Chapter 3
I’m overcome with embarrassment, and my mouth momentarily fails to function. The times I’ve been rendered speechless can be counted on one hand, and most of them have to do with my face being full of cake or numb from the Novocain I needed because of all the cake. My anxiety begins to kick in because, apparently, being in the presence of this extremely handsome father muffles me.
Sitting close, the scent of fresh linen and coconut swirls in my nose, and I lick my lips at the idea of a virgin pina colada. Free from the constraints of the embarrassing bathroom situation, I study him. He’s wearing a navy V-neck sweater, something soft, maybe cashmere, which I’ve only gawked over when shopping. The space just below his Adam’s apple, a soft groove of tender skin, summons my gaze, and I imagine leaning over and licking him there.
Illona’s father turns to me and attempts a smile. His face glows, all jawlines and angles, beaming brighter than the summer sun, with the smallest gap between his two front teeth. My mouth waters thinking about what I could accomplish in that tiny space with my tongue, causing my heart to race and my head to feel woozy. Emotions overtake my speaking ability, and anxiety invades my frontal lobe. Unable to stop it, the thumping bassline and light stringy synths of Cece Peniston’s 1991 classic “Finally” begin playing in my head, and her voice, rich and vibrant, sings to me about meeting Mr. Right, and as I close my eyes and breathe in his intoxicating scent, I’m taken away for a beat.
“Mr. Block, Mr. Block…” Dr. Knorse says with a tinge of annoyance, grabbing my attention and prodding me from my stupor. I take another deep inhale to center myself.
If I’m attempting to make a first impression that screams, “I’m a complete dolt, and why would you entrust your child with me for seven hours a day,” I’m doing a bang-up job. The problem before me, the man is unnervingly handsome. As a teacher, we get all kinds of parents, and usually, if I’m lucky, every so often, the elusive hot dad appears. Someone to make open houses, conferences, and field trips a little more interesting. It’s all innocent fun, and Jill and Kristi love to tease me about them, often giggling outside my closed classroom door, peering in the window during conferences, making me blush.
“Marvin, hello, this is Mr. Stone, Illona’s dad, and um…” Dr. Knorse is stammering. She never stammers nor gives any indication of being unsure of anything. She’s a doctor, for god’s sake! Okay, not a medical doctor, a Doctor of Education, but still, she insists we all call her “doctor.” Only having experience with medical doctors, the kids usually think she’s going to examine them and administer shots.
Handsome dads are not uncommon, but this guy? Next level. Did I see him modeling in a catalog, lying on the beach, shirt open, wind blowing the trees, sable skin sizzling in the sun? All right. I need to focus. If I weren’t so taken aback myself, Dr. Knorse’s squirming would bring me immense pleasure. Clearly, the arrival of this man has shaken our esteemed principal, so Kristi, currently the most levelheaded in the bunch, takes over.
“Yes, this is Mr. Stone.”
“Please, call me Olan,” he states. His tone suggests nonchalance, but these first words are delivered in a rich bass from his absolutely delicious mouth, causing the bottom of my stomach to drop a little. This can’t be good for business.
“He and Illona just moved to Maine,” Kristi says.
“Sweet,” I say, only able to squeak out a single foolish word because, apparently, my brain and mouth are currently not on speaking terms.
“Thanks?” he replies.
A question to my ridiculous “sweet.” His face goes flat, and between the pseudo pee disaster in the bathroom and my lack of coherent sentences, I’m clearly not winning this parent over.
A few uncomfortable moments of silence fester and it becomes clear someone needs to speak. With nobody else jumping in, I choose to be brave. Gingerly placing my hand on the table to steady myself, I take a deep breath, ready to sell myself and the school.
“Welcome. I’m sure Illona will adore our school.”
