Tyler’s Teacher

Chapter 1 It’s 2:15 on Monday afternoon, and I’m slowly walking up the sidewalk to Lakeview Elementary, hands shoved into the front pockets of my jeans. My first time here was this morning, when I dropped my seven-year-old son Tyler off for school, and in the bustle of parents and kids and teachers, I didn’t really get a good look around. Now I check out the playground—lots of swings, good, he likes those—and notice the two baseball fields that hem in the blacktop area. Not too bad. At seven, Tyler’s favorite subject is still recess, so I want him to be happy playing out here during the day. If I were his age, I’d have a ball. Cars line the sidewalk, the women waiting behind the wheels watching me with guarded expressions. I know what they’re thinking—I’m a writer, I can read people as well as any book. They’re describing me to police in their minds. Caucasian male in his early thirties, dark hair a little too long, wearing jeans and a denim jacket. Shifty eyes. Kept looking around like he was casing the joint. What’s a guy like that doing hanging around an elementary school anyway? How about picking up my son? But I know the routine—I’ve seen the distrust before, when I first started taking Tyler to school. Being self-employed, I have the luxury of dropping him off in the mornings and picking him up in the afternoons. Things had just settled into a routine at his old school—hell, the head of the PTA even asked me out to dinner one evening, though I had to politely decline. She wasn’t my type. Married, for one. Female, for another. The mothers at the school Tyler last attended had just begun to accept me as one of their own. We’d joke over cups of coffee in the morning, or chat about what was on sale at the local grocery store while we waited on the sidewalk in the afternoon. Then I decided it was time to move out, move on, into a place Tyler and I could call our own. When our apartment’s lease came up, I didn’t renew it, and my sister helped me find a small starter home in a neighborhood close to hers. It’s just over the county line, putting Tyler in a different school district. I could’ve kept him in his old school for the rest of the year, then moved him when he started the second grade, but I didn’t see the need in driving through traffic twice a day just to keep him at the old school. He’s only seven. He’ll make new friends easily enough. This school is larger than his old one, though. I don’t see any of the same faces I saw this morning when I dropped him off. Still, it isn’t hard to figure out which door the kids exit at the end of the day—rows of women line a set of double doors just off the playground, and they shift nervously when I approach. I try my most disarming smile on the mother closest to me. “We’re all lined up out here waiting for school to end,” I say, trying to spark up a conversation, “and I bet our kids are in there waiting just as eagerly.” For a moment, she stiffens. Then she says, “I’ve never seen you here before. Who’s your wife?” Ignoring the question, I explain, “My son just started class today. We moved in from Hanover. He was at Northside before.” “I hear they’re good,” she admits as she turns slightly towards me. Warming up, just a little, to the new guy. Geez, I hope Tyler had it easier with the kids. “They’re small,” I tell her. “This school’s much bigger. I hope my boy doesn’t get lost in the system.” Now she laughs, and her whole body relaxes. “No, this is a great school. He’ll be fine, I’m sure. What grade did you say he was in again?” I didn’t, but I don’t point that out. “First. I think he’s in Boucher’s home room, or something like that? The name started with a B.” “Boucher,” she confirms. “He’s wonderful. My Melanie simply adores him. I swear, some days, it’s all she talks about. Mr. Boucher this and Mr. Boucher that.” I almost say, it’s a guy? before I bite back the words. I’d sound as suspicious as these women were of me. My own elementary school experience was years ago, granted, but I don’t recall having any male teachers until middle school. Junior high? What do they call it nowadays? Before I can ask, a bell rings inside the school. It may have been years since my elementary school days, but Lord if that bell doesn’t sound exactly the same. It sends a chill down my spine. Beside me, the woman murmurs, “Here they come. Stand your ground or you’ll get swept up in the tide.” The doors open and out rush a gaggle of kindergarteners. Though they’re only a year or two younger than Tyler, they look so small. Kids grow so damn quickly, and watching these little ones batter each other with backpacks and book bags as they race towards their parents brings a lump to my throat. Lisa should be here with me, instead of