How to Be an Easy Target by Ella Jane Schwartz

Photo by Bewakoof.com Official on Unsplash

Six simple tips on how to become an easy target: Be young, be trusting, have imposter syndrome, step into a new job, and seek guidance from a mentor you believe has your best interests at heart. Rely on them. Fall in love with them.

I looked like a child the day I met him. My first day of work, I was assigned to be his co-teacher because he had so many years of experience—he had been teaching there since before I was born. He and his wife were tenured long ago, close friends with the staff, and they served in administrative positions. My principal told me she thought he would be a good mentor. On my first day, I wore a white dress with embroidered flowers—childish. I told him I had graduated from college two months ago and I felt like I had no idea what I was doing. I even told him how nervous and scared I was.

He was tall with muscular arms and an average-looking body. His face had a hardness that made him look smart. His beard helped, too. I have always loved a man with a beard, perhaps because my dad has always had one.

Speaking of dads, this man was old enough to be my father. He was also a father himself to a teenage boy. He was forty-seven when I met him; I was twenty-two. When you're the youngest person at your job, you try to act older and to pretend you belong.

I had decided my long-distance boyfriend didn't love me enough; therefore, it was okay to look elsewhere for that love. He had a wife who worked in the school with us, one he decided long ago was okay to cheat on. They were both English teachers.

I was grateful to have him by my side during my first month of teaching. When I had my initial observation, he spent his free time coaching me. He was constantly telling me I needed to have a better poker face; the students could read me too easily.

I got the results from my observation back that weekend. They popped up in my inbox early Saturday morning. Teachers were rated on a scale of 1-4 in several categories, and without hesitation, I texted my scores to him. He responded immediately.

"I knew you would kill it!"

"Thanks for helping me prep!"

"Anytime!"

"Except I got a 1 out of 4 in the first category…"

"Maybe they took off points for having such a bad poker face."

"Should I be better at that?"

"You're kinda perfect in all other areas."

"So leave your poker face as is."

I'd never had co-workers. Perhaps it was normal for him to call me perfect, but deep down, I felt giddy. Excited and terrified.

We gradually spent more time texting outside of work. Texts turned into phone calls, which turned into FaceTime calls. First, it was just about work. Then, it was about weekend plans and movies. Then, one night in October, around three a.m., we admitted our mutual crush on each other.

"I've wanted you since the day you walked into my classroom," his deep voice whispered through my phone.

"That can't be true," I whispered back. He was being quiet so his wife wouldn't hear. I was being quiet, so I wouldn't have to face the reality of what we were doing.

My gut twisted. "You know we can't do this... You're married."

He answered in his voice soft. "We haven't slept together in ten years. She barely touches me, barely looks at me. I don't like spending any time with her. It's not really a marriage."

I listened, not sure how to respond.

He continued, "Schwartz, we're friends and clearly attracted to each other. This can just be fun. Okay? You deserve to have fun. We deserve to be happy, don't ruin that."

I fell asleep feeling seen and wanted. Even though I felt some regret the next morning, I was driven by the warmth I felt that night. I ran and tripped many times, chasing the glow he lit up inside of me, the effortless love he offered.

The first couple of times he asked me out for drinks, I said no. He'd drop it, only to bring it up again when I'd almost forgotten.

"Schwartz, we're friends! Friends get drinks. It's not that crazy," he told me.

True, I thought. Friends do get drinks. But I looked up at him, eyes wide, reminding him we were more than innocent friends. "What will you tell your wife?"

"I'll say I'm going out to meet up with a friend. I don't even need to lie to her—that's all true!"

I sighed, and he continued, "I just want to get to know you better. I love talking to you, Schwartz. You're the best thing in my life..."

I finally said yes.

It was a Saturday night in December. With every street closer to the bar, my stomach sank a little deeper. I had never seen him outside the walls of our classroom. My body was tight and tense, begging me to listen and turn back. I didn't.

He hugged me hello, and my arms were so frozen, I couldn't even return the greeting. He joked that I was making him feel bad by not acting more friendly. I didn't speak for the first twenty minutes; I just sat beside this man who suddenly felt like a stranger. He ordered me a cocktail, a beer, and a tequila shot. With the drinks in my system, I could finally turn towards him and smile. Slowly, I allowed myself to ignore everything else and submerge into the scent wafting from his neck. He smelled so good. We started sharing stories and laughing. Eventually, his arm was around my lower back, and I was eating every word he said out of his palm.

