Chapter 9
Olan: Illona can’t stop talking about the sledding field trip. Are chaperones allowed to sled too?
Marvin: Allowed? Required. I’ll be barreling down the hill myself. That’s part of the fun for the kids.
Olan: Wonderful. Can’t wait.
The days leading up to our field trip, the children bubble with anticipation. Tomorrow we are leaving school. On a bus. Together. There’s something magical about exploring the world with your teacher and friends, and as the school day draws to an end, the anticipation of our day of fun boils to the surface.
I walk Illona down to dismissal, and a cheery, all smiles Olan appears. This gleeful version of him invites butterflies to my stomach, swirly and soaring, causing my breath to catch, but I do my best to appear unfazed.
Under his long coat, unzipped to his waist, he’s wearing a color-block sweater. The fabric, shades of blue and white, clings to his chest, and for a moment I think he catches me staring. To distract myself, I avert my eyes to his hair, thankfully not hidden by a hat today.
“Princess, another good day?” Illona never fails to leap into his strong arms. She hugs him, and he squeezes her tight, the fabric on his coat stretching around his biceps.
“Mr. Block.” We agreed he’ll call me Marvin privately, but for now, in front of Illona, it should be Mr. Block, and it’s rather adorable how he snaps the consonants. “I’ll see you in the morning for the field trip.” He smiles that smile, with that barely-there groove between his two front teeth behind lips so soft and plump they demand I stare, and a stunning straight male friend may be the end of me. Oy.
“You will. Make sure you dress for sledding,” I remind him, knowing he’ll look ridiculously handsome decked out in snow gear.
“Can’t wait,” he says, and damn him, he winks, sending my insides into melt mode. Am I supposed to wink back? I simply let out a feeble “heh.”
Our annual sledding trip to Chickadee Farm brings a much-needed jolt of post-holiday-season enthusiasm. Jill’s brainchild from three years ago, when she attempted to pull me out of my post-Adam breakup funk with some school-based adventure, it quickly became a winter kindergarten tradition.
“Let’s take the kids sledding,” she said at lunch one day.
“But we can sled on the playground.”
At the time, I had no idea where this sudden urge to sled came from.
“Marvin, that’s barely sledding. If we take the kids to a farm with giant, rolling hills, they can sled for an entire afternoon. Plus, there’ll be hot chocolate.”
“Are you using chocolate to persuade me?”
Jill opened her mouth and smiled, showing every single tooth, raised her shoulders, and squeaked, “Who me?”
* * *
Field trips present an interesting dichotomy. On the one hand, you don’t have to plan or prep for the time away from school. On the other hand, the kids bring a level of energy and excitement requiring extra supervision. Losing a student is never cute. Depending on the outing and number of chaperones, groups need to be created and monitored. My favorite trip, the sledding excursion, simply involves our two classes repeatedly climbing up an enormous hill on the farm and sledding down. Mr. and Mrs. Shelton, the farm owners, serve us hot chocolate for the last twenty minutes. Easy, peasy.
Because we don’t board the bus until after lunch, the morning consists of a series of vignettes where I attempt to contain the erupting exhilaration the entire class arrives with. I try to keep our routine as close to typical as possible, and during Morning Meeting, we put Sledding Field Trip on our schedule to have a concrete visual reminder of when we’re actually leaving the school. The children buzz with eagerness.
Finally, Jill and I, dressed head to toe in our finest snow gear, head to the cafeteria to fetch our classes. In her pink and purple snowsuit, Jill resembles a cotton-candy-covered astronaut.
“That outfit is… a choice,” I say.
“Hey, when you’re barely five feet, the children’s section calls. It’s cheaper, and the styles are way more playful.” She does a quick spin for me.
We pick the children up and they practically burst out of their snow gear, knowing we’re heading for the bus. Kindergarten thrills most children on a typical day but leaving the school building with your new friends and teachers takes it to the next level of elation. We trudge outside to the purring school bus, along with the family members joining us. My eyes spot Olan right away.
