The Art of Being an Exemplary Wife

Graham Harper blinked, feeling as though the air around him had changed. Instead of the stale smell of his cramped janitor’s office, filled with cheap whiskey and dampness, he suddenly noticed a faint scent of lavender soap and something sweet—perhaps perfume? But what was most confusing was the lightness. His body felt... fragile. Slim fingers with neat nails were resting on a pink notepad.

He raised his gaze and realized he was sitting at a school desk, surrounded by girls in white blouses and light skirts. They were whispering to each other, carefully writing something in their notebooks. On the other side of the board stood a strict woman in glasses—Miss Livingston, the aesthetics teacher.

– What the hell?! – Graham blurted out, immediately hearing a thin, melodic voice that was nothing like his usual raspy bass. The class instantly froze. Dozens of surprised eyes stared at him, and Miss Livingston squinted at him with clear disapproval.

– Miss Rivers, did I hear that correctly? – Her voice was low and threatening, like a cold wind. – Such behavior is completely unacceptable in my class. This is not a football field, but an aesthetics lesson. Are you going to explain your outrageous behavior?

– Huh, what? – Eliza’s, or now Graham’s, voice sounded uncertain, almost guilty. He immediately swallowed, feeling the unfamiliar vocal cords tremble from the strain. Damn, damn, damn. His palms were sweaty, sticking to the pages of the textbook with gold embossing: "The Art of Being an Exemplary Wife: From Table Setting to Marital Harmony."

"What the hell is going on? Where am I?" – flashed through his mind. The last thing he remembered was holding a bottle of whiskey, thinking about how tired he was of his life. He had been sitting in his office, buried under papers and empty bottles, staring at the ceiling. "I wish I could start over," he muttered, swallowing another gulp.

And now he was here. In the body of this girl—one of the many students like her, who had been unhappy with her life and wanted to escape from this "dollhouse paradise," where they were being trained to be perfect housewives, just like Graham, who also wanted to be someone else.

– Miss Rivers, I’m waiting, – Miss Livingston’s voice became even colder, and Graham felt a chill run down his spine. He wasn’t used to that tone, especially when it was directed at him. Normally, he was the one speaking like that to students, not the other way around.

– Bathroom, – he blurted out, jumping up, realizing he urgently needed to meet with this Eliza, who, apparently, was now in his body. The skirt rustled uncomfortably around his knees, and the shoes, half a size too small, pinched the arch of his foot. – I mean... may I go, Miss?

The teacher immediately stood up and swiftly made her way toward Graham, her face showing an unmistakable grimace of shock and obvious disgust. The sound of her heels clicking on the floor seemed to count down the seconds until his execution.

– Miss Rivers, – Miss Livingston stopped just a step away from the desk, and Graham instinctively leaned back, feeling his long hair catch on the chair’s backrest. – You decide to ask to go to the bathroom in the middle of a discussion on the fundamentals of family harmony? Or perhaps you find it appropriate to interrupt the lesson with vulgar exclamations?

Her hand, holding a long pointer resembling a dry branch, suddenly pointed at the textbook. The pages, adorned with illustrations of perfect dining tables, suddenly felt like some kind of mockery to Graham. He swallowed, feeling his earlobes burning from the tight earrings—damn clip-ons, which Eliza must have hated, judging by the throbbing pain.

– Sit down. Now. – The teacher slapped the pointer on the edge of the desk, and Graham plopped down in his seat, the skirt flying up, exposing his knees. Someone nearby snickered. – And if you ever allow yourself something like that again, I’ll send you to the principal. I’m sure your parents will appreciate your... creative approach to etiquette.

The class fell silent, broken only by the sound of quills scratching paper. Graham gritted his teeth, feeling the tight headband pressing against his temples. Her, no, her hair, soft and unruly, brushed against his neck, sending shivers down his spine. He instinctively reached up to adjust a strand, but his fingers got tangled in the locks.

– Now, – Miss Livingston returned to the board, where the points were written in chalk: “Humility,” “Obedience,” “Grace.” – Let’s continue. Miss Carter, show us how to properly serve tea to a guest.

The girl with chestnut curls, sitting to his left, gracefully stood up. Graham caught a glimpse of her throwing him a worried look.

– Don’t worry, – the girl’s whisper barely reached him as the teacher adjusted the napkin in her hands. – She’s meaner than usual today. You know, after yesterday...

