzie.”
He gestures to the photo of his wife, Annie, hair windswept as she smiles widely from the seat in a pontoon fishing boat somewhere.
“Annie was just telling me the other day that we need to loosen up. She says we need to let our son fall on his feet for once. She said we need to stop putting off our trip to Greece, that we should fly there next summer and ride scooters along the shoreline.”
