Private Lessons

WEEK TWELVE – The Last Class

“Come on, you son of a bitch! Answer your stupid phone!”

Despite my cursing, the phone kept ringing and ringing. Again, I pressed ‘redial’, determined not to quit ringing the phone until Billy answered and explained his actions. Although I had no proof, I knew my ex-boyfriend was responsible for that gossip column. He had always bragged about having connections to important people, although I thought he had been bullshitting half the time just like he did about everything else.

After about half an hour of calling him on redial, I began to feel more than a little stupid.

Why call Billy? I knew where he lived. All I had to do was go to Brooklyn and wait outside his apartment...and do what? The obvious retaliation would be to kill him. I had no gun, but I did have a nice long kitchen knife. I thought of chasing after him on the street, slashing away at him with all of my violent fury, watching him rip up and bleed and scream in agony. And then I imagined the cops coming for me. I’d be thrown in a stinking horrible jail, filed with drug users and prostitutes and murderers. I’d probably get raped daily by prison guards and lesbians for years on end. Maybe I wouldn’t murder him after all. Revenge on Billy was not worth such a fate.

And as much as I hated to admit it, neither was Mr. C.

I choked on a sob as I took another swig of my Slim Fast smoothie, alone and miserable in my bedroom on a Wednesday afternoon. No, I was not at my boring temp job. I called in sick. Life was horrible enough without having to deal with a bunch of asses telling me what to do all day long. I just needed the time to lick my wounds.

How could Mr. C have been so quick to think the worst of me? How could he have said those things to me? It was as if he had been looking for an excuse to cut things off between us. If he had been anyone else, if he had been an ordinary guy, I would have just told him to fuck off and gone on with my life.

But he was no ordinary guy. He was Mr. C. My muse. The man of my dreams. My teacher. My lover. My father figure.

But the idol had fallen off of his pedestal.

Apparently, Mr. C was only human after all. And he was just as capable of being a pig as any of the other men I had ever known in my life.

Even so, I wanted an explanation for all of this, damn it.

Storming off to the D Train, I rode to Sheepshead Bay, determined to find Billy. I wouldn’t kill him. I just wanted answers.

There was no answer at his apartment. So I went to the diner across the street.

Much to my good fortune, Billy was sitting there at a booth, downing a cup of coffee, undoubtedly loafing another day away. Anything but go to a job like a real person, I fumed as I stormed over to him. At least, there was something to be said for his boring existence. He was an easy man to find.

His eyes widened as he saw me.

“Maggie...what are you...?”

Slamming my copy of the hated newspaper on his table, I succeeded in knocking over his coffee and almost but not quite scalding him.

“Fuck! What the hell are you...Fuck!” Billy jumped up from the seat, wiping at the brown stains on his pants.

“Proud of yourself?” I asked, pointing at the paper. “I always knew you were a pathetic idiot, but I didn’t think that you were capable of being such an asshole!”

Glaring at me, he picked up the soggy paper and read the column. At first, he smirked. The smirk turned into a grin. The grin turned into a full-fledged laugh as he put the paper down. I wished I had brought along that long kitchen knife after all.

“I didn’t do this,” he said between chuckles. “But this is priceless! I wish I could take the credit for it. Looks like Mr. Broadway Star got his and you got yours. Priceless!”

As snotty as his remarks were, I believed him. He was just too conceited not to take the credit if he had actually done it. He would have rubbed his victory in my face. As it was, all he could do was laugh at the article and rub that in my face.

“Fuck off, loser!” I snarled before racing off to the subway.

So if Billy hadn’t done it, who did?

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By the time I got back home, I was so consumed with hurt and rage I just didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry but I felt emotionally constipated somehow. The feelings just wouldn’t come out.

So I went to the gym.

I brutally punished myself, climbing on the stairmaster for 45 minutes at high levels until my knees ached and I was drenched in sweat.

As if my day had not been bad enough, I stepped onto the scale.

Ten pounds! I had gained a frigging ten pounds!

All of the time, I had to work non-stop to keep fat from collecting on my stomach and hips. If I so much had a small order of French fries, they’d be on my waist the next day. I knew that I would be stressed out so I was trying to be especially good. And now I had gained all the weight back in one week. Less than that! Just a couple of days. How did it happen?

Probably stress. Because of Billy and Mr. C, those fuckers! It was bad enough that both men had used me and degraded me and ripped my heart out in their own individual ways. But now they were responsible for my getting fat all over again!

Kicking the scale, I stormed out of the dressing room, ignoring the chastising look of one of the gym employees.

Going to the nearest Duane Reade, I bought one of those high-caffeine, high-octane fat burners. As a rule, I did not usually take diet pills. They always made me feel like I was going to have a heart attack at any second with my heart palpitating in my chest. But I no longer cared if I died. Besides, I would only take the stuff until I lost those damned ten pounds. That’s all. Surely I would survive for that long. And then I would be very strict on myself so I wouldn’t gain that weight back.

Taking a swig from my bottle of Poland Spring, I downed two pills right off of the bat. No time like the present to let the magic take hold. And I felt better. At least, there was one thing in my life I was in control of.

