Moonlighting: A Thanksgiving Story Read online

  She smiled and chatted with parents who brought their kids in. Several asked her what her Thanksgiving plans were, and invited her to their houses over the holiday for dinner or a movie. Charlotte thanked them all, her heart twisting as she realized again how much stood at risk.

  In the break room during recess, Sue Ellen Forrester was more worked up than ever. The appointments with Mr. Longbridge were slated to start after lunch, and the matronly teacher had a gleam in her eye at the prospect of finding out who was behind the “filth” discovered the day before.

  “Whoever wrote that smut should be on their knees asking God for forgiveness,” she said. “If they have the capacity, that is.”

  Charlotte couldn’t stand it any longer. “Really, Sue Ellen,” she said. “Are any of us able to judge someone else’s Christianity?”

  The other teachers looked up from their magazines or papers they were grading.

  “I certainly am!” Sue Ellen said. “No Christian has such thoughts! No moral person, for that matter. Did you even read it? Describing perversion and a…sexual response to it. Disgusting!”

  Charlotte dropped the subject with a shrug. She could feel eyes on her and knew they were wondering now if she were the author, but she didn’t care. Her fate rested with the headmaster, not them. If she could just get past him, she’d be fine. She just had to play it cool and deny, deny, deny. Even if he suspected her, he’d have no proof. Without her admission, he’d have nothing.

  All day she waited for the call to Mr. Longbridge’s office, but it didn’t come. She saw two of the other teachers follow the school secretary, Mrs. Trimble, down the hall. But her call never came. Charlotte wondered if perhaps the headmaster had excluded her from suspicion. It would make sense. She looked young and innocent for her age, and Mr. Longbridge had remarked that they shared the same old-fashioned ideals. Perhaps he thought she was morally above such writings. She hoped so.

  The rehearsal went perfectly. The children nailed their lines. Nick needed no prompting and Charlotte rewarded him with a hug for a job well done. As the last song was sung, she heard clapping from the back of the auditorium and saw the headmaster applauding. “Well done, children. Well done! And well done to you, too, Miss Tetter. I’ve never seen such a fine performance. The parents are going to be so pleased.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  The parents filed in and started to pick up their kids.

  “You fixed your bag,” he observed.

  Charlotte looked down at the handle. “Yeah, the night it happened. It’ll be good for another year or so.” She managed a smile. “Well, see you tomorrow.”

  “Miss Tetter. Actually, if you would give me a moment…”

  Charlotte turned back. “Sir?”

  “You know I’ve been meeting with teachers today regarding that business in the break room yesterday. It’s taken longer than I imagine. I’ve had to listen to a lot of opinions on the matter, especially from Mrs. Forrester.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, trying to sound nonchalant. “She does seem rather worked up over it.”

  “Indeed, but because I’ve had to spend extra times listening to the fears and suspicions I’ve run late. You were the last teacher on my list and I really don’t want to have to deal with this tomorrow. I know you’ve already been here longer than usual because of rehearsal, but if you could just indulge me…”

  Charlotte did not want to indulge him. In fact, it was the last thing she wanted to do. She was tired and just wanted to go home and do this when she felt more alert, when fatigue would not dull her responses to what she felt would be careful questions. The man was not stupid, after all.

  “I was going to….”

  “It won’t take long, Miss Tetter. And I would appreciate it.”

  She swallowed and looked down, pretending to arrange things in her bag to avoid looking at him. He was obviously not going to take no for an answer, and the advantage to meeting with him was that it would at least be over. Nothing to dread might mean a good night’s sleep. “Sure,” she said.

  “Very good,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”

  “Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.” Charlotte told herself that as she walked down the deserted school hallway after the last of the children had left. Her kitten heels clicked on the polished floor as she approached the oak door with the brass plate reading “Headmaster’s Office.”

  She tapped tentatively.

  “Come in.”

  She opened the door and felt her face flush. For a moment she stood in the doorway, looking. The office was just as she’d described the one in her story. It was the scholar’s office in her mind’s eye.

  She’d never visited there before. The school had a conference room where she’d been interviewed and Mr. Longbridge was known for being a private, hands-off headmaster who was more of a presence than a micromanager. He was good at delegating, and there was something about his being in the shadows that got everyone’s attention when he made an appearance.

  “You have a lot of books,” she said, instantly regretting the silly and obvious observation.

  He smiled. “No need to be nervous, Miss Tetter. And yes, I do. I collect them. A bit of a bibliophile, I’m afraid.” He motioned to a chair. “Sit down.”

  Charlotte took the chair across from his desk. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm…

  He took the chair at the desk and placed his hands on the top. “I suppose the best way to approach this is the most direct one, Miss Tetter. Are you Brita Sinclair?”

  “No.” Was her answer too hasty? “I don’t know any more about this than anyone else,” she said.

  “Hmm.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose it is silly,” he said, “thinking a teacher would write something like this. Of course, according to Mrs. Forrester, you became quite irritated when she was questioning the morality of the writer.”

