“We don’t bite!” she added.
Chris forced a chuckle, setting down his tray. “Thanks. I’m Chris Brennan. Great to meet you.”
“Great to meet you, too. I’m Sue Deion, I teach Calculus.” Sue gestured to her friend. “And this is Linda McClusky. She teaches Spanish.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Linda.” Chris sat down, going through his mental Rolodex. He’d researched Linda McClusky because she also taught eleventh grade. She lived in Bottsburg with her husband, Hugh, a piano teacher, and ran the Central Valley Players, which was performing Annie in May. Chris would miss the production.
Sue asked, “So what are you teaching, Chris?”
“Government.” Chris took a bite of his grilled cheese, served on a Styrofoam plate with a cup of tomato soup, canned peaches, and red Jell-O with Cool Whip.
“Oh, here comes trouble!” Linda looked up at two male teachers approaching them with a female teacher, and Chris recognized the woman from his research because she was a drop-dead-gorgeous brunette, her great body shown to advantage in a trim black dress with black suede boots. Her name was Courtney Wheeler and she taught French, coached Cheer Club, and was married to a mortgage banker named Doug.
“Abe, Rick, Courtney, come here!” Sue motioned them over.
Chris shifted his attention to one of the male teachers, who was Abe Yomes, nicknamed Mr. Y. Abe was a tall, reedy African-American who taught Language Arts in eleventh grade, which was why Chris had researched him. Abe had on a trim checked shirt, pressed khakis, and polished loafers. He was gay and lived in town with his partner, Jamie Renette, who owned Renette Realty.
“I’m Abe Yomes, the famous Mr. Y, and you must be the new kid.” Abe grinned as he set his tray on the table.
“Pleased to meet you, Abe. Chris Brennan.” Chris reached across the table, and Abe shook his hand, with a smile.
“Welcome to Stepford. My partner Jamie’s a Realtor, in case you decide to buy.” Abe’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement behind his hip rimless glasses. “I see you’re drinking the Kool-Aid—I mean, eating the grilled cheese. These people, they’re a cult. I tell them, the grilled cheese sucks out loud. The fact that it’s a double-decker only makes it twice as gummy. I speak truth to power, and by power I mean the cafeteria ladies.”
“Good to know.” Chris chuckled, genuinely.
“Chris, meet Rick Pannerman, our resident hippie. He was born to teach Art. Actually he was born to be Picasso, but somebody else got the job.” Abe gestured to the other male teacher, who was bald and chubby, with bright blue eyes and a smile buried in his long grayish beard. He dressed in a worn flannel shirt and jeans.
“Chris, good to see ya,” Rick said, extending a meaty hand. “Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys.”
“Ha!” Chris smiled, and so did Abe.
“That’s what he calls our table. Now you’re one of us freaks. Gooble-gobble.” Abe pulled out a chair as Courtney came walking over with her tray. “Last but not least, this lovely creature is Courtney Wheeler. She’s married to Doug The Lug, the world’s most boring white guy, and that’s saying something.”
“Abe, hush.” Courtney sat down, smiling.
Abe pushed her chair in with a flourish. “Courtney is my bestie, and Prince Harry is my spirit animal. Don’t you think we look alike, he and I?”
Courtney answered slyly, “Well, you both breathe oxygen.”
“Not true. Oxygen breathes him.” Abe sat down, focusing again on Chris. “So welcome, Central Valley virgin. What do you teach again?”
“Government and Criminal Justice,” Chris answered, finishing the first half of his sandwich.
“I teach Language Arts, playing to type. I’m sensitive, yet curiously strong, the Altoids of teachers. Where’re you from?”
“Wyoming.”
“Wait. Whaaaat? Wyoming?” Abe’s eyes flew open behind his rimless glasses. “Are you kidding me right now?”
Courtney burst into laughter. “Oh my God!”
Rick grinned in a goofy way. “Ha! What are the chances?”
Chris didn’t like the way they said it. “Why? Have you been there?”
“Been there?” Abe repeated, his lips still parting in delight. “I grew up there! It was my childhood home! We left when I was nine but my parents moved back there, they liked it so much!”
“Really?” Chris arranged his face into a delighted mask. “What a coincidence.”
“I know, right?” Abe bubbled with enthusiasm. “I’m adopted, hello. My dad was a real outdoorsman. Wyoming born and bred. He was on the Game and Fish Commission—fun fact, Wyoming is one of the few states that have a Game and Fish Commission, as opposed to a Fish and Game Commission. Anyway, my dad taught me to hunt and fish. We ate fresh elk burgers for dinner! You know how many elk are up there, and mule deer, bison, grizzlies…”
“Don’t I know it,” Chris said, though he didn’t.
“Whereabouts in Wyoming are you from?” Abe leaned over, ignoring his lunch.
“Well, I’m not really from Wyoming—”
“I thought you said you were.”
Courtney blinked. “Meanwhile Abe is being rude as usual, asking a million questions and not letting you eat.”
Abe recoiled. “I’m not being rude. I never met anybody else from Wyoming out here. It’s amazing!” He returned his attention to Chris. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I just got excited. I’m an excitable boy. You get that, right?”
“I understand, no apology’s necessary.”
“I didn’t think so.” Abe glanced at Courtney triumphantly. “See, henny? Boyfriend and I speak the same language, though he doesn’t have an accent.” Abe turned back to Chris. “You don’t have an accent. You must’ve lost it.”
“I guess I did—”
“Right, you lose it. I lost mine. Can you imagine looking like me and sounding like a ranch hand? We’re talking major cognitive dissonance.”
Courtney rolled her lovely eyes. “Abe, you had the double-shot again, didn’t you?”
Rick turned to Chris with an apologetic look. “We got a Starbucks in town, and Abe lives there. Buckle up.”