I felt better. I felt better. I felt better...

I repeated the words to myself like a mantra.

Maybe if I said the words enough, I would believe them.

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“Nice of you to show up,” Mark Richmond remarked as he waltzed into his office, armed with a muffin and coffee from Starbucks the next day.

Normally I would have sulked at his arrogance, but I felt all empowered by my zip-a-dee-doo-dah diet pills. In fact, I must have been typing a hundred words a minute. That was cool. I was in the groove.

“You been sick?” Mr. Richmond asked as he left his office again, stopping at my cubicle. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”

Mr. Richmond, you are now promoted from a boring asshole to a boring schmuck. Congratulations!

I couldn’t help but beam with a grin, even though there was no way I could have lost my ten pounds in one day.

“Nothing serious,” I answered, rewarding Chandler...er, Mark...with a glance.

“Well, you look like you need to eat something. You want to do lunch?”

I stopped my typing, mid-word. Mr. Big Shot Executive wanted to do lunch with the lowly temp?!

“Well, jeez,” he chuckled. “Don’t look at me like I’ve turned into an alien. It was just a friendly offer.”

I stared at him, sizing him up. No, he was annoyingly sort of cute but better not to mix business with pleasure. Hadn’t I already learned that the hard way?

“I’ve got plans,” I answered.

“Okay. No problem.”

I could tell that he was sort of disappointed, but I couldn’t help myself. I simply despised every man on the planet right now...and the boss was no exception.

But at least I had gotten back to work. At least I was coming back to some order after the mega explosion of last week. And now I had to figure out what I was going to do about the class awaiting me on Sunday.

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As I neared the entrance of the classroom, I began to panic.

This was a bad idea coming here. It would be horribly awkward and painful and horrible. Maybe people knew what was going on and they would point at me, whispering. But the worst thought of all was the contemplation of Mr. C’s cold hateful eyes, ripping me to pieces.

Out of sheer stubbornness, I kept on towards the hallway. I paid for the class. I had worked hard in the class. I was going to go to class, damn it.

But then I stopped mid-track.

Part of me yearned to go to Mr. C and plead my case, begging him to believe me about that column. I would never hurt him. I couldn’t. Surely, he knew that. It was how I felt. These were the words fighting to leave my lips.

But hadn’t I given him everything I could already? I knew that I would never be enough for a man like him. How could I be? I was a Nobody and he was a Somebody. I had never forgotten that. Maybe I should just keep what remained of my dignity and self esteem and give him the silent treatment. After all, it was what he deserved for hanging me without giving me a fair trial.

But was I strong enough to do that?

Should I just turn around and take the subway home?

“Hi, Maggie!” Tammie, the ditzy blonde, called out behind me. “What you gonna sing today?”

I swallowed hard.

“Another Suitcase From Another Hall. Evita.”

“Good choice.”

“Thanks.”

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the classroom. I would do what any seasoned performer would do. I would play it by ear...improvise...and roll with the punches.

I did not expect the first blow so soon.

At Mr. C’s desk sat a thin woman with frizzy brown hair. She was looking at the role book quizzically as if it were a snake about to bite her.

“Who is that?” I asked Tammie dumbly.

“We have a sub for the rest of the term. Apparently our star went off to greener pastures.”

With a nonchalant shrug, she pranced off across the room to talk to some of her other friends.

I was reeling with shock. Mr. C was not even there! And he was gone next week too!

Disbelieving, I heard the announcement that Miss Frizzy Hair was making. Due to ‘conflicts of interest’, Mr. C could no longer continue to teach the Master Class in Musical Theater. Miss What’s-Her-Name (I forgot the name as soon as I heard it, but to me she’ll always be ‘Miss Frizzy Hair’) would be taking over for the remaining two weeks of the term.

Sheer panic rose up in my throat. No! He couldn’t do this to me! He couldn’t abandon me! He couldn’t just leave and go off to parts unknown!

I felt as if I were hyperventilating, trying not to break down as the class went on with one interminable song after another.

“Miss Spencer?”

I grimaced as I heard Miss Frizzy Hair refer to me by that name.

“It seems you’re the only one left to go up.”

Was I? I had lost track of the time.

Dutifully, I walked to center stage, waiting for the intro music of my song to end.

I sang and felt nothing.

“Time and time again, I say that I don’t care. That I’m immune to gloom. That I’m hard through and through. Being used to trouble, I anticipate it; but all the same I hate it. Wouldn’t you? So what happens now? So what happens now? Where am I going to? Where am I going to?”

The song dragged on and on, finally coming to a merciful end.

The substitute loved it. The class loved it.

But for me, their compliments were cold comfort.

Deep down, I knew that Mr. C would have kicked my ass to the Staten Island Ferry and back for daring to bring in such a sloppy song. He would have torn me to shreds and rightly so for having such poor concentration on stage. It had been nothing but cheap pretend emotion and mechanical technique. I might as well have sent the song in by fax machine. I knew it. And he would have known it.

As I walked home, I felt on a roller coaster from horrible depression to numbness as I reached into my purse to take some more of the magic diet pills...hoping I would melt away into nothing...