“Shh-shh-shh,” Ginny points to the speakers in the corner of the store where the first strains of an electric guitar are playing.

“I didn’t say anything,” I grumble and grab a bottle of water from the cold case.

“Jackson’s latest and greatest is playing!” She headbangs to the music.

As if I hadn’t already suffered enough being the only female Bedd sibling, Jackson—my sweet nerdy little brother who I was counting on to stay sweet and nerdy—decided to evolve into a hot musician. His career shot into the stratosphere a few years ago, so now I am the lucky sister of three hot farmers and a world famous rockstar too.

“Oh girl, you must be sooo proud,” Ginny croons.

I am proud. Of all of them.

But just once, I’d like someone to see me for me.

“Do you think Jackson will go to the Grammys this year?”

“I don’t know, Ginny.”

“Do you think Ethan and Alex have officially buried the hatchet?”

“I don’t know, Ginny.”

“Most importantly, do you think Samuel and this Diane woman are going to last? Because between you and me, I don’t think she’s the right fit for him and⁠—”

“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, GINNY!”

Her mouth falls open.

I don’t blame her for being shocked. Most people in this town would be surprised to hear Fork Lick’s “kind and cutesy kindergarten teacher” dropping an F-bomb in the snack aisle of the local market. But sometimes a girl gets pushed too far.

“Yikes,” Ginny says. “Testy today, huh? Is it your time of the month or something?”

Did she just say that to me?

“Ginny. There is little hope for us as a society if even women are saying things like that to women. I apologize for snapping at you, but⁠—”

She bops herself on the forehead like she’s such a silly goose. “No, that’s right! You bought tampons here two weeks ago, so you must be entering your ovulation phase now. My bad.”

I’m gonna lose it.

Life in a small town is slowing but steadily killing me. Everyone knows every bit of everyone else’s business. I didn’t even know I was ovulating, but freaking Ginny Quick does? Seriously, it’s too much.

I’m literally saved by the bell when the front door chimes and Ginny scurries to the front of the store to greet her next victim. Er, customer.

In hopes of getting my anger under control before dealing with Ginny again, I take a meandering route to the checkout and find myself stopped in the “Family Planning” aisle. Yes, that’s actually how this section is labeled. I’d talk to the owner about changing the antiquated phrasing, but that would involve intentionally engaging Ginny, and it’s just not worth it.

Pads, tampons, condoms, lube, pregnancy tests, diapers… it’s all here. Gosh, there are so many varieties of condoms these days. When was the last time I even needed one of these suckers? Has it been a full year? I think back to last summer and my tryst with Bob, the guy I met in Climax—the closest big town about a half hour from here. On second thought, can you call something a tryst if it was actually only six weeks of vanilla sex and bland conversation? Probably not. We may have met in Climax, but our sex life was devoid of any such thing.

“Whatcha got there Miss Bedd?” a little voice chirps beside me, and I instinctively toss the condom box back on the rack like it’s on fire.

One of my former students stands there, eyes twinkling and gap-toothed smile beaming.

“Kayleigh! Sweetie! Hi!” I squeak. “I was um, I was just looking for some um—some uh—some paper and some primary-colored washable markers for my classroom!”

There. Those are respectable items for a kindergarten teacher to be browsing.

“Well you’re in the wrong aisle then, Miss Bedd,” the six-year-old says, full of sass. “Markers and crayons are in the School Supplies section, silly.” She leans closer and sounds out the words on the box I was just holding a moment ago, just like I taught her. “What’s… ‘Ribbit For Her Pleasure?’ Is that some kind of frog game?”

It’s then I notice Kayleigh’s mother further down the aisle juggling her eight-month-old son in a baby carrier and grabbing a pack of diapers from the shelf. Her face pales in horror when her daughter’s question registers.

“Yup, it’s a frog game!” I practically ribbit myself, I’m so embarrassed.

Get me out of here.

The little girl gasps. “I love frogs! Frogs are my favorite animal! Mommy! Can we get ‘Ribbit for Her Pleasure’ and play it at home?”

I lock eyes with her mother, who seems to be on pause, her mouth open and the diaper pack in her hand frozen mid-air on its way to her basket.

“No!” I shout.

Kayleigh startles.

“It’s uh. It’s just a… a grown-up game, sweetie,” I sputter. “Can you remind me where the school supplies are, Kayleigh?” I point two aisles over. “They’re that way, right?”

“Right!” Kayleigh nods proudly. Little kids love the rare opportunity to teach grown-ups something, so I’m going to use this to my advantage.

“Cool if she accompanies me?” I ask her poor mother who is finally getting breath back into her lungs. “I’ll bring her right back.”

She nods. When Kayleigh skips in front of me, I turn back to her mom one more time and mouth “I’m sooo sorry” then hustle to catch up with her kid.

“Voila!” Kayleigh says when we reach the school supplies. “My dad always says that word. Isn’t it fun? Say it. Voila!”

“Voila! Yeah, that is fun. Okay great. Now I know where everything is. Thanks a million, sweetheart. Let’s bring you back to your mom.”

“But aren’t you gonna get some?” she asks.

“Some… what?”

Her little eyebrows smoosh together in confusion. “You said you were looking for paper and primary color washable markers.”

“Right,” I sigh. “I did.”

For the record, this isn’t the first or even the hundredth time I’ve been in a situation like this. When you’ve taught kindergarten for six years straight in the same small town, like I have, you know all the children. More to the frightening point, they know you. Which sounds lovely in theory, right? Well, consider this: it is impossible to live your life. You can’t get the slightest bit tipsy at the local bar without a parent seeing you and giving you a disapproving look. Virtually anyone you find attractive and consider pursuing romantically is inevitably related to one of your students past or present. And, as today’s lesson has taught us, it’s almost guaranteed that if you need to purchase a product for any of the primal functions of your body - be it menstrual, sexual, or intestinal - an adorable child will catch you in the act and embarrass the hell out of you.

Early elementary teachers are put on this weird pedestal of purity.

And as much as I love my job, I want to get off.

The pedestal, I mean! I want to “get off” the pedestal. I didn’t mean I want to “get off” in the other sense of the—whatever. This is clearly not the time or the place for such thoughts.