  Brita felt her face grow warm. “With all due respect, Mr. Longbridge, Mrs. Forrester is quick to question the morality of everyone. I get tired of hearing about it after awhile.”

  “I’m sure,” he said. “And don’t think I understand. But you know how she is, and since you were the only one to speak up in defense of our little mystery writer she’s decided you are the guilty party.”

  Charlotte swallowed the response she felt rising in her throat. The less said the better. She just had to continue the denials and the headmaster would dismiss the issue. He had nothing without a confession.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” she asked. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you with your investigation. I don’t know anything.”

  He ignored the comment.

  “Your box is right next to Wendy Tillman’s.”

  “So?” She had not meant to sound so defensive. He looked up at her from the paper that lay on his desk.

  “I’ve done some research on this Brita Sinclair. It’s my opinion that people write about what they know. The writer’s topics are interesting. Lacrosse. Rennaissance Faires. Fan fiction….”

  She sat there, knowing now what he was driving at. He could put all the pieces together he wanted, but without a confession she’d have nothing. She told herself again to stay strong.

  “You were lacrosse captain of your college team, right?”

  “A lot of people play lacrosse, Mr. Longbridge. A few of the teachers here have teenage kids who play lacrosse.”

  “True,” he said. “Rennaissance Faire..hmm. Have you ever been to one?”

  “No,” she said hastily and instantly regretted her words, for she could tell by her expression that he’d caught her in a lie.

  “It’s easier than you think to find out information on people through the Internet,” he said. “People are careful. You can cross-reference someone’s email address and find out what social networks they are on, what groups they are part of. I still have your personal email address on file from when you applied here at Falmont. I did a check…”

  “You
have no right to invade my privacy!” she said, upset now.

  “I have every right, Miss Tetter. You are a teacher here, and the character of my instructors is my business.” He looked hard at her, daring Charlotte to challenge him further. “It’s quite interesting, but your email address shows up on some early fan fiction boards. Some of the fiction is quite…racy.”

  Charlotte felt heat rising to her face. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably hard. When she’d graduated from college she’d stopped writing fan fiction. She had no idea that her old, online writing - writing she did for fun - would come back to haunt her years later.

  “The themes,” he said. “The writing styles…very similar although I must say the work published by Moonlight is certainly more polished.”

  “You downloaded it?” she asked, unable to stop herself. Charlotte wanted to fall through the floor. The fantasies in her stories were her fantasies. And the man sitting across from her, her boss, had read them.

  “I did,” he said. “I believe I owe it to the school to find the identity of the author. So I’m going to ask you again, Miss Tetter. Are you the author of the paper found in Miss Tillman’s locker? Are you, indeed, Brita Sinclair.”

  “Deny,” she told herself. “Just deny it.” But she could not. He would know, and it would change her work experience at the school forever. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  The room was silent now save for the ticking of the wall clock behind him.

  “I suppose I’m fired,” she said.

  The headmaster leaned back in his chair, staring at her. “It may come as a surprise to you that I see nothing wrong with your side occupation.” he said. “You are an adult, Miss Tetter, and what an adult employee of this school does on her own time is no concern of mine. I’ve never been a fan of the Falmont policies, if truth were known. I believe it is restrictive to teachers seeking to make ends meet to limit their choice of outside jobs. Most of the teachers here are unaffected since almost all of them are married. From what I can tell, you’ve taken pains to protect your identity, and had it not been for whatever unfortunate mistake that caused you to put your paper into Miss Tillman’s box….”

  Charlotte sighed. “It was a batch of papers. I was running late. I was tired. The night before I’d put the papers from my bag on my desk while I mended the strap on my bag. I must have picked up my writing along with the rest. When I got to school I put them in the wrong box and pulled them out - with one important exception.”

  She put her face in her hands and then looked up at him.

  “So what happens now?” she asked.

  “Well, that depends on you,” he said. “I believe we learn a lot from reading, and it would seem that your latest, unfinished work includes a very brilliant plan.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Sorry? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s quite simple, Miss Tetter.” No one here needs to know that you are Brita Sinclair. “I’m the only one who has the email address you used when you applied, and I’m quite certain I am the only one who can make a direct connection between you and your writing.”

  “So I can stay?” Excitement edged her voice.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “As I said, I have no problem with your side occupation, provided it remains discreet. However, I cannot tolerate a staff member who lies. Those are grounds for dismissal.”

  “But I told you the truth!” she objected.

  “Once cornered, yes. But had I not confronted you with the evidence you would have continued to lie to me.”

  “What would you have done?” she countered. “I need this job, Mr. Longbridge!”

  “Your question is irrelevant, young lady.” The headmaster’s tone was firm. “I am the headmaster and I do not tolerate lying.” He paused. “However, I am prepared to offer you a choice.”

  Nigel Longbridge stood and walked over to the closet behind her. Charlotte turned in her chair and watched. Her eyes widened when he turned back to her. He was holding a cane.

  “You cannot be serious,” she said.

  “And why not?” He walked back over and when level with the chair where she sat, he put a forefinger under my chin and tilted my head back so he could look down into my eyes. “I happen to think it’s a rather brilliant compromise. You accept correction for your misdeed - and there has to be some penalty - but get to keep your job, with the promise, of course that you’ll be more careful.”

