Chapter 6
Olan: Good Morning Mr. Block. This is Illona’s dad. I’m so sorry to bother you before school. Illona insists on bringing her stuffed kitty Noelle to school. I told her she had to stay home but she’s causing a fuss and I’m at my wit’s end. Is this something that’s allowed?
Marvin: Of course she can bring Noelle to school. No worries at all.
Olan: Thank you! You’re a lifesaver.
Marvin: Wait. It’s not a stuffed life-size tiger is it?
Olan: Ha! No, it’s small and will fit in her backpack.
Marvin: Awesome. Tell her I can’t wait to meet Noelle.
Olan:
“This is Noelle.” Illona stands in front of me, her hair pulled back into two ornate braids today, and if her dad did that, color me impressed. Her arms are outstretched, and she holds her stuffed cat. The cat isn’t as small as I’d hoped, about the size of a real cat if it had been fed four times a day and slept at all times except when eating, which is pretty much how Gonzo rolls. Illona’s fingers grab her cat with such force that, if Noelle were real, she would be squirming with all her might to get away.
“Oh, how lovely to meet you, Noelle. She looks a little like my cat, Gonzo. Although he’s more black with some white, and she’s more white with some black. Why don’t you put Noelle at your seat to keep her safe? Sound good?”
Illona nods. I want to be flexible with the needs of students but also know the potential distraction a stuffy from home can cause for the class. And if letting her bring Noelle wins me a few brownie points with her father, oh well. The other children understand Illona needs time to acclimate and might need some extra attention and comfort, but a distraction is a distraction regardless.
The day turns out to be a typical Friday. A sense of needing a break, a rest, or at least the weekend off always arrives on Fridays. The children’s energy soars, my tank nears empty, and I have a date with this Vincent M. fella. A few days ago, he messaged to arrange our meeting.
Vincent M.: Hank, hello! I was hoping we could meet for dinner this weekend. How about Friday?
Marvin: Hey there. Actually my name is Marvin. My friend thought I should use a fake name in case you’re a murderer.
Vincent M.: Smart move.
Marvin: Wait. You’re not a murderer are you?
Vincent M.: Well if I am you’ve just blown your cover.
Marvin: Crap. Well I suppose I should eat something before my demise. Do you have a place in mind for my last supper?
Vincent M.: I’m putty in your hands.
Marvin: How about The Purple Giraffe on Main at six?
Vincent M.: Awesome! Can’t wait to meet you in person.
Vincent seems nice enough, but I am, to be quite honest, dreading it. I have this problem where I vacillate between wanting a healthy, loving relationship and wanting to become a professional hermit. Putting so much of myself into my work flat-out exhausts me. I love my job, but being on your feet, attending to the needs of a class of kindergarteners, and being “on” all day sucks me dry. And while fatigue plays its part, I’m fairly certain the delightful combo of childhood trauma and anxiety deserves most of the credit. What I actually want to do is go home, order a large pizza for myself, put on pajamas, and be in bed shoving pizza in my face and watching Netflix with Gonzo by seven.
At lunch, Jill and I gather around a small table in her classroom to eat. The teacher’s room, one of the least inviting rooms in the school, mostly gets used for the microwave. And why people think reheating leftover fish in the public teacher’s room microwave falls into the acceptable category eludes me. We typically retreat to one of our classrooms to eat, which allows some respite from the general school population and, with the classroom door shut, more adult conversations. Jill’s low-calorie frozen meal appears about as appetizing as a cardboard sandwich. I poke at my dry leftover spaghetti with a fork.
“So, where’s the date? What time? What are you going to wear? Tell me.”
“You’re clearly more excited about this date than me. Maybe you should go instead?”
Jill rolls her eyes and puts her hands out in a “so, tell me” pose.
“We’re going to The Purple Giraffe for dinner at six o’clock because I hope to be home in my pajamas by eight, and I’m wearing this.” I gesture to my outfit.
“Marvin, you’re wearing a T-shirt that says Book Nerd, jeans, and sneakers. Ratty sneakers. Even I know this does not qualify as a date outfit.”
“Well, this is what he’s getting.”
My phone, which sits on the table, dings with a message alert.
Olan: Hello Mr. Block. Illona’s nanny Cindy Rodriguez will pick her up today. If you need anything else from me please let me know. Thank you!
Swallowing hard, I quickly give his message a thumbs-up and put my phone in my pocket.
