Work Text:
Melissa was a substitute, had to be all things to all men. A swiss army knife. Adaptable. Resourceful. Good at a little of everything, but feet never planted long enough to build relationships or make a difference. Just long enough to prevent the classroom turning into Lord of the Flies 2: Fly Harder. She hated it. It wasn't why she'd become a teacher. But she had bills to pay, and it was the only gig she could get, two years outta college.
It was still teaching. And she was still good at it. But she wanted to be great at it.
She first got asked to sub for Barbara Howard about a year ago, when Mel was still really green. She didn't really know her, only to nod-to in the lounge. Sometimes chatted if the room was quiet. She was hard to get to know. Didn't really open up past the surface layer of small talk. Real tense, very dignified, by the book. Extremely handsome though, in the way older, confident women are. Shiny. Nice to look at over morning coffee.
But subbing for her class turned her guts to pastina. Those kids adored her. They drew pictures of her, for her, even though she wasn't there. "Mrs. Howard says this, Mrs Howard says that, is she coming back, when will we see her..." Mel couldn't remember ever missing a teacher. What kind of woman was Barbara? The fact the pin-straight room was absolutely littered with pieces of these kids told such a story of mutual love. Even if it meant the windowsill was covered in the ugliest clay… somethings known to man. They'd made them for her.
She was so fucking jealous.
She wanted it to be like that.
Ached for it, even.
It made her wanna get to know her, learn from her. To get to be just like her. She brought her food, after that, as an excuse to sit beside her, the way she always did when she wanted to make herself indisposable. Let me in. They always let her in. Nobody could turn her down once they took a bite.
So it was a crush, yeah. Big deal. She had eyes. The woman's face looked like she was made by Michaelangelo, all soft and hand made by something otherworldly, made you wanna touch her to see if she was warm or just made of clay. And she was warm. And pretty, and kind, but it didn't have to be a whole thing.
Except y'know, it definitely was a whole thing. 'Cause after weeks of careful aim and persistence she'd finally learned just how to crack a real, genuine laugh out of her without fail, and whenever that happened, Melissa was always a total goner. She loved making people laugh, especially the uptight ones. It's the knowing that they'll carry that bit of her with them for the rest of the day. Made herself into a sunny spot they wanna come back to for another hit.
And it became their whole thing, over days and weeks and months, food and laughter and chairs that got a little bit closer each morning. Direct, focused attention that Melissa could just drown in. Barb seemed to grow excuses to touch her - by accident? on purpose? - punctuation while telling a story, a balm on a shitty day, a playful warning after a dirty joke. And Melissa read meaning into it that wasn't there, but mattered to her.
She'd made herself a fixture in Barbara's day to the point where she'd see her smile when she rounded the lounge doorway to find Mel already sitting there, and it made her wanna melt through the floor.
She'd gotten in through the garden gate, and she now wanted to be around her every chance she got.
It was a whole… problem.
She wanted to be her friend, but she also wanted to crowd her into the janitor's closet and kiss the smile off her stupid face.
But she couldn't.
But she could think about it.
Thinking is free.
So hearing Barbara's voice in her ear while four drinks in was a little too much right now, she had to admit. Overstimulation, or something. She'd crawled onto her bed somewhere around minute ten, the low rumble of her voice like a soft hand stroking her cheek. She was more than tipsy before the phone rang, and had sunk another since then, her limbs loose and warm. Drifting in space.
"Did you get all that?"
"Yeah, yeah."
Actually she hadn't heard a damn thing, had been too distracted by other thoughts, of that same voice in other, sweatier circumstances, with a pair of plum red lips attached, telling her other, filthier, things, in the shell of her ear, in the column of her neck. Stupid thoughts, but pretty ones, hanging in the air. So easy to let them drift there.
She took a swig of her wine to recenter herself.
"Hmm." Barbara didn't sound convinced, could almost hear the hand on her hips. Made Mel squirm a little, in the way disapproval always did. Pulled her out of her haze, wanting to be seen all of a sudden.
"I've got you, Barb. I know the drill. I've subbed your class how many times? You gotta trust me by now."
Silence yawned open between them down the line. Clocks ticking, cars rolling by. Trust was a loaded word to insert into this small conversation about lesson plans.
"I do. Trust you, that is." The creak of a floorboard. Melissa could picture her, barefoot in the living room, pacing around as she spoke. Cute. "I don't know if I ever told you, but the children always rave about you when I come back. 'Miss Schemmenti always does the voice this way! No, not like that, like this!' It's enough to give me a complex."
Oh. Melissa felt like she might shatter. Could feel the tears surging up, the cold tingle in her fingers and toes, heart stopped. The kids did see her. And by extension Barbara saw her. Barbara was jealous of her.
Even this drunk, with her barriers on the floor, she knew this was an insecurity made flesh that was too tender to reveal on what was meant to be an easy-going work phone call. She sniffed, rubbed her face, reworked it into something else. Toes still tingling.
"Oh yeah?" Her voice was shakier, more tense than she'd like, even with all the false bravado she tried to pack into it. "If I'm so good, does that mean you'll owe me a favour?"
Flirting was safe. It's just a game.
She was on her belly now, toying with the edges of her pillowcase, and the throaty chuckle on the end of the line lit her up like the Main Street Electrical Parade.
"What kind of favour?"
Oh, she could think of a few. None of them PG. All of them ending in Barbara's hand twisted up in her hair.
"Come over for dinner on Monday," burst out in a rush, up in the air before she could catch it, greased up by the wine. "If you're not busy," she followed, hoping she didn't sound too desperate. Friends eat dinner. She cooks for her all the time just not at… her house. It's totally fine. It's fine.
"Oh." Almost a gasp, and a long pause on the end of the line that nearly made Melissa's throat close up. "I'd love that."
It could have been a lot of things - her brain, the drink, the way she felt simultaneously keyed-up and sleepy - but she could have sworn there was something in her tone, there. Something else. She wanted to tear it open. Fixated her nervous hands on the pillowcase instead.
"Seven?"
"Works for me. Do you want me to bring anything?"
Just you. "Wine?" She yawned, flicking through her mental recipe book so she could give her some direction. Braciole? Ribollita? "A chianti or something would be great."
"Perfect." A beat. "You sound tired, are you alright?"
Yes. No. "Sorry. It's the chardonnay."
"I thought you sounded drunk."
"It's 9.30 on a Saturday night, Barb. I didn't know you were gonna call and expect to talk to me about IEPs."
"Hey, hey, no judgement from me. There's brandy with my name on it by the sink."
"Ooh, my kind of woman."
"So you keep saying."
"You know me, I can't help myself.”
"So I've heard."
They both cackled then, throaty and light. Easy, familiar.
"I'll let you go so you can pass out in front of Walker, Texas Ranger."
"Shut up!"
"Don't forget, top drawer of my desk."
"Jerk. Yeah. I got you. G'night Barb. See you Monday."
"I know. Goodnight. Take care. Sweet dreams."
Yeah. They will be.
She put the phone down and pulled off her dress.