I can now speak in complete sentences. This will be fine. Newly found confidence convinces me to consider him for more than a nanosecond, allowing me to examine him in more detail. Glancing up beyond his mouth, I study his hair. The natural texture creates a crown of stunning, tight coils framing his face. A sliver of sunlight from the window lands near his forehead, causing the soft spongy curls to shine. What product does he use to make it so velvety and touchable? My own Jewfro bird’s nest borders on unmanageable, and I’ve tried almost everything I can find to tame it. As if on cue, a large ringlet plummets in front of my eyes, and I reach up to brush it aside. Studying him, attempting to comprehend Olan Stone, I wonder how a single human can be so incredibly magmatic?
He continues speaking in low dulcet tones. Words tumble out of his mouth about schools and relocating and something about Illona’s mother, but it’s all jumbled like the randomness of my junk drawer because his rich voice, along with those deep eyes looking right at me, leaves me feeling like a jellyfish on land.
As he talks, the women nod with such enthusiasm their heads almost bop off. He’s clearly comfortable addressing a room. Questions fill my head. Why the move in the middle of the school year? Why leave the West Coast and for Maine, of all places? Would Olan Stone let me give him a lap dance? With his daughter a part of my class now, I’m curious but also want to be respectful… so no lap dances.
“Mr. Stone,” I continue.
“Please, Olan,” his gaze flicks up toward the fluorescent lights, and my chest tightens.
“Um, right. Sorry, Olan, what brought you here? Not to school. We know why you’re here this morning, to meet us, I meant…” I let out a feeble laugh, and it feels like pennies jangling in my throat.
Speaking. Difficult.
“Why here?” he says, rescuing me.
For once, someone besides me interjects, and I’m thankful for his assistance. Thinking it might be best for my mouth to rest for a moment, I nod.
“Illona’s mother and I recently separated. We needed a change. I’m an engineer, and there are some prospects here. We’ve vacationed in the area, and I’ve heard remarkably favorable reports about the community. Most importantly, a public school with a diverse population like Pelletier Elementary, one that celebrates their students, is critical to me as well.”
The more he speaks, the less uncomfortable he seems, and with his last word, Olan Stone smiles. Like a child taking their school photo, he forces his face into it by pulling his cheeks back and revealing his teeth. Displaying a luminous grin with that sexy gap, he uncovers the full magnitude of his magnetic face. It doesn’t only light up the room, it illuminates any darkness obscured in the corners of my soul. Olan Stone floods my basement.
Okay, focus. He’s separated. Potentially single. Clearly straight. My gaydar registers a big fat zero. He’s an engineer, not a model. That might explain his to-the-point attitude. He’s blessed with these stunning looks and appears to have no clue. Olan Stone is such a Daphne.
In college, I took an astronomy class because I foolishly thought learning about the solar system would be a way to fulfill a science requirement. And meet some hot nerds. Sadly, neither happened. But I did sit with Daphne, a tall, drop-dead-gorgeous brunette who may have immigrated from the Island of Themyscira. A complete sweetheart, we became friendly, helping each other understand the intricacies of star types and black holes. The more time I spent with Daphne, the more I realized just how clueless she was about her completely off-the-charts level of appearance. We’d stroll on the quad, and people’s heads would snap and turn as she floated by.
“Daphne, guys are literally tripping over themselves to look at you. And some girls too.”
She simply shrugged, tossed her head back – hair waving as if blown by an imaginary fan that seemed to follow her around – and giggled as if I’d said the silliest thing in the world. Olan Stone, too, appears to be blissfully unaware of precisely how hot his star is burning. It’s both annoying and endearing.
Kristi attempts to focus the energy in the room. I’m grateful someone is minding the clock. Students arrive soon, and yes, Olan Stone might be incredibly handsome, but even his punim won’t stop the school buses from delivering our cherubs.
“Mr. Stone, we’re thrilled to have you and Illona here at Pelletier Elementary, and I can assure you she will be happy and successful. Mr. Block is an exemplary teacher, and he’ll work to ensure her success. He would never tell you this himself, but he’s been nominated for our county’s Teacher of the Year,” she says, and perhaps this might supersede Olan’s vision of me pissing my pants.
