Chapter 4
Wren had been dying to get going on their lists first thing the next morning, but Arthur reminded her that he had one final obligation to take care of.
Though he’d miss the first few weeks of the school year on paternity leave, he still wanted to be at the meet and greet slash pizza party slash info session for incoming sixth graders.
In fact, he had to be there. It was his last chance to grab face time with the principal and earn a little goodwill.
If he wanted to get his master’s (which he did, eventually) and move up the ranks (which he prayed at some point would lead to a salary that he couldn’t easily beat by working at Costco), the schmoozing was important. As much as he hated it.
Wren understood, but that’s not to say that she took the news easily. No, she clung to his arm like an old barnacle on his way out the door earlier that day, insisting over and over that they just find a “quick, easy one” to check off.
“I’m almost certain I wrote down ‘have a threesome.’ We can get that done in five minutes!”
“With who? No one in this building, I hope.”
“There’s a hot guy on the third floor that drives for UPS. Well, he would be hot if he had all his teeth. But if he wears the uniform I think I can make it work.”
“OK, goodbye,” he had said, shutting the door slowly so as not to slam her pouting nose in it. “I love you!” he shouted through the door once it latched.
From there it was a fifteen-minute drive to the school, right on the outskirts of the city.
It looked like a prison, all stained concrete and windows reinforced with iron bars.
The school drew an interesting and explosive mix of city and suburban kids.
It was simultaneously known as the best school in the city and the worst school in the county.
When kids were accepted, they either got a “Congratulations!” or an “I’m sorry,” depending on which neighborhood they lived in.
It was where Arthur had started his teaching career, many years after being a student there himself.
Initially, he was excited to carry on the school’s proud tradition and help a new generation of students fall in love with his alma mater, the way he had.
Now it felt more like the place was being held together by duct tape.
It was far less Dead Poets Society than he’d imagined it.
His first few years he had been exhaustingly energetic, always pushing the curriculum to its very limits, trying to really make the lessons come alive.
At one point he’d even experimented with making a TikTok account of his own where he gave out lessons and homework reminders via choppy, torso-only dances.
But eventually he realized the kids were laughing at him, not with him, and he quickly shut it down.
Lately, even he had to admit, his heart hadn’t been in it in quite the same way.
He pulled into the parking lot, the sedan chugging and lurching along.
Arthur prayed the car would make it a little longer or, ideally, a lot longer.
It had been his in college, survived more than a handful of dry years with far too few oil changes, and was now completely paid off.
It would be just his luck that it would die now.
The teachers’ lot, for inexplicable reasons, was farthest from the main entrance.
He drove slowly past the visitors’ lot, where lines of parents exited much nicer vehicles than his and crossed the pavement toward the main entrance.
They wore slacks and ties, dresses, and polo shirts.
Some pushed strollers or pulled along toddlers who were too young to be left at home with a babysitter.
Then he drove a little farther, past the spaces reserved for administrators, the principal, senior faculty, teachers with seniority.
Basically anyone who was more important than him, which included nearly everyone.
Soon he reached his own designated parking space, deep in the bowels of the overflow lot.
A sappy tree branch hung so low over the space it nearly scraped the hood as he pulled in.
The pavement at his feet as he stepped out was covered in bird shit, and mosquitos from the nearby woods swarmed him immediately, as if they’d been eagerly awaiting his arrival.
Arthur smacked one against his neck but missed, merely smacking himself.
The sun was going down now, this area of the lot poorly lit and ripe for a good mugging.
Not the warmest welcome, certainly not a corner office in a city high-rise somewhere, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to.
If he just stayed the course, he’d have a nice parking spot one day, one that wasn’t knee-deep in the brush.
And maybe he’d have a car worthy of parking in it, too.
Arthur was just catching up with the herd of parents and children entering the building when he saw a breathless mom come streaking toward him out of the corner of his eye.
“Do you work here?” she asked, eyeing the faculty badge hanging around his neck.
He smiled and nodded and felt his heart flutter just the tiniest bit.
Here was the nervous mother of an incoming sixth grader, frazzled and lost. She was probably looking for a steady hand to tell her where to go, what to do, or maybe just someone to reassure her that everything was going to be all right.
It could definitely be overwhelming for parents when their kids started at a new school, and Arthur would be honored to be the friendly face she needed.
“Arthur Peterson, sixth-grade English. What can I help you with?” It sounded so official and prestigious rolling off his tongue, and he noticed his voice had even dropped an octave.
