"Telling fibs has never been so fun!"
Reviewed by Lissa Staley
Posted December 11, 2006
Women's Fiction | Romance Contemporary
Since moving in with her parents in Arizona last year and
taking a job teaching high school English, Natalie has gone
to great lengths to make her life more interesting. When
she and her friend Jill hit the happy hour singles scene
after work, it's like they become different people.
Whenever they decide to ditch the boring guys who bought
their drinks, the "truth" comes out, and they drive the men
away by divulging unattractive and ridiculous lies about
each other. Since she's otherwise an upstanding citizen,
Natalie doesn't have any regrets about lying to men in
bars, until she meets Jonathan. Unfortunately, by the time
she realizes he isn't an alcoholic loser, she's already
confided that she teaches reading to prisoners and cares
for her crazy homebound mother. What is a girl to do when
love at first sight is based on some very unwieldy un-
truths? Luckily, Natalie's lies don't affect her relationships with
her coworkers and students; easy banter between friends and
witty comebacks make her conversations sparkle. Carol
Snow gives her minor characters room to shine, from the
ambitious school secretary with a handful of bridal
registries and no groom in sight, to Natalie's older sister
and her perpetual grad student boyfriend back on the East
Coast. Natalie's efforts to find an internship to help a
struggling student stay in school are admirable, but the
terrors of student pranks and behind the scenes glimpses of
the teachers' lounge keep the story moving. Snow follows up
on her undercover reporter story BEEN THERE, DONE THAT with
another great read exploring the lives and loves of likable
emerging young women. This refreshingly honest story
reveals some funny, sexy and meaningful moments, and that's
no lie!
SUMMARY
Natalie Quackenbush is approaching thirty, drowning in debt-
and did she mention she lives with her parents? It's the
kind of small talk she'd rather avoid. So she and her
friends have found a new way to entertain themselves on the
Scottsdale, Arizona singles scene: lying. It's an innocent game, but when Natalie meets a guy she
actually likes-and wants to see again-how will she explain
that her mother isn't actually insane? Or that she doesn't
really work with convicted murderers? If she can find a way
out of her lies without destroying this fragile new
relationship along the way, she might just wind up with
something real.
ExcerptOkay, before you jump to any conclusions – that I am a
pathological liar, or an identity thief, or a nut -- let me
explain. My name is not Pandora, and I am not a health
inspector. My name is Natalie Quackenbush, but I can go
days without being called Natalie. People call me Miss
Quackenbush, Ms. Quackenbush, or Mrs. Quackenbush – no
matter how many times I tell them that Mrs. Quackenbush is
my mother. When they think I can’t hear them, they call me
The Quack or Quackers or, simply, The Duck. I teach
English at Agave High School in Scottsdale, Arizona. Go,
Roadrunners!
Here are some of the things I don’t do: I don’t shoplift,
cheat on my taxes or sleep with married men. I don’t
pirate software or run red lights. I don’t sneak thirteen
items into the express lane at the grocery store.
So I lie a little. It’s not like anyone gets hurt.
Besides, I don’t lie during the day. During the day, I am
a model of virtue. I watch my language. I wear knee-
length skirts and high-necked shirts. I stick to my
allotted thirty-five minutes for lunch (assuming I am not
on lunch duty; on those days, I don’t even get thirty-five
minutes).
The day after the incident in the bar (just one of many
incidents I’ve had in bars with “Jo” in the last six months
or so; Jo’s real name is Jill, by the way), I greeted the
morning the way I always do: by hitting the snooze button
three times more than is prudent. School starts at 7:30
a.m., even though every study that’s ever been done says
that teenagers need to sleep later than such a schedule
allows. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most
adults need more sleep, too, especially if they’ve been
flitting around bars pretending to be healthcare assistants
the night before.
I gave myself a quick, cool rinse in the double-headed
marble shower before yanking on a simple blue skirt and a
simple blue shirt that would look better if I ironed them
but would have to do. I accessorized with a new pair of
dangly silver earrings and a luxurious silk scarf. These
touches were unusual for me; I had a blind date after work,
and while my hopes were low, I hadn’t given up on miracles.
I waited till the last minute to put on my sandals. The
house’s Saltillo tiles felt cool and soothing on my feet.
The effect was temporary. I’d start sweating during the
drive to work; my Civic’s AC just couldn’t compete with
Arizona in August, even this early in the morning.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I opened the stainless steel
refrigerator and grabbed a yogurt, an apple and a bottled
Starbuck’s frapuccino to drink in the car. I gazed out
longingly at the boulder-rimmed Pebble Tec pool and spa in
the backyard. If my date ended early enough, I’d take a
dip, I silently vowed.