Last October, with the utter hullabaloo of Halloween looming – with costumes and children sneaking in tempting candy for snack time – an anonymous parent nominated me for our county’s Teacher of the Year. Because anxiety rules my life, the email from Dr. Knorse asking to speak to me caused my palms and pits to sweat like Niagara Falls. I racked my brain to figure out what awful thing I had done requiring her to haul me into her office on a Friday afternoon. Reading her email, I immediately felt compelled to smash my laptop against a brick wall. Why don’t administrators give you an inkling or a clue about what they want to speak about? Don’t they understand an email that states only, “Please come see me after school” sends teachers into a tailspin?
Tori Knorse might be our principal, but that doesn’t stop most of us from seeing how downright unpredictable she can be. Some days she darts by me in the hallway without even the slightest glance, let alone a greeting. It’s not uncommon to go three to four days in a row without communicating with her. Then, the next day, she treats me like a long-lost best friend from middle school, having long conversations, asking about Gonzo’s favorite kitty treats (freeze-dried salmon) and what’s my sauce recipe for leftover pasta (ancient Jewish secret: it’s from a jar). Her moodiness confuses the hell out of me.
As I sat in her office that Friday afternoon, my leg bouncing in anticipation and her desk rattling from my leg bouncing, I wondered which Dr. Knorse I’d be presented with. On this day, she dispensed positive news, so the BFF version materialized.
“Marvin, you’ve been nominated for Teacher of the Year.” She clapped her hands, and I swear it was the first time I’d seen her appear anything even resembling excited.
“First up, the county, so we’ll focus on that. I must tell you, in addition to the honor this presents for you personally, it also creates a significant opportunity for the school.”
Her brow furrowed, and she leaned forward as she spoke.
“Oh?” I asked, having no idea what she meant.
Lowering her voice, she began, “As you know, sadly, in the past few years, Pelletier Elementary hasn’t received the most favorable ranking from the state. Our test scores have bruised us more than I’d like to admit, and I fear a sizeable chunk of our supplemental funding might be at stake.”
She paused, and I opened my mouth to speak, but unsure what to say, nothing came out.
“If you won Teacher of the Year, even at the county level, it would shine a positive light on the important work we do here. Winning the county might help me in my bid to secure our funding, but a state win would all but guarantee it. It would be irrefutable to the powers that be. Marvin, without the funding, I’ll be forced to make cuts. Cuts nobody wants. We’re barely managing with the folks we have now. The school can’t handle less staff. Our kids deserve it. This nomination is the golden ticket I’ve been praying for.”
“Oh.” And gulp. And holy crap. And does this make her Charlie? And me, Willy Wonka? That feels completely wrong. Apparently, the knowledge of my role in securing school funding momentarily destroyed my ability to put thoughtful sentences together.
“This is good news, Marvin. Yes, there are resumes and essays to submit. A school visit and interview to schedule. Those types of things. We can figure it all out. You’ll accept the nomination, correct?”
“I mean, wow. Yes, of course, I want to. I’m just concerned…”
“About what?”
“What other teachers will think. The added stress. With my anxiety and ADHD, on top of everything else. I, I, want to make sure I can handle it.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Marvin, the school needs you. We need this.”
This wasn’t simply about me winning a silly award but helping secure the school’s future. If I had a lump of coal in my ass, it would be a diamond by Hanukkah.
I genuinely love teaching and consider it my passion, a calling, a reason for waking up each day. Pouring my heart and soul into my profession helped me when things fell apart with Adam. Education gives me a purpose, and the Teacher of the Year program, or TOY as we jokingly call it, could be my moment to get some recognition for all my hard work. Beyond what it would mean for the school, it may even be an opportunity to inspire and help others. Opting in was my only choice. I wanted this.