“Who was that? Vincent? Excited for the date?”
“No, it was Illona’s dad letting me know the nanny will pick her up today.”
“Oh, of course, he has a nanny. I bet she’s young, gorgeous, and they’re all over each other when Illona’s at school.”
My chest tightens at the thought of Olan canoodling with his nanny. Why the hell do I care?
“First, you had him flirting with me, and now he’s having a torrid affair with his female nanny?”
“No, you’re marrying this Vincent guy. Olan can have the nanny.”
“Lord help me.” I scoop my plastic container up and bring it over to the classroom sink to rinse. I slosh water around the container, give it a few sturdy shakes, and use a paper towel to dry it off. My mind wanders to Olan. He’s texting slightly more than I’d expect. Are we becoming friends? Being friends with an attractive single straight man is so out of my wheelhouse I’m not sure I’d know how to handle it. Literally, the only straight man I consider a friend is Nick, and that’s because he’s attached to Jill. Why does he keep sending me those damn winky face emojis? What’s that about?
* * *
“All right, friends, we have a few minutes before the buses are called; let’s share our weekend plans!”
You learn to start early when you have to wrangle twenty kindergarteners into full winter gear and backpacks and have them ready to go on time. On the flip side, sometimes, not often, miracles do happen; they actually focus and finish quicker than you anticipated and planned for, leaving you a few extra minutes. I instruct them to make a circle on our brightly colored rug so we can share a little about our weekend plans.
Here’s what you need to know about asking five-year-olds to share their thoughts, ideas, or plans. You simply never know what you’re going to get, but it will most likely be random, confusing, inappropriate, or some combination of the three.
To help move things along, I give a sentence stem and example.
“Who would like to go first? If you have plans, you can share that, and if you don’t have any plans, you can share something you hope to do. It might sound something like this… this weekend, I hope to have fun with friends.”
I nod at Ricky, sitting next to me, to begin.
“This weekend, I’m hoping the tooth fairy comes!” He whistles through his missing front tooth.
“This weekend, I’m going to the park with my cousins.” Kevin lives next door to his cousins, who are often part of his outings.
“This weekend, I’m going to Disney.” Jessica, a sweet girl with brunette pigtails, wants desperately to go to Disney and shares this often, sometimes telling us on Monday mornings that she’d been to Disney over the weekend. There’s an unspoken understanding among the class to simply smile and nod at Jessica.
“This weekend, I’m going to play with my puppy.”
“This weekend, I’m going to make a snowman.”
“This weekend, Cindy is taking me shopping,” Illona shares.
“Who’s Cindy?” Kevin asks.
“My nanny.”
“What’s a nanny?” Ricky wonders.
“She lives with us and watches me and helps my dad. She’s amazing.”
“So, like a babysitter who lives with you?” Kevin again.
“Yes,” Illona says.
I nod to Charlie to continue.
“This weekend, I’m going to blow bubbles in the bath,” Charlie says.
Some giggles at the mere mention of Charlie in the bathtub gurgle up, and finally, the announcements blare, saving me from the simmering mayhem.
“Bus students, please head to the hallway!” Jean’s voice booms.
Our dismissal routine begins. Children taking the bus line up to be gathered quickly by Kristi. Popping her head into the room, she gives me a quick thumbs-up, and my line follows her like she’s the pied piper. It always amazes me to witness lines of children moving throughout the school. Where else in the world do we move in intricate lines, weaving in and out of places in a (somewhat) orderly fashion? Oh, wait, prison.
With the bus children gone, three children wait with me. Kevin and Sophia go to an after-school science program. Once in line, Illona pokes my stomach to get my attention.
“Mr. Block, remember I’m getting picked up by my nanny, Cindy, today.”
“That’s right. Your dad sent me a message earlier.”
Of course I remember. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Olan at pickup and interact with him has become part of my daily routine. Instead, today I’ll scope out Illona’s nanny. Secretly, I’m hoping she’s more of a Mary Poppins than Fran Drescher. Illona mentions “Cindy, my nanny,” often but hasn’t spilled any clues about her appearance.
“Teachers, please walk pickups to the back door.”
“Ready?” I put my hand out, and Illona latches on.
As we stroll down the hallway together, past the book display the librarian curated with books about snow, snow animals, and snowy stories, Illona tilts her head up toward me.