me. She’d fit right in with these mothers who bend to scoop up their babies and whisk them away. She’d have introduced herself to half the women here before the bell even rang, and all I managed was one contact. Not really even that—did I ever introduce myself? I don’t think so, and I didn’t catch the woman’s name. Thinking of Lisa dims the day, but before I can wallow in her memory or hurt myself by trying to imagine what she’d think or do or say right this moment, the bell rings a second time and the doors burst open with first graders. A little bigger, these kids barrel through each other, as noisy as a murder of crows, calling to friends and mothers—one crazy bunch of kids screaming at the joy of being free. I don’t see Tyler immediately—I’m expecting to see him at the end of the group, lagging behind, alone, the new kid in school all by himself. So I’m surprised when I spot him deep in conversation with a girl his own age. She has her tiny hand on his arm in a possessive way that makes me want to burst into laughter. I frown to keep from grinning, and just in time. Spotting me, Tyler manages to extract himself from the girl’s grip and runs to wrap his arms around my legs. “Daddy!” he cries. The woman beside me smiles down at him. “He’s the spitting image of you,” she says. “How old is he?” “Seven.” I don’t add that he looks more like Lisa than me, and before I can dwell on the thought, I turn my attention where it belongs—on my son. Ruffling his hair, I ask, “How was your first day, sport?” “Boring,” he says with the sort of exasperated sigh only a little child can pull off effectively. Shrugging off his backpack, he starts to unzip it and pull out some papers inside. “There’s all this stuff you have to fill out before tomorrow. Mr. Boucher said make sure you got it—” “Let’s keep them in here so we don’t lose any.” I tuck the papers back into the backpack so they won’t get lost, then swing the pack over my own shoulder to carry it. “Mr. Boucher, eh? What’s he like?” Tyler shrugs and slips a small hand into mine. “He’s okay. He said we can call him Boucher the Bear but only on Mondays. When I said it, he growled at me! He’s funny!” “Sometimes I feel like a bear on Mondays, too,” I admit, weaving through the crowd. Another bell has rung, releasing more students, and the sidewalk is getting busy, so I lead Tyler onto the grass and away from the bustle and rush. Tyler tugs on my hand with a laugh. “You don’t growl, Daddy! Mr. Boucher growls.” I could growl if I wanted to, and just to prove it, I swoop down over Tyler and wrap him in a tight embrace as I let out a ferocious roar. He giggles and hugs me so tight, I have to pick him up when I stand. “How’s that?” I ask. “Not bad,” he admits. “Mr. Boucher’s a little louder but he’s bigger than you.” Suddenly this feels like it’s becoming some sort of contest for my son’s approval, which isn’t what I want at all. If he likes the teacher, that’s great. I don’t want to outshine the man. Propping Tyler onto my hip, I change courses. “Did you make any new friends?” “It’s my first day,” Tyler reminds me. “What about the kid you came out with?” I ask. “She looks nice.” “She’s a girl,” Tyler says, as if I hadn’t noticed. “She says she wants to be my girlfriend and when I told her no, she hit me.” I feign shock. “No! Where?” Tyler points to a spot on his shoulder and pouts. “The brute!” I kiss the spot through his shirt, then blow a raspberry against the fabric, making him giggle again. “What’s her name?” In my arms, Tyler wriggles to get down, so I set him on his feet. “Aida. All the kids call her Aida Potato. When I asked her why, she hit me again.” “Sounds like a winner,” I mutter. “Didn’t you meet anyone else?” From behind us, I hear someone call my son’s name. It’s a deep voice, a man’s voice, and I joke, “Are you in trouble already?” “Daddy! No!” Tyler cries. His little face flushes with embarrassment. “It’s my teacher.” “Ah, the infamous Mr. Boucher.” I turn, expecting… Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what I’m expecting. A tall, thin, towering man twice my age, perhaps. My idea of male teachers in elementary school is hampered by my own experiences with Mr. Avery in the sixth grade, a stern, overbearing man who never used anyone’s first name when he spoke to them, which always made me feel like I was being called out for something I didn’t do. From the way my son talks about this Mr. Boucher, though, I know it’s crazy to think he’ll be anything like that. So my mind swings to the other extreme—a big, burly, Santa Claus-type fellow with ruddy cheeks and a goofy grin, who spends his day joking around with first graders and was probably himself somewhat of a cut-up in school. Neither notion turns out to be