"Am I allowed to say how fucking amazing you look?"

I put my drink to my lips and nodded yes. He smiled, and I smiled back. We sat there, suspended in the delusional world we were building together. I reached out and grazed his beard with my fingers.

"You've got some red hairs in your beard," I said, looking closely.

"This is why you're the sweetest. Only you notice the little things about me."

"Only me?" I asked, sad for the sweet man sitting beside me. He looked so lost.

"I told you; my wife doesn't sit near me or do anything with me. She's always in an awful mood."

I didn't know much about marriage. But I knew plenty about not feeling loved and even more about the silent plea of not feeling loved as a woman. "It's hard to be vulnerable and open yourself up," I said.

"I have no problem being vulnerable," he barked back.

"I'm not talking about you," I said, watching him lean away from me. "She probably wants you to take the first step. Do something small. Tell her she's beautiful."

He shut me down quickly, shifting in his seat. "Enough about my shitty marriage. I just want to be here with you, sweetie."

It was the first time he had called me anything other than my last name. My mom was the only other person who ever called me sweetie, and hearing it come out of his mouth made me feel safe.

I spent a long time feeling safe before I felt angry.

Over the next few months, we developed a familiar routine. I would draw lines, and he would cross them. We started talking later and later into the night, FaceTiming more while wearing less. His eyes looked hungrier at work. His ideas got riskier. He wanted me to get close to his wife so he could have me over at his house without raising suspicion. He wanted to bring me on the family cruise they take every summer. When I brought up that our cheating was wrong, he'd get angry at me, telling me we needed this.

I started having panic attacks at work at least three times a week, and he'd step in, telling me to rest and that he would take care of teaching.

It became a cycle I depended on.

He'd remind me he was the only one who cared about me. And I'd thank him for it.

One morning, he told me he'd made excuses to his wife so we could be alone after school. But during the last period, she came to our classroom to help organize books. The thought of being near her made me dizzy. My fingers dug into my palms as I tried to focus on teaching.

She came in halfway through eighth period. Act normal, I told myself. Don't ruin your plans. Focus on teaching. Stop shaking. Don't look guilty. Wait, why is he smiling at her? Stop. Don't be jealous. He should smile at her; that's his wife. HIS wife, fuck. It's all your fault. Maybe you should cancel the plans. No, it's not your marriage to fix. Wait, what did that student just ask me? Fuck. Pay attention to your job. Oh no, do I look worried? Can she tell? Will he be mad? Don't make him mad. Don't cry. Don't cry. Stop! Focus. Breathe.

Then the bell rang, and it was over. His wife was gone, and so were the students. The building felt empty, and I finally exhaled.

He ran over, picked me up, and placed me on my desk. I arched my back and moaned, feeling desperate for his touch to calm me. He kissed my neck slowly, and I could feel my body melting into his hands, his control. I begged him to keep going, breathing deeper and deeper, but then I couldn't catch my breath at all. My body showed all the signs of being turned on, but my mind felt panicked and trapped. I didn't know which part of me to listen to when the room started to go black, and I shot up from the desk, standing up and trying to balance myself.

He put his hand on my lower back, guiding me to take a seat. "Are you okay?"

I nodded yes, but couldn't speak yet. I needed all my air for breathing.

After a few minutes of silence, he asked again, "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not fucking okay!" I yelled, standing up, only to lose my balance again.

This time, he stepped back instead of catching me. "Woah. Calm down. What the hell happened?"

"I can't do this. I can't just be in here with you and your wife–I mean, you have a wife! I'm terrified of her. No, let me be clear–I'm always terrified. I can't focus on my job anymore or get through one day here without having a panic attack. And you don't… I mean, do you even feel bad?"

"Feel bad for who?" He responded, standing tall.

"Feel bad for literally anyone!" I shouted back, bursting into tears as I did.

He stepped forward, reaching his arms out to grab me. I stepped back.

"Sweetie, please. Let me at least hug you," he pleaded.

"No! No, no," I blurted out in between sobs.

He hovered over me, begging to hug me.

Each breath I took required more work. I needed to get out of that building. I needed to get away from him. I headed towards the door.

"Wait, so that's it? You're just leaving?" he asked me, his voice raised angrily.

I stumbled between breaths. "I want to leave."

