Chapter 2
“Good morning, sunshine. Welcome back!” Jean shouts, arms open for an embrace.
As I step into the mundane school office, Jean’s round, cheerful face greets me with a smile. Crinkles pool around her sparkly eyes, and her collection of bracelets creates a tinkling orchestra. As our secretary and the school’s point person, Jean welcomes everyone. In her sixties (nobody dares ask her actual age) and closing in on retirement, maternal love permeates everything she does. Like a teddy bear with slightly too much stuffing, she spills out of the seams of her cheery cobalt-blue romper. There’s a general understanding among anyone associated with the building that Jean, and not Dr. Knorse, runs the school. I glance at my mailbox (empty, winning!) and head over to her.
I wrap my arms around her body, and she squeezes me like someone trying to get the last bit of juice out of a lemon. Her fragrance, a combination of apples and hairspray, along with melting into her soft body, is comforting. She hugs me with ferocity, giving me some much-needed love. Peeking over her shoulder, I notice the closed conference room door. The meeting attendees are awaiting my arrival. As I pull out of my hug with her, Jean reaches over and grabs a thick manila envelope.
“This came for you over break. It’s from the Teacher of the Year folks,” she says, beaming with pride.
“Ah, thank you.” I tuck it under my arm. I knew there would be forms to fill out and more information about the process. Being in the office, I’m reminded this nomination means much more than me receiving an award, and I must focus on and prioritize it. I must ensure all my ducks are in a row. My ducks typically dance at a rave, so I’ve got my work cut out for me.
Jean steps toward me and whispers, “Your new student.” She nods toward the gray fabric chair at the end of her desk where a girl sits. Her swinging feet don’t even come close to touching the floor. Understanding she’s probably more anxious than me, I mindfully approach her.
All I know about her comes from the information on that sticky note. Illona Stone is five and moved from a small school in California that I’ve never heard of because, well, California. Her hair almost resembles my own, if mine were much longer. Tight, dark brown curls jut out from her head in all directions in a way that frames her round, adorable face and connects us immediately. A black knit dress covered in yellow sunflowers complements her warm khaki skin. She'd probably dressed up to make a good impression, which I adore. Illona appears to be a child any teacher would be thrilled to have in class.
As often happens with parent meetings, Jean will keep an eye on Illona while I meet with her father, Dr. Knorse, and Kristi. I take a knee, so I’m on her level, and introduce myself.
“Hi there. I’m Mr. Block. I’m going to be your teacher.”
I give her my best smile, one I hope lets her know that, if nothing else, I’m on her team now.
Illona looks cautious as she colors with the crayons Jean has given her. What appears to be a horse, pony, unicorn, or perhaps a dog? I’ve become an expert at deciphering kindergarten handwriting, but the drawings still often stump me. She looks up at me with wide eyes, trying to decide what to make of me.
“You’re a boy teacher.”
A statement, not a question.
“Ha, yes, I am. Did you not know you’d be having a boy teacher?”
“Uh-uh. My daddy didn’t tell me.”
“Well, I’m delighted you’re here, and I can’t wait for you to meet the class. They’re going to love you. I’m going to meet with your dad for a few minutes, and then we’ll head down to the classroom together. Sound good?”
Illona smiles and nods quickly and goes back to her unidentifiable drawing. Her body softens, relaxes into her chair, and she begins to hum as she colors. Teaching is part craft and part energy. For whatever reason, I have incredible kid energy. For most of my life, I had an inkling I would end up working with children in some capacity. This quality allows me to spend my days in a room full of children and enjoy myself.
I stand and slip into the conference room at the back of the office, where the other adults are waiting for me. Greeting Jean and Illona set me squarely five minutes late for the meeting. Approaching the snug conference room, I again take three deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I don’t love meetings, but they’re a required part of the gig.
Stumbling into the room, I scamper to my seat. The energy in the room bubbles in a way not typical for these meetings. Squirming into my chair, I blurt, “I’m so sorry. I wanted to meet Illona. We had a lovely chat.”
As I settle myself, I glance up, and my stomach drops. The stunning man from the bathroom sits next to me, peering in my direction. Oy.