  Tears sprang to Charlotte’s eyes. “Are you making fun of me, Mr. Longbridge? Because if you are…”

  “I am not one to trifle, Miss Tetter,” he said. “Perhaps if you get to know me better you will realize that. And I am not one to mock another’s views on what works, even if those views are cloaked in the mantle of fiction. Pardon me for saying, but I believe a young woman who writes with such conviction about the benefits and merits of discipline must herself believe something of her words. So it stands to reason that a few strokes of the cane would go a long way in making sure that you do not repeat the careless mistakes that could have cost you your job.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Am I to assume that you have never been spanked, then?”

  Her face flushed. “Mr. Longbridge, I’m not comfortable talking to you about this.”

  “And why not?” he asked. “I spent my entire evening reading your books.”

  “Oh god…”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Do you think you are the only one?”

  She looked up at him. What was he trying to say?

  “My writing is therapeutic,” she said. “It’s not easy, having the desire to be…”

  “…Disciplined? Controlled? Guided?” He nodded. “I’m sure it’s not, Miss Tetter, especially when modern society tells women they should not want any of those things. But there’s nothing wrong with women who want that, just as there’s nothing wrong with men who wish to provide those things to a woman. But it’s important not to romanticize discipline, either. As one experienced in such matters, Miss Tetter, I can assure you that genuine discipline - done correctly - will leave the miscreant very sorry indeed.”

  “Mr. Longbridge,” she began, but he ignored her.

  “And now you have a choice to make. You can accept six lashes with the cane and reflect both on the perils of lying to me, and keep your job. Or you can walk away as Miss Hill did in your story, sans letter of recommendation.”

  “And if I refuse?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I could report this, you know.”

  “Go ahead, Miss Tetter,” he replied coolly. “You may publicly claim authorship of the bit of fiction in Miss Tillman’s box, and that news can follow you from job to job. I certainly cannot make that choice for you…”

  Charlotte realized she had no choice. And she realized something else, too. She was terrified of finally getting something she had always wanted. Charlotte had thought about being spanked since before she could remember. Her writing had been the vehicle of working through her feelings, for coming to terms with them. She never expected to meet a man like the ones she wrote about. But now she stood in the presence of one, and she had no choice but to submit to his discipline.

  And she was quite frankly scared to death.

  Chapter Four

  “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice,” she said.

  “No, I don’t suppose you do,” said the headmaster. “I think we both know you need this, Miss Tetter. I think we both know you need this as surely as we both know you need to keep your job.”

  She looked at him. “But you can’t guarantee me that, can you? If you were able to find out who I was, what’s to say that someone else won’t?”

  “Because so far as I know, no one else has access to your old email address, the one you originally used to send me an email inquiring about the position. After that I believe you must have started using an email for professional purposes, which was wise after the fact. I am the only one who can make the connection
, Miss Tetter.”

  “But Mrs. Forrester…”

  “…will be informed,” he said, “along with the other teachers that our investigation was inconclusive and will be warned under no uncertain terms to refrain from sullying the Falmont reputation with unsubstantiated gossip.”

  That made Charlotte feel better, but then her eyes fell on the cane, which Nigel Longbridge was now tapping against the palm of his hand. Fear swelled in her chest and she looked up at him.

  “Isn’t there any other way?”

  “You know there isn’t,” he said. “Now be a good girl and bend over my desk.”

  Charlotte rose from her chair. Her legs felt wobbly beneath her as she walked to the desk. It was all so surreal, and she had the feeling that any moment she would wake up and find that this was all just a dream, a rather ridiculous dream. But when she bent over and then felt the headmaster reach for the hem of her skirt, she knew it was all too real. Her hand flew back and caught his by the wrist.

  “No, please don’t,” she said. “I never…and…”

  “You’re worried that it’s going to hurt a great deal, aren’t you?” he asked, and his voice was not entirely unsympathetic. “Let me go ahead and tell you in advance that I plan to guarantee that it does indeed hurt a great deal. I want to be certain that you will never, ever lie to me again. Now remove your hand from mine. I fully intend to raise your skirts, Miss Tetter.”

  Her hand was shaking as she put it on the desk in front of her. The surface of the desk was polished, and she could see her frightened reflection staring back at her from the surface. It was distorted; she looked like a scared girl.

  But that’s how she felt. She was scared. She wondered briefly if Mr. Longbridge’s interest in spanking was - like hers - partially sexual. But he’d not made even a hint of an advance and seemed almost businesslike in his approach to the matter.

  Her skirt was bunched up around her waist now. He stood behind her and Charlotte could feel the cane tapping lightly against her bottom, one, two, three times. And then she heard a “whoosh” that was followed by a blazing line of pain where the cane had just tapped her. She cried out, surprised, and stood, her hands instantly seeking to rub away the fierce sting. Charlotte was surprised at how badly it had hurt, especially when it did not seem that Mr. Longbridge had struck her particularly hard.