Her heart was still racing. He had really frightened her. 'Very funny,' she said, and turned to go. She didn't like being scared like that.
He caught her in the doorway. 'Hey... I'm sorry. 'Well you ought to be.' She looked at him coldly - or tried to. Her anger was already melting away. You just couldn't stay mad at Johnny, that was the thing. Whether she loved him or not - a thing she was still trying to puzzle out - it was impossible to be unhappy with him for very long, or to harbor a feeling of resentment. She wondered if anyone had ever succeeded in harboring a grudge against Johnny Smith, and the thought was so ridiculous she just had to smile.
'There, that's better. Man, I thought you were going to walk out on me.'
'I'm not a man.'
He cast his eyes upon her. 'So I've noticed.' She was wearing a bulky fur coat - imitation raccoon or something vulgar like that - and his innocent lechery made her smile again. 'In this thing you couldn't tell.'
'Oh, yeah, I can tell,' he said. He put an arm around her and kissed her. At first she wasn't going to kiss back, but of course she did.
'I'm sorry I scared you,' he said, and rubbed her nose companionably with his own before letting her go. He held up the mask. 'I thought you'd get a kick out of it. I'm gonna wear it in homeroom Friday.'
'Oh, Johnny, that won't be very good for discipline.'
'I'll muddle through somehow,' he said with a grin. And the hell of it was, he would.
She came to school every day wearing big, schoolmarmish glasses, her hair drawn back into bun so severe it seemed on the verge of a scream. She wore her skirts just above the knee in a season when most of the girls wore them just below the edges of their underpants (and my legs are better than any of theirs, Sarah thought resent-fully). She maintained alphabetical seating charts which, by the law of averages, at least, should have kept the troublemakers away from each other, and she resolutely sent unruly pupils to the assistant principal, her reasoning being that he was getting an extra five hundred a year to act as ramrod and she wasn't. And still her days were a constant struggle with that freshman teacher demon, Discipline. More disturbing, she had begun to sense that there was a collective, unspoken jury - a kind of school consciousness, maybe - that went into deliberations over every new teacher, and that the verdict being returned on her was not so good.
Johnny, on the face of it, appeared to be the antithesis of everything a good teacher should be. He ambled from dass to dass in an agreeable sort of daze, often showing up tardy because he had stopped to chat with someone between bells. He let the kids sit where they wanted so that the same face was never in the same seat from day to day (and the class thuds invariably gravitated to the back of the room). Sarah would not have been able to learn their names that way until March, but Johnny seemed to have them down pat already.
He was a tall man who had a tendency to slouch, and the kids called him Frankenstein. Johnny seemed amused rather than outraged by this. And yet his classes were mostly quiet and well-behaved, there were few skippers (Sarah had a constant problem with kids cutting class), and that same jury seemed to be coming back in his favor.
He was the sort of teacher who, in another ten years, would have the school yearbook dedicated to him. She just wasn't. And sometimes wondering why drove her crazy.
'You want a beer before we go? Glass of wine? Anything?'
'No, but I hope you're going well-heeled,' she said, taking his arm and deciding not to be mad anymore. 'I always eat at least three hot dogs. Especially when it's the last county fair of the year.' They were going to Esty, twenty miles north of Cleave Mills, a town whose only dubious claim to fame was that it held ABSOLUTELY THE LAST AGRICULTRAL FAIR OF THE YEAR IN NEW ENGLAND. The fair would close Friday night, on Halloween.
'Considering Friday's payday, I'm doing good. I got eight bucks.'
'Oh ... my ... God,' Sarah said, rolling her eyes. 'I always knew if I kept myself pure I'd meet a sugar daddy someday.'
He smiled and nodded. 'Us pimps make biiig money, baby. Just let me get my coat and we're off.'
She looked after him with exasperated affection, and the voice that had been surfacing in her mind more and more often - in the shower, while she was reading a book or prepping a class or making her supper for one - came up again, like one of those thirty-second public-service spots on TV: He's a very nice man and all that, easy to get along with, fun, he never made you cry. But is that love? I mean, is that all there is to it? Even when you learned to ride your two-wheeler, you had to fall off a few times and scrape both knees. Call it a rite of passage. And that was just a little thing.
'Gonna use the bathroom,' he called to her.