Page 13 of John Wilder Gets Schooled
Yes, the coffee at Goose Run Gas was that bad.
I started the coffee machine and made some toast with peanut butter, eating it while I stood at the counter. I looked out the kitchen window at the house next door as I ate. I hadn’t paid too much attention to it when I was buying my place. Maybe I should have. There were two trucks and a dirt bike crammed into the driveway, which tracked for a town like Goose Run. I didn’t like the assumptions I made about the state of those vehicles or the family that owned them, but the sagging old couch on the front porch didn’t inspire any confidence that I was wrong. But there weren’t any politically hostile flags flying, so maybe it would be fine. And how much interaction was I likely to have with my neighbors anyway?
I poured my coffee into a travel mug—the only one I could find—and sipped silently, waiting for the caffeine to work its magic. With my body sufficiently fueled, I could start to tackle today’s jobs. Which meant going to buy some groceries so that I had more options than peanut butter and toast.
There was no grocery store in Goose Run. As far as I could tell, the gas station was the only place to buy basics like bread and milk if you ran out. To do a proper grocery run, I’d have to drive to South Hill, which had both a Food Lion and a Walmart. Unless I wanted to stop at both, today would probably be a Walmart trip. I wanted to get some more craft supplies for school. My kids had already used up most of my popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners when we’d made masks. And was there such a thing as too much construction paper?
I had a quick shower and got dressed, then headed for South Hill.
I was more excited to get craft supplies than I was to get groceries. My first two weeks teaching had been exhausting but also exhilarating. There was nothing better in the world than seeing kids who were excited to see me, and it was an absolute privilege to be able to teach them. Even in two weeks, I’d seen them coming along by leaps and bounds as their confidence grew and they got to know me better. There were a few shy kids who tried not to be noticed, but that was okay. I wasn’t going to be the asshole teacher who forced them to the front of the class or anything. I just made sure I took time to sit beside each one of them when everyone was coloring and asked about what they were doing, slowly bringing them out of their shell.
Of course there were total extroverts too. Tyrell, who was going to be an astronaut and a movie star, loved the chance to stand up in front of everyone and read. Hecouldn’t, not really, but he made up stories that more or less matched the illustrations in the picture books, and he was both clever and hilarious. Mia started every day by telling the class what her puppy had done overnight—including eating Mommy’s underwear and thenpooping it out again on the floor. Her mom might be horrified to learn that Mia was an oversharer, but the kids thought it was fantastic. And Gracie was a little warrior. She was fiercely protective of the shy kids, leaving a couple of them quietly bewildered but grateful when she insisted that she sit next to them for story time. Gracie was one of nature’s organizers—something she obviously got from her mother because her father couldn’t organize his way out of a paper bag. He could shimmy out of a pair of assless chaps just fine, though—and why was I even thinking about that?
Time to pay attention to the road, Avery.
It would be embarrassing to get in a crash because I couldn’t get John Wilder’s ass out of my mind.
The drive to South Hill wasn’t a long one, and I was able to park pretty close to the entrance to Walmart. I went inside and grabbed a cart and headed for the craft supplies section. Buying craft stuff was my happy place, and it would give me the energy for the less fun task of picking up the things I needed for the house, like a bath mat and a shower curtain and getting groceries.
I meandered up and down the craft aisle, adding construction paper and a giant pack of googly eyes to my cart. The googly eyes weren’t for school. They were for my brother, Camden, whose favorite practical joke was putting googly eyes on everything. It had honestly stopped being funny at least fifteen years ago and was now more of a weird family tradition. You knew where Camden had been by following the number of household items that were now staring at you. Camden was supposed to be coming up next week with my parents. I’d give them to him when he left so he couldn’t use them in my place.
I was standing in front of the crayons when I saw a familiar figure stepping into the aisle. It was John Wilder, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and he hadn’t shaved. His stubble was a shade darker than his hair, and it suited him. He was holding Gracie by the hand.
His eyes widened as our gazes met, and then he dipped hischin in a nod. I did the same, then looked at the crayons again, and we both made the very conscious decision to pretend the other one didn’t exist. It would have worked perfectly, except?—
“Mr. Smith!” Gracie yelled. “Daddy! It’s Mr. Smith from school!”
Her sandals slapped on the linoleum as she ran toward me and stopped in front of me, eyes wide. She reached out and tugged the hem of my T-shirt. “Mr. Smith!” she said again, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
“Hi, Gracie,” I said. “Are you doing some shopping?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, eyes bright. “Daddy’s buying me crayons. Are you getting crayons too?”
“I am,” I said, “and some other stuff as well.”
She cocked an eyebrow in a way that made her look like her father. “Can I see?” She stood on her tiptoes, trying to peek into my cart.
“Leave Mr. Smith in peace, sweet pea,” John Wilder said, hurrying over.
It was impossible to look him in the eye and not remember the way that G-string had bisected the cheeks of his ass and the way the ass in question had shone with body oil and glitter. But I gave a valiant try, goddammit.
“Oh, uh, it’s no bother.” I looked at Gracie instead. “I’m just getting some stuff for class.”
She gasped. “Wiggly eyes!”
I laughed despite myself. “Those are for my brother, actually. He likes to stick them on things.”
“Things like what?”
“Uh, like the bottle of dish soap. Fruit. The refrigerator door.” My sister’s rabbit—and not the animal kind—that she’d accidentally left in the bathroom once, but that was probably best left unsaid. “Anything, really. He thinks it’s funny.”
“Itisfunny,” Gracie said with an approving nod. “Daddy, can we get some wiggly eyes? We could put them on things to make Uncle Danny laugh.”
“Uncle Danny laughs plenty,” he said and then relented. “Okay, yeah, let’s get some.”
“They’re in the next aisle,” I said helpfully, hoping to give them an excuse to leave.
John Wilder looked ready to grab it the way a drowning man would grab a rope, but Gracie yelled, “I’ll get them! Wait here, Daddy!”