Yesterday? Graham tensed, but then Miss Livingston turned around:

– Miss Rivers! Since you were so eager to leave the class, help Miss Carter. Show us how a true lady corrects mistakes.

Lilian froze with the teapot in her hand, deliberately placing it crookedly on the saucer. Graham stood up, feeling the shoes pinching even harder. One step—and the skirt wrapped around his legs, nearly tripping him. He reached out to adjust the teapot, but Miss Livingston abruptly coughed:

– With your right hand, Miss. And don't forget to smile. Men like it when they are served with grace, – Miss Livingston finished, and Graham felt goosebumps break out on his new skin. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the teapot—damn, this thing weighed like a dumbbell! Lilian tried to catch his eye, moving her lips: "At an angle, hold it at an angle!" – but he just tightened his grip on the handle, making the porcelain squeak uncomfortably.

– Hey, take it easy, – he muttered, immediately regretting it. Eliza’s voice sounded absurd, trying to mimic his usual hoarse tone. Tea splashed into the cup, spilling onto the saucer. A drop landed on the white blouse, leaving a yellow stain.

– Grace, Miss Rivers! – the pointer struck the desk next to his hand. – Were you born in a barn? Or did you forget that we practiced this for five hours straight last week?

Graham bit his lower lip, feeling the earrings digging into his earlobes. Five hours? He'd rather have five minutes with an axe in the boiler room—and no stupid tea parties. He reached for the napkin, but Miss Livingston grabbed his wrist.

– Pinky finger, – she hissed, squeezing his finger so tightly that his bones creaked. – You’re holding it out. It’s a symbol of refinement.

Pain shot through the joint, and he flinched, dropping the napkin. A muffled laugh rippled through the class. Lilian covered her mouth with her palm, but her shoulders shook.

– Sorry, ma’am, – Graham forced a smile, feeling the bow at the back of his head shift sideways. – I... I’m just not in form today.

– Obviously, – the teacher released his hand, leaving red marks from the rings. – After class, you'll stay. We'll go over the table setting again until your fingers remember they belong to a lady.

He sank back into the chair, struggling to keep his knees from shaking. The skirt stuck to his legs from the sweat, and the lace straps of the dress dug into his shoulders like a noose. Lilian carefully touched his hand under the desk, but he flinched.

– El, are you okay? – she whispered. – You’re acting weird today. Like…

– Leave me alone, – he muttered, immediately regretting it. Pain flashed in her eyes, and he realized that, judging by the look, she was probably Eliza's friend, and he had just snapped at her.

Damn, damn, damn. He buried his face in the textbook, trying to make sense of the cursive swirls: “A true wife always senses her husband’s mood.”

“Husband’s mood”… Graham swallowed, imagining his—no, her—room. Pink wallpaper, dolls on the shelves, a diary with a golden lock. And somewhere there, in his body, Eliza was rummaging through things. What the hell was she doing in his body now? Had she already made him insane? Broken something?

– Miss Rivers! – He jolted, dropping his pen. Miss Livingston was standing over him, holding a box of ribbons. – Since you’re so eager to dream, decorate your hairstyle properly. A white bow is for morning lessons. After noon, pastel shades are required.

She threw a blue ribbon onto the desk. Graham stared at it, slowly realizing. Braid it? Him?

– I… – he touched the long locks of hair on his head, feeling his fingers run through the soft strands. – I can’t.

– "I can’t" is a word for servants, – Miss Livingston leaned in, and he saw icy satisfaction in her eyes. – Until you do, the whole class will wait.

The girls fidgeted, whispering. Lilian hesitantly reached out her hand:

– Miss, maybe I…

– Silence! – the teacher slapped the desk with her palm. – Miss Rivers, start.

Graham grabbed the ribbon. Fingers, so nimble with wrenches, now tangled in the strands. He tugged at the headband, and the hair fell out to the side like waves. Someone gasped.

– Ridiculous, – Miss Livingston whispered. – Five o’clock sharp. My office. And fix your blouse—it’s disgraceful for your family.

He nodded, clenching the silk ribbon in his fist. The lavender scent of the hair tickled his nostrils, mixing with the smell of his own fear. Somewhere there, in his old body, Eliza was probably already causing a ruckus and, perhaps, had already done something wrong.

And here he was. In a cage of lace and expectations to be a "model housewife," instead of searching for her and trying to figure out how to get his life back, because this, clearly, was not what he had dreamed of when he made his wish.