When he looked up and caught me watching, he faltered and a blush crept up his cheeks. He closed the book. “Uh, sorry.”
The kids groaned in unison, and Wilder looked startled.
“Mr. Wilder can finish the story after the excursion,” I said, “if everyone is very well behaved.”
The class cheered, and Wilder gave me a terrified look.
“Okay,” I said. “Who’s ready to visit the Adventurama? Everybody find a buddy and line up in pairs. We’re going to hold hands all the way to the Adventurama!”
The kids leapt up from the floor, all diving to secure their buddies for the day. It was like a melee, and I stood well back.
“What do I have to do?” Wilder asked me with an anxious look.
“Just keep count of them,” I said. “We have sixteen kids, so that’s eight pairs. Don’t think the buddy system is infallible, though. It works great if one kid goes missing and their buddy raises the alarm, but it’s the criminal masterminds who run off together that you have to watch out for. Did you ever see that movie about those divers who were lost at sea because their tour boat just left them there?”
“It’s two blocks over,” he said. “Not the open ocean.”
“No, I’m just saying,” I pointed out. “The buddy system’s not perfect.”
He gave me a dubious look. “Okay.”
I was sure he thought I was overreacting, but this was my first time leading a field trip, and I was conscious of the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. If anything went wrong, it would be my fault. And while I loved my kids, I was very aware that they were five, and one of the many things that five-year-olds had no handle on was impulse control. They were also pretty bad at crossing roads safely, couldn’t be trusted not to fall over and hurt themselves, and if they found something on the ground, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t immediately shove it in their mouths. Or up their noses. Because five-year-olds were smart as hell, but they were also as silly as geese, and often at exactly the same time.
“Just make sure we don’t lose anyone,” I said. “This is my first field trip.”
I hadn’t meant for that to come out sounding defensive, but Wilder’s eyes lit up with understanding and he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I get it. I won’t let any of them out of my sight.”
“Good,” I said, trying to ignore the way my stress levels were building. I could do this. Just… could I do this with a very hot, very distracting guy beside me all day? There was only one way tofind out. I smiled and clapped my hands to get the kids’ attention. “Okay! Let’s go to the Adventurama!”
The kids cheered so loudly that the teachers on either side of me would be glad when we finally got the hell out and left them in peace.
CHAPTER 7
WILDER
My plans for today had not included a visit to Bobby Merritt’s Animal Adventurama, but it wasn’t as though I had any better offers. Besides, Gracie had been looking forward to it for a while. It was kind of a rite of passage for kindergarten kids in Goose Run. I couldn’t exactly remember going when I was Gracie’s age, but I must have, because everyone had. When you were in kindergarten, you went to the Adventurama, just like when you were a little older they took you to the soybean farm, and when you were a little older than that, you finally got to go on the best tour of all, where they piled you on a bus in middle school and took you to Colonial Williamsburg.
The Adventurama was only two blocks from the school. We didn’t even have to go all the way to Main Street. All the kids were holding hands with their buddies as we set out. Gracie was holding hands with a little boy called Malcolm, chattering away in his ear while he tried to get a word in edgeways. I knew the feeling.
Avery had trained the kids well because they stopped when he did at the first road we got to, and then he looked back to make sure I hadn’t lost any of the stragglers before we all crossed the road. And maybe that was when Avery realized he hadn’t neededto plan the walk with military precision—we could almost see the Adventurama from here—so he dropped back and walked alongside me, keeping his eye on the lead pair of kids up front.
“Thank you for doing this,” he said.
“No problem.” We were passing the church now, and I felt the same punch-in-the-gut sensation I always did when I saw it. You’d think that after six years it would have softened somewhat, and sometimes I thought I’d gotten over the hurt of it all, but it turned out it was just regrouping. I’d spent half my life inside that old wooden church. Could probably still find my way around with my eyes closed. I forced myself not to look, fixing my gaze on the kids instead.
“Is that…” Avery trailed off and said, “Oh.”
The sign out front said Goose Run First Baptist Church.
And underneath: Pastor John Wilder.
Probably some bullshit on the board about how Jesus loved everyone too. Well, maybe it wasn’t bullshit. Maybe Jesus did love everyone, but my dad apparently knew better.
“Yep,” I said, figuring he’d joined the dots. “I’m a good Baptist boy, can’t you tell?”
Avery didn’t laugh like I’d hoped he would. His smile was uncertain and a little sad.