"You're kidding me, right?" He said, stepping directly in front of me.

I looked up at him and felt my face get hot and moist.

He yelled, "Do you know what I went through to get this time alone with you? I spent all week being extra nice to my wife, so she would trust me. And now you're just leaving? After everything I did for us?"

"Am I supposed to thank you for being a fucking asshole of a husband!?" I snapped at him, shoving his shoulder with my own, and walking out of the classroom.

I couldn't turn back around to look at him. I knew I didn't have enough strength for that. All I could do was take one step forward, then another. I walked out of the building and stepped into the fresh air, only to remember that I didn't know how to do this job without him. I didn't even have my own set of bathroom keys; I had to borrow his when I needed to go.

He wouldn't talk to me the next day at school. He wouldn't answer me when I asked him what lesson we were teaching or any other information I needed to do my job. He wouldn't talk to me until I left to cry in the bathroom, then he texted me that I was making him feel like shit.

I didn't know where else to hide, so I stayed in the stall while my phone blew up with his texts: "Where'd you go? You just walk out of the room now without saying bye? Like I don't even exist. It's like I'm not even a person. I slept for three hours last night. Can't eat. Want to quit. I hate myself."

I felt terrible for him. For the pain I was causing him. He knew I'd feel bad. That was the problem; he knew me better than I knew myself then.

I returned to our classroom and told him I was sorry and wouldn't try to end things between us again.

He kissed my forehead and said gently, "I need to be more considerate to you. To you as someone nervous and scared at their job. To you as a beautiful person with a young heart. To you as someone who is confused and in love and hurt, all at the same time."

So he knew I was scared.

That was his goal, of course. To keep me afraid. I don't think I ever became less fearful. I just started to fall apart, and people noticed—people I worked with, my sister, my best friend, my parents. They stepped up and encouraged me to tell my boss what was happening.

I sat across from my principal and her three vice principals, feeling like a student who had gotten in trouble. I kept my head down, staring at my shaking legs. Tears rushed down my face as I mumbled the minimum information to get my classroom assignment switched. "We're having an affair. I can't work with him anymore. I'm–" I took a deep breath. "I'm really scared."

The principal responded, unfazed. "Listen, you're not the first person to have an affair. Definitely not the first in this building anyway. We'll set you up with a new schedule, and everything will be fine, Ella."

"I know you're close friends with–"

She cut me off. "We aren't 'close friends.' I've just known him and his wife for a while."

They were close friends. I continued, "Please don't tell him I spoke to you. He'll be so mad." My body started trembling.

One of the assistant principals shot her a look of concern. She nodded. "Ella, we need to ask, did he ever physically assault you?"

"No, he never hit me. He never raped me."

"Okay, good! We just have to ask."

In that moment, and just for a moment, I wish he had. I wish he had punched my face so fucking hard I had a black eye and bruises on my body. I wish there was some type of physical manifestation of my suffering.

And suddenly, I felt like a liar. Terrified of this man I was risking my job to get away from. And why? Apparently, for no reason.

I switched classroom assignments and was no longer his co-teacher, but things got worse. The entire staff knew about our affair. Teachers I'd never spoken to whispered about me. People stopped answering my emails. His wife began tormenting me, cornering me, and calling me "whore" and "trash bag."

His behaviors didn't change. He never apologized for what I was going through at work. He said that if I wasn't able to handle it, I should have made different choices. He told me he didn't trust me anymore but would give me a second chance if I promised not to speak up again. He continued to tell me he didn't love his wife and had the same giddy smile on his face when he bragged that she believed another one of his countless lies.

There was no exact turning point that made me quit. I just stopped getting out of bed one day.

My family and friends urged me to go to therapy while gently dropping words like "grooming" and "harassment." I still haven't returned to work. But I'm learning how to return to life.

I wrote this not as a cautionary tale for women, but as a mirror to hold up to men—the kind who wield power as a weapon instead of a responsibility. This isn't just my story; it's a diagnostic tool for uncovering predators who thrive in the cracks of silence. If it helps even one woman name what was done to her—or one man confront what he's done—then it was worth telling.

A limping deer in the woods is vulnerable, but it only becomes a target when someone aims a gun at it.

Ella Jane Schwartz is an emerging writer and unapologetic victim. She graduated from Cornell University in 2023 with a degree in Communications and English. This is her first publication.