Huddled with the other adults joining us, he appears to be conversing politely with three mothers – two from Jill’s class I haven’t met yet, and Mrs. Schroeder, Teddy’s mom. He’s wearing a bright blue parka, black snow pants, and heavy boots. His hair hides under a black fur-lined cap with flaps, which currently are up but can fall down to keep his ears toasty. Even though he’s covered head to toe in winter gear, seeing Olan melts my frozen butter heart.
We head over to the bus, and the smell of burning diesel welcomes us as Ms. Darlene, the driver, pops open the door and perches on the entry steps, ready to squawk. Wearing what appears to be four thick flannel shirts instead of a coat, Darlene’s auburn mane pokes out from a Bruins baseball cap. I’ve never seen her with a cigarette, but Darlene’s raspy voice makes me wonder if she smokes an entire pack daily.
“All right, with the number of children and adults and the size of our bus” – she bangs the side of the bus, causing a few of the children and Teddy’s mom to jump – “I need three kids or two adults to each seat,” she barks.
“Kids on first. Adults, wait here for just a minute,” Jill shouts.
I love it when she takes charge because it allows me to hang back for a bit. The two of us bring the children aboard and mostly let them sit wherever they like, three to a seat, as Darlene instructed. We leave three empty seats for the grown-ups, one in the back, one in the middle, and one in the front.
“Do you want the front or back?” I ask Jill as we seat the last children. We need to be on either end of the bus to monitor any issues.
“Front. I don’t want to get carsick.”
“Okay, fine, you grab the chaperones,” I reply and take my spot in the seat closest to the back.
Entering the bus, it’s clear Mrs. Schroeder, Teddy’s mom, and one of the moms from Jill’s class know each other from outside of school and plop down in the middle seat. The other mother from Jill’s class joins her in the front of the bus, leaving Olan to trot toward the back to ride with me. The mushy pit in my stomach gurgles with anticipation as he advances.
The drive to the farm only takes fifteen minutes but being smooshed with Olan Stone into a seat meant for children seems like a mischievous turn of events from the universe. As he approaches, I do my best to make room, plastering myself against the cold metal frame of the bus, my neck inches from the frosty window.
“I guess we’re bus buddies.” Olan flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He plops down, sending me up momentarily as I huddle near the ice-crystal-covered window. Illona, in the seat directly ahead of us, pops her head up to see her father.
“Daddy! Hi!” Her face beams.
“Hey, princess,” he says softly. His deep voice is only inches from my ear, and the hair on the nape of my neck stands up.
“All right, everyone, hands inside the bus, bottoms on seats, facing forward!” Darlene’s voice booms over the bus speakers, prompting Illona to spin herself back round to face the front. Olan leans forward and pats her on the back. Why is being such an attentive father so damn sexy?
The engine spits and pops, and we begin to roll toward the farm. Cocooned in our seat, Olan and I have a tiny semblance of privacy in the crowded school bus. Deep breaths.
“This your first time on a school bus in a while?” I ask.
“Probably since high school. It certainly seems more compact than I remember.”
“They’re not made for comfort, that’s for sure.”
“No, I think they’re designed to transport the largest number of occupants in the safest, most cost-effective manner.” He nods and scans the inside of the bus.
Olan Stone is a complete dork. A dashing dork. I’m doomed.
“I think you’re right.”
We drive over the bridge leading off the peninsula, taking us out of Portland and into more rural surrounding towns. Strip malls, full of pet and cell phone stores, gradually morph into a mixture of wooded areas and farms. Eventually, nature completely takes over with only the occasional gas station and convenience store. Being a smaller city, Portland never overwhelms me, but serenity and peacefulness wash over me whenever I’m somewhere you can see all the stars in the night sky.
“You mentioned you sold your business. What exactly do you do?”
With all the pleasantries Olan and I have exchanged, I know very little about him outside of his daughter. Welcome to the getting-to-know-you portion of our adventure.
“Well, I sold my aerospace company last year.”
“Aerospace, that’s like… outer space?” My cheeks rise, and I give a little shrug because I have no clue.