“Mr. Block, do you have a wife?” My eyes bulge slightly at her question. “Or a husband?” I wasn’t expecting that either, and my eyes glisten.
Being out to my students has been a journey. When I began teaching, I was petrified of anyone finding out. I’m not exactly sure what I was so afraid of, but the potential ramifications of being a queer male teaching kindergarten haunted me. As Adam and I became serious, I slowly began including him in my conversations. We weren’t married, and I hate the term “boyfriend” (we weren’t twelve) or “partner” (we weren’t opening a law firm together). I simply just spoke about him in a matter-of-fact way. My students and their families knew I was with Adam. They knew we lived together, and he was my “person.” Once that changed, unable to simply mention a significant other in passing and use him and our relationship as my proclamation, explaining I’m gay became more complicated. But I’m always honest if children ask about my personal life.
“Oh no, I’m not married. But someday, maybe.”
“Do you want a wife or a husband?”
Persistence. I respect that.
“A husband.”
Illona’s soft smile tells me this isn’t earth-shattering news to her. And that has been my experience with almost all children. They simply do not care about anything other than the happiness of their teacher. If only all society felt the same. This explains part of why I love working with littles. They truly have beautiful, open hearts.
As we corner the back hallway where pickups happen, Dr. Knorse stands at the long folding table with a binder opened for signing out children. She doesn’t always help with dismissal. She is, as Jill and I liked to joke, extremely busy and important. Truthfully, she is busy and important. In my nine years of teaching, one thing I’ve learned, being a principal has absolutely no allure to me. It seems like Dr. Knorse spends most of her time dealing with unruly children, disgruntled parents, and problematic teachers. Even with their snotty noses, loose teeth, and questionable hygiene, I’m much happier in the classroom with my little charges.
As we get closer to the table, Dr. Knorse spots us.
“Mr. Block, Illona can wait here. You’re free to go.”
Um, as much as I’m ready to bolt home, there’s no way I’m leaving without putting eyes on Illona’s nanny because, well, I’m curious as hell and who wouldn’t be? And Jill’s comments have gotten to me, clearly, so here I am, on a Friday afternoon. I should be zooming out of here and thinking about my date with a guy named Vincent M. Instead, I linger to meet Illona’s nanny. Does Jill unnecessarily wait with her pickups as well? Of course.
Not knowing what Cindy looks like, I wait for Illona’s cue. She drops my hand and shouts, “Cindy!” and I know the eagle has landed.
How can I best describe Cindy Rodriguez?
To be blunt, she’s a fucking bombshell. A total shaineh maidel. Cindy wears jeans and a simple beige wool coat, the type of outfit that would appear casual on most people but on her, looks like something from a catalog photoshoot. Long brown hair cascades down her back and frames her face and ample physique. As she approaches the table, the smell of apple blossoms washes over the space. As she speaks, her face simply radiates beauty. Clearly, this vision takes care of more than Illona’s needs at home. Fantastic.
“Hi, I’m Cindy Rodriguez, and I’m here to pick up Illona Stone from Mr. Block’s class. Her dad said he sent a message to him.” Her voice comes out delicate and fragrant.
Dr. Knorse begins looking through papers for a note, which of course, Olan did not send because he texted me directly. I advance toward the table to sort this out.
“Hi, I’m Marvin Block, Illona’s teacher. Yes, Illona’s dad sent me a message.”
“But we need a written note.” Dr. Knorse, ever the rule follower.
Olan signed his permission for Cindy to pick up Illona on the first day he came in to meet with us, but the school requires a note if there’s a change from the usual person. Olan’s text, along with his original consent suffices, but now I need to show Dr. Knorse the message.
I pull out my phone and rush to make sure only the message about Cindy appears on my screen. Cindy’s face scrunches up in confusion at the temporary holdup. Funny thing, even with her confusion, she glows as if ready for a photo shoot. I want to hate her, but the damn aroma of apples ushers my stomach to memories of pie.
“Her dad messaged me earlier today,” I say, holding my phone up.
“Oh, well, that’s all we needed. Have a good weekend, Illona.” Dr. Knorse studies my phone and attempts a smile. She never wants families to be out of favor with her.
I give Illona a little nod and release her grip. She joyfully skips over and grabs Cindy’s hand. As they walk out, I can’t help but think about all the hands Illona’s held today and how in some cosmic way, she ties us all together.