With the sharing of this news in the meeting, my face flushes crimson, and Olan Stone turns to face me. For the first time, just for a moment, he sits back and appears to settle. He rests his hand on the table only inches from mine. The closeness of our fingers sparks a small charge of energy, and instinctively I pull my hand into my lap.
“Well, congratulations, Mr. Block. You must be a stellar teacher. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me this morning.”
“Call me Marvin, please.”
I attempt a feeble smile. I fear I look like a toddler learning to smile on cue for the first time. Somehow both awkward and foolish.
“Marvin, okay,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. “Illona has been through a lot of changes – the separation, the move. I’m hoping she feels welcome here.”
“Mr. Stone,” Dr. Knorse chimes in, “I can assure you, here at Pelletier Elementary, we will do everything in our power to ensure Illona flourishes. Mr. Block will see to it.”
Oh, will I? Confession: I’ll do everything in my power to ensure Illona’s success, but the way Dr. Knorse guarantees the outcome rubs me the wrong way. Teachers bear the brunt of responsibility for their students, but it takes the entire school community to help students shine.
“That’s fantastic to hear,” Olan says as he looks from the principal to me, his eyes ping-ponging like watching a tennis match. I should probably say something now, but the peanut butter sandwich I scarfed down this morning tumbles in my belly like one of those cement-mixing trucks. This isn’t the usual humming of anxiety I’m used to. This is something different, something that burns like copper and smoke and makes my insides churn.
Why am I wary? Listen, I may not be a statistician, but I know there’s a direct correlation between a man’s level of handsomeness and potential trouble. Personally, I am happy to be average. My dimples and the nest of dark brown curls I’ve learned to mostly tame and admire over the years have done me well. Experiences with devilishly attractive men have taught me the consequences of getting entangled. And gorgeous straight men are the death knell. That flag cannot be red or large enough. That scene in Les Mis when they’re about to march to their deaths, waving a giant red flag that takes up the entire stage, that’s what we’re dealing with.
I begin rapidly tapping my fingernails on the underside of the table. The click-click-clicking suggests the opening bars of Dolly’s “Nine to Five,” but before the words rush into my head and whisk me away, Olan looks at me and cocks his head slightly like a dog hearing a strange noise. This is not Teacher of the Year behavior. Snap out of it! The image of Cher slapping me tersely flashes as sweat beads on the back of my neck.
Taking a deep breath, I collect all my resolve and attempt to gather up the energy from watching every episode of America’s Next Top Model to smize. I want to convey to Olan that his daughter will be safe. And loved. If nothing else, I know I’ll nail that. As Olan studies my face, a plump curl betrays me and jumps ship, plummeting in front of my eyes. I purse my lips together like a fish and blow a quick puff of air toward the ceiling, sending the long bouncy curl that hangs down my forehead, obscuring my right eye, swiftly back into submission. This man must think I’m the conductor of the hot mess express.
“I just met her, she’s delightful, and I know she’s going to acclimate nicely. I’ll make sure to assign her a buddy for the next few days and give her a little extra TLC. Is there anything specific I should know about her?”
Olan Stone nods, but his furrowed brow makes me wonder if he likes what he’s hearing. He faces me, lips softening, and ever so slightly, his body melts into the chair. The tiniest hint of relaxation appears to wash over him.
“Honestly, I simply want her to be happy.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to make that happen.”
We share a small glance. The lines of concentration along his brows soften. Perhaps Olan Stone might warm up to me in time.
“I’m going to bring her down to class and get ready for the other kids to arrive,” I say, glancing at my watch, hoping we can conclude this meeting of the minds.
“May I walk her down with you?”
Um, is he asking for permission? I can’t imagine anyone saying no to that punim.
“Sure thing.” I mean, a few more moments next to him won’t kill me.
I stand to leave and, with all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates, trip over my chair and stumble. Thrown off balance, my arms flail for a moment, and I’m fairly certain I resemble one of those asinine inflatable tube men outside of car dealerships. As I catch myself on the table before faceplanting into his lap, my head lands inches from Olan Stone. I’m a complete klutz.