Oh, yeah, in case you haven’t already concluded that I’m a
total loser, here’s another nugget: I live with my
parents.
I got to my classroom at 7:31, a minute after the first
bell had rung. It’s a good thing the school custodians
unlocked the classrooms at 7:15; otherwise I’d have had
packs of students conspicuously waiting in the hallway at
least once a week. Today the students were variously
slumped in their seats or leaning on their friends’
desks. “Seats, please,” I said, clearing my throat. I did
a quick scan of the room, praying that they were all on
time, that I wouldn’t have to choose between rule-bending
and hypocrisy.
Rule-bending won. Robert Baumgartner strolled in four
minutes after the bell. The yellow late slips sat
prominently on my enormous brown laminate desk. It had
been a mere two days since Agave High’s faculty meeting had
focused on the problem of tardiness and consistency. “We
must declare our solidarity in this issue,” intoned the
principal, Dr. Florenzia White. “If a portion of the
faculty looks the other way when students are tardy, the
entire school suffers.” She was right, of course. Dr.
White was always right. “Final warning, Robert,” I said
with as much authority as I could muster.
“Next time you get a slip.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Quackenbush,” he said, batting absurdly long
eyelashes. “I had car trouble. It won’t happen again, I
swear.” He settled his long, languid body in his chair.
The girls in the class shot him worshipful looks.
“Mrs. Quackenbush is my mother,” I said. “But let’s move
on. How many of you did the homework last night?” A
scattering of hands rose in the air. I heard one voice
say, “We had homework?”
Mistake number two: I had asked about the homework as if
doing it had been an option. I should have said, “I assume
you did the homework last night.” Or, better yet, “Please
pull out your homework.” But this was twelfth
grade “Adventures in English,” otherwise known as, “The
Slow Class.” The first time I heard the “Adventures”
moniker, I envisioned a bunch of cape-clad adolescents
soaring over the desert, superman-style. A week and a half
into the school year, I could tell that there would be very
little soaring going on in this group. I had worried about
behavior problems, but the fact was, there was almost no
behavior at all.
Most of the kids weren’t even slow. Some, like Robert,
were of average or superior intelligence but afflicted with
learning disabilities. Others spoke English as a second
language (the first being Spanish, mostly). Still others
just didn’t give a damn. I mean a darn.
Robert smiled at me on the way out. “I’ll do my homework
tonight. I promise.”
“I’ll remember you said that.” I tried to sound like I
believed him. Robert would probably end up in prison some
day, which saddened me because I was already quite fond of
him.
“You look nice today, Mrs. Quackenbush,” he said. “I like
the scarf.”
“Why, thank you, Robert!”
“It’s a nice change from your usual Secret Service look.”
And then he was gone.
At lunchtime, I went to the front office to find Jill.
Jill is the school psychologist, a testament to the widely
held belief that all shrinks are crazy. She was leaning
over the tall counter that separates the secretaries from
the students – ironic, considering that both secretaries
had been students at Agave just a few years before. Dawna
(“Mrs. Johnson”) was twenty years old, already married (to
another former Agave student) with a baby named Chenille at
home.
Nicolette (“Miss Badanski”) was twenty-one and enmeshed in
the process of choosing her bridal registry. Right now she
was showing Jill a flier from Bed, Bath & Beyond. “I was
totally set on that eggplant-colored duvet cover from
Linens ‘n Things –remember I showed you the picture last
week? With the gold trim and the fringed throw pillows?
But now I’m looking at this other one, it’s what do they
call it, claret colored. Totally classy. But if I go this
way, it means I’m going to have to change my towels.
Macy’s has me down for eggplant, but I’m thinking beige
might be safer. But then I’m all -- beige? Is that
totally boring, or what?”
Jill studied the picture. “I’d stick to the eggplant.
This one’s a bit, I don’t know. Too much.”
“Miss Quackenbush? What do you think?” Nicolette asked.
I looked at the picture. Ick. “I’m with Jill. This one’s
a little overwhelming.”
“Nicolette wants to go out with us sometime,” Jill said to
me. I glared up at her. We had never discussed enlarging
our “circle” of two. Besides, Nicolette would get all the
attention; she was blessed with the biggest breasts I’d
ever seen on a thin person who had never undergone a boob
job. (Hers were certified genuine; much of the staff had
witnessed her girl-to-woman transformation during the
spring of her freshman year. “Like she sprouted pillows
overnight,” was how one teacher described it.)