His face bunches up, then relaxes, and he chortles. He laughs so loud that Jill, sitting in the front, stops chatting with the parent from her room and whips her head around, eyes wide.
“Not exactly. More aircraft. Turbo engine technology. Although some spacecraft utilize the same tech. So, technically it could encompass outer space. It all depends on the application and classification of travel.”
As Olan speaks, my mouth becomes agape. Only slightly, but I rush to close it.
“That sounds, um, complicated.”
“Let me try to clarify it. Jet engines require air. Typically, a turbine powers an air compressor. The compressor rotates, and any leftover power supplies the thrust through a propelling nozzle. It’s called the Brayton thermodynamic cycle. It’s how jets can fly long distances and it’s the core principle behind proposed inter-solar-system space travel.”
My head makes small circles, trying to catch some understanding, but I am completely lost. Little Red Riding hood in the woods lost. But make her kosher for the wolf. I grab at the base of my neck and struggle for a reply and finally say, “Olan, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a complete nerd.”
He blinks a few times and bites his lower lip. Crap, did I insult him? I jump back to rambling.
“Nerds are cool. Very cool. Everyone loves nerds. They’re, they’re very in. I, myself, adore nerds.”
His face softens and, dear Lord help me, he puts his right arm around my shoulder and gives me some sort of macho side hug, yanking me to him. I turn toward him, and he stares back at me with bright eyes.
“Cool. I’m perfectly content being a nerd.” His breath reaches mine, and his cherry ChapStick taunts me as I gape at his mouth. I want to lean over and lick his juicy lips. Get it together, Marvin.
I pull back from him and ask, “So, you sold your company. What’s the plan now?”
“Well, I have funds from the acquisition. I’m pondering my next move, but I have meetings and commitments that keep me occupied. Having Cindy’s help is immeasurable, but I’m trying to be more involved with Illona, too.”
“That sounds smart. I mean, duh, clearly, you’re smart.” And I sound like a meshugganah.
“I’ve been told I’m intelligent. But thank you.” Olan reaches over and pats my knee. My hand rests there, and with my mittens in my coat pocket, his hand grazes mine and there’s a tiny spark of static. The bus begins to feel like a sauna. Does he understand how touching me might not be judicious?
“And clearly, I’m thrilled you put Illona at Pelletier Elementary, but do you mind if I ask, with your, um, means, why not a private school?”
“Well, the decision really was about diversity. About having her somewhere with children from all different backgrounds and cultures. I know I can’t shelter her forever, but for now, it’s important that she’s not the only Black child in her class or school. I’m a product of public school. I know the finest educators work at public schools. Present company included.”
The heat rises to my face, and I feel my ears flush hot.
“What about you? Tell me about your life outside the classroom.”
“Well, there’s Gonzo, my cat. I have a slightly unhealthy affection for him.”
“Yes, animal relationships can provide necessary companionship. Is there anyone besides Gonzo?”
Does Olan Stone want to know my relationship status? Okay, friend.
“Oh, I’m single. Completely. Free and open,” I blurt out with a grin and jazz hands.
Kevin, sitting in the seat in front of us next to Illona, pops his head up.
“Mr. Block is single. Single means one. Alone. He doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
My face flushes. Again.
“Yes, Kevin, single means one. Now turn around and sit, please.”
Olan snickers and takes this information in, nods, and manages to wrangle his lush lips into a thin line. Should I return the question? Maybe find out more about Illona’s mother. It seems like the perfectly reasonable thing to do. I take a deep breath, amping myself up.
“Two minutes away! Everyone, please make sure you collect your belongings, all of them, and stay seated until we come to a complete stop and I open the door.” Darlene’s blaring voice interrupts us and halts our conversation, and I’m disappointed to be leaving the bubble of the back seat.
We file out of the bus like ants heading to a picnic. The snowpack creates a dampening effect, absorbing all the sound in the area. The farm animals are all stabled because of the weather, but the smell of manure and hay wafts from the barn.
The children spend the next hour and a half traipsing up the snow-covered hill that provides the backdrop of Chickadee Farm. A narrow path created