“Whoa, you all right?” He reaches for my arm, and Lord, why couldn’t I have fallen a little further?
“Yup, good, totally fine, all set. Let’s go!” Oy.
I scramble to my feet and lead us into the central area of the office. Illona spots her father, and her face lights up like a menorah on the eighth night. She leaps up and rushes over to him, slamming her forehead into his thigh and wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Daddy!”
“Mr. Block and I are going to escort you to class.”
Almost arrival time, folks scramble to complete any last-minute tasks before being trapped in their rooms. Jill impatiently taps her foot at the copy machine, waiting for the out-of-date machine to finish its job. As it chugs along, making copies, Jill glances up at me and smiles. Her familiar smirk melts like a burning candle, at the sight of Olan. He’s so clearly out of place in our drab school office, where everything is some awful mashup of blue and gray.
“Holy fuck,” she mouths without sound.
I raise my eyebrows so high they hide behind the spirals on my forehead. I’m attempting to act natural and not like I’m less than a foot away from the most perfect specimen of a man. Not one to miss an opportunity to gawk, as the copier shakes to a stop, Jill snatches the disheveled papers, shoves them under her arm, and swiftly follows us out of the office.
As we arrive at the classroom door, I kneel down next to Illona. With her dad observing and Jill perched in her doorway staring, it feels like I’m auditioning for a role I’ve already been cast in.
“The other kids will be here in just a few minutes. Let’s put your stuff away, and you can help me greet them. I’ll introduce you to a few friends to help you settle. Sound good?”
Illona nods gently. She takes my hand and begins pulling me into the classroom.
“Well, that’ll be my cue… I’ll pick her up at… wait, what time?”
Oh, he’s picking her up. I get to see him again. Today. My heart trips.
“Nervous dad,” Olan says with a few fast blinks. “Depending on my schedule, some days it could be Cindy, our nanny. She actually lives with us. I’ve left her information with the office as an emergency contact.”
Let’s be clear, having a nanny requires a certain income level most families in our community don’t have. He has a live-in nanny, and I’m having a cup of soup for lunch. And not even the top-shelf stuff, but the store-brand cup with ingredients I can’t pronounce. I’m glad he can afford it. As he’s a single parent, I guess Olan needs some help. Poor guy.
I turn my head to reply and get one last look at him. “Sounds good. Two forty-five is pickup. Have a wonderful day, and we’ll see you later.”
“Thank you,” he says, extending his hand.
I put mine in his, my intent to shake, remove, and return to his child and the swarm of sprouts about to populate the classroom. Olan wraps his fingers around mine, squeezes and shakes, and my hand doesn’t retract. Our eyes lock, and he finally releases my hand, a fraction longer than expected, and my face flushes, hot and airy.
Illona investigates her new classroom, grabbing a puzzle of a bumblebee riding a pony. I stand for a moment, trying to shake off the buzz from being around her father for the last twenty minutes. I’ll likely be interacting with him, at least some, in the very near future. At least at pickup today. He waves and smiles at his daughter and turns to go, and my knees wobble slightly at the sight of him from behind. His dress pants grip his body as he walks, thighs and muscles flexing under the stretched fabric. That ass, so plump and perfect. Grabbable. I lick my lips and follow him closely, shaking my head. Such thoughts should not be entering my mind at this time of day. The bell rings, interrupting my daydream, and the first drips of the flood of children begin flowing down the hallways. In an attempt to escape, Olan swims upstream. Unlike the adults, none of the children are fazed by his appearance. Ah, to be five again.
Slipping over to the doorway, I plant myself, knowing I need to move, become unstuck, but also not exactly sure how to make that happen. As I glance up from my stupor, Jill still stands in her doorway, waiting to greet her minnows and staring right at me. She feverishly fans herself with both hands as if surrounded by molten lava, looks up at me, and we both cackle.