“Yeah,” Nicolette said. “I’ve got to start meeting men.
The guys around here are all losers.” For all her registry
talk, Nicolette was not only unengaged, she was
unattached. She was weirdly rational about her burgeoning
registry, which she had started the year before, following
Dawna’s marriage to Chad Johnson. Dawna had a brief (nine
day) engagement after discovering that “God had blessed
her” with what was to become little Chenille. A
scattering of high school friends and teachers had crowded
in her parents’ tiny backyard on a sweltering October day
to hear Dawna and Chad pledge eternal devotion.
For all its shaky beginnings, the marriage seemed to be
progressing smoothly. Chad took care of Chenille during
the day; evenings he worked as a bellhop. Dawna took
copious photos of their “family time,” which took place
between the hours of three and five p.m. When Chenille
went to bed each evening Dawna posted the photos into
scrapbook after scrapbook.
But Nicolette was unimpressed by Dawna’s marriage. She
focused exclusively on the wedding and what she considered
a paltry take: a handful of gift cards (two from Wal-
Mart), three salad bowls, two platters, and too many
candlesticks and vases to count. As documented in her
scrapbooks, Dawna, Chad and little Chenille ate their four
o’clock dinners off mismatched thrift store plates and
drank their milk from plastic glasses. Their tablecloth
was vinyl.
The lesson had not been lost on Nicolette. “I’m going to
be ready,” she said. “Even if I elope, I’ll be prepared.”
She was currently registered at Linens ‘n Things, Macy’s,
Robinsons-May, Target and The Great Indoors. She had gone
so far as to get the registry form from Bed Bath & Beyond
but was concerned that that might be overkill.
I let Jill have it when we sat down at our favorite corner
of our favorite table in the teacher’s dining room. “I
can’t believe you invited Pamela Anderson out with us.” “Not fair,” Jill said, popping open her Diet
Coke. “Nicolette’s boobs are real.” “So are Pamela’s. She had the implants removed. I read it
in People.”
“When do you have time to read People? Aren’t you supposed
to be reading The Odyssey?”
I sighed and pulled out my yogurt and apple. “I bought the
cliff notes. I just couldn’t keep up with those kids.”
That would be my ninth grade honors class, which I
inherited when the woman who had been teaching it since the
seventies had a nervous breakdown on the second day of
school.
“Would anyone believe Nicolette is a man?” Jill asked.
“Oh, God, is that what this is all about?” I peeled the
foil off my yogurt. Jill unzipped her padded blue cooler
and pulled out a hunk of French bread. “What is that?”
“Roast pork loin sandwich with roasted red peppers and goat
cheese.”
“Wanna trade? I won’t complain about Nicolette anymore.”
“Not a chance.” She bit into her sandwich, and a look of
bliss flickered across her face.
“So what do you think? We try the transsexual routine with
Nicolette, see if anyone falls for it.”
“You don’t look like a man,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s like to have
every guy you’ve ever dated beg you to play volleyball for
his company team.”
The door to the dining room swung open. “It’s Mr.
Handsome,” I whispered. He was carrying a plastic orange
tray.
“Gay,” Jill muttered.
“Is not.” “Just try not to look desperate.”
I caught Lars’s eye and waved. “Desperate,” Jill hissed.
“Ssh.”
Lars said hello to a couple of teachers and strode over to
us. “Ms. Quackenbush. Ms. Green.”
“Hello, Lars,” I said in a decidedly casual, un-desperate
way. Lars Hansen had flippy blond hair (“Too pretty,” Jill
said), a gym rat body (“Too vain”), and an easy sense of
humor (“Too smooth”). He was twenty-six years old (“Too
young”). Like me, he taught English, though he also had
one drama class and responsibility for the school play
(“Gay, gay, gay”). Lars was madly in love with me. He
just didn’t know it yet.
Lars put his tray on the table. Today’s cafeteria lunch:
a hunk of gray-brown meat; canned string beans, glutinous
mashed potatoes. I could never be that hungry.
“Natalie has a date tonight,” Jill announced.
“A blind date,” I quickly clarified before wondering if I
should have given him an opportunity to be jealous.
“Anyone I know?” Lars asked.
“She doesn’t even know him. It’s a blind date,” Jill said
in her teacher-talking-to-an-especially-dumb-student voice.
“Oh! Right! Well, good for you. I guess it’s hard to
meet men around here.”
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