Admittedly, he’d not been looking forward to tonight.
Awkward handshakes and crappy pizza and a million questions about ChatGPT, that’s what it would be, for the most part.
But the look of relief on the woman’s face, relief that she had found him of all people, well, it was almost enough to make him feel like a first-year teacher again.
“Can I give you this?” the curly-haired woman asked, producing what looked like a balled-up cloth or T-shirt from seemingly nowhere. “I don’t see any trash cans and I don’t want to leave it in the car.”
“Oh, sure,” he said before fully understanding the package he was accepting.
In an instant, it was in his hands, the ball unnervingly warm.
Worse, it felt fresh. The smell assaulted him.
It was no T-shirt. And that was when he noticed the tall husband waiting by the stroller for his wife a few yards away, tiny little newborn feet poking out of the carriage.
The baby’s toes wiggled in the air with the sort of carefree pep that can only come from someone who’s recently dropped a huge load. Arthur nearly barfed.
“You’re a lifesaver,” the woman said, and she hurried off to meet her family.
He stood there for what felt like a long time, holding the rancid diaper and pondering his life choices.
When he was a kid and he’d go out with his dad, he remembered strangers saluting him and thanking him for his service.
Neal Peterson would wear a simple US Navy sweatshirt and, as if by magic, people would let them cut in line, waiters would bring free appetizers, and occasionally a few very forward women had asked him with barely concealed hope in their voice whether he was a widower.
Arthur, on the other hand, might as well have been the school janitor.
Actually, that was an insult to the custodian, Miss Lily, who was beloved and revered by everyone at the school.
“AP?” A voice made Arthur snap out of it and spin around. A lot of kids had taken to calling him AP, short for Arthur Peterson. He liked to think of it as a term of endearment and not a subtle show of disrespect—he’d really prefer Mr. Peterson—but it was too late now. It had stuck.
He recognized the boy standing there as Martin Lamb, a gangly, quiet kid he’d taught the previous year.
Good student, not a lot of friends—probably due to his discovering deodorant just a smidge later than his peers.
Arthur offered a friendly wave. “Why are you holding a diaper?” Martin asked as a flicker of excitement flashed across the boy’s face. “Did you have the baby?!”
“No, no, we did not.” Arthur sighed and left it at that. “What are you doing here? Tonight’s just for the sixth graders.”
“I know. I’m trying to talk to Mr. Hernandez.” The music teacher and band director. Also, a bit of an asshole. But Arthur wasn’t about to bring that up now.
“I’m sure he’s here somewhere, but I don’t remember you being in band.”
“I’m not. It’s just—” Martin looked down, shuffled his feet. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find him and sort it out.”
“Is there something I can help you with?” He’d struck out hard with the curly-haired mom, but maybe he could still be useful to someone tonight. “Come on, it’s me. AP. We’re cool, right? You can tell me what’s going on. I’m rizz. I’ve got aura.”
“If I tell you,” Martin began, “will you please stop?”
Arthur nodded. “Whadya need?”
The boy took a deep breath and came out with it. “You can’t help me. Unless you’ve got three hundred dollars for a trumpet.”
Arthur wished he had a drink so he could spit it out. “Three hundred dollars?!”
“Right? That’s what I’m saying! I really want to do band this year, but I can’t afford that. All the rental shops are sold out, too. I need to talk to Mr. H and see if there’s something we can work out.”
Knowing Mr. H, he of the passive-aggressive break-room notes that frequently targeted the smell of Arthur’s tuna sandwiches (it was cheap protein, OK?), Arthur doubted it. And then he said something that he couldn’t quite explain. It just came over him.
“I’ll give it to you if you want, the money.” Martin cocked an eye at him. Arthur doubled down. “I’m serious.”
The quick math in his head calculating the three hundred dollars against what they had in savings was definitely painful, but it would feel good to make a difference, if he could. It damn sure wasn’t happening inside the classroom, or by accepting soiled diapers from strangers.
“No. Thanks, but no,” Martin said. “I’ll figure it out. It’s no big deal, anyway.”
“OK. If you’re sure. Offer stands if you change your mind.”
“Six-seven,” Martin said.
Arthur blinked. “I gotta tell you, I still don’t know what that means.”
“Honestly, neither do I.” They both laughed. “But for real, though, are you gonna tell me why you’re holding a diaper?”