right. The man jogging towards where Tyler and I wait is a few years younger than me. When did I get older than teachers? I wonder, but immediately on the heels of that thought comes the sobering reality—when I had a kid of my own. Some days I still feel like I’m a teenager; it’s easy to do when I’m at home alone during the day, sitting in front of the computer and working on my latest short story. I’m too young to have been married, to be widowed, to raise a son on my own. I’m still too young… Then Tyler comes home and reminds me that, as much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, I’m not. Mr. Boucher slows as he approaches us. He’s my height, a little heavyset, but young and vibrant, happy…alive, to be honest, in a way I haven’t seen in anyone in a long time. Not since Lisa. His dark blond hair is neat and trim, which makes me run a hand through my own mess of brown waves in an effort to tame them. When did I shower last? What with moving and working on my new story to meet my own self-imposed deadline, unpacking, getting Tyler settled in, getting him to school, I haven’t really paid much attention to myself. I haven’t wanted to, really. And suddenly here I am worried about what this guy’s thinking about me. “Tyler,” Mr. Boucher says with a smile. He holds up an Avengers lunchbox that looks familiar. “Is this yours?” I’m staring, I know it. Boucher has fair skin, flawless this close, and a thin mouth that crinkles in the corners when he smiles. There’s a faint indentation in one earlobe, a spot for an earring he doesn’t wear to work, I suspect. His hair is cut close to his head, a sandy color that fades to a darker shade at his temples. And he has soft brown eyes, impossibly soft, and kind. This guy’s a teacher? If I had someone like him teaching me, I would’ve loved going to school. I don’t want to butt in, but there’s no way I’m leaving here without him saying something to me, too. I ask my son, “Tyler, why don’t you introduce us?” “I told you, that’s my teacher.” Taking the offered lunchbox, Tyler says to Mr. Boucher, “This is my dad.” Great, I think. Way to make me look like a chump. We’re going to have to have a serious talk about how to be a good wingman when he gets a little older. Despite Tyler’s tactless intro, Mr. Boucher holds a hand out for me to shake. He has a strong, sure grip, and when he turns those eyes my way, I can’t help but grin. “Greg Boucher. Nice to meet you.” “Jason Peters.” I hold his hand a second longer than I should, I know, but he doesn’t try to pull away and it’s hard to let go myself. Before the moment can draw out awkwardly between us, I let go and tuck both hands into my pockets again. “Since he got out of class, you’re all he’s been talking about.” Beside me, Tyler groans. “Dad.” Mr. Boucher laughs. “I think he’s really going to like my class. I haven’t had one complaint yet. He said you were a writer?” Now it’s my turn to flush. Even if Tyler doesn’t realize it, he got me back for anything I might’ve said that embarrassed him. “I’m working on something,” I mumble, hoping Greg doesn’t ask for details. He must see I don’t want to divulge more because he claps his hands and turns to Tyler. “Did you bring home all those papers for your dad to sign?” “I’ve got them right here.” I heft Tyler’s book bag higher onto my shoulder so Greg sees it and joke, “It’s his first day of school and I’m the one who gets all the homework.” “They’re just the standard forms,” Greg says with a smile. “I’m sure you’ve been through them all before. School handbook, upcoming dates you need to know about, things like that. We have a plantation field trip at the end of the month and our annual Career Day in April. It’s all there. Oh! And there’s a parent/teacher conference on Thursday, if you and your wife are interested.” Again, I ignore the subtle reference to Lisa. “Thursday? What time?” “Seven to nine,” Greg explains. “It’s the third one this year, so I’m not really expecting any parents to show up—I’ve talked to all of them by now, and none of my kids are doing bad enough to warrant another visit. But if you’d like to stop by, say hi, see your son’s classroom, and go over the curriculum with me? That would be great.” Thursday. It’s fairly short notice, but if I say it’s something I have to go to, I’m pretty sure I can convince my sister Dawn to babysit Tyler for the night. She has two kids herself, twin daughters three years older than my son who dote on their only cousin, so if I want to be really manipulative, I can ask in front of them and Dawn won’t be able to say no. It’s only for two hours, right? Two hours alone with Greg Boucher. Something in the pit of my stomach flutters nervously at the thought. “Sounds good. I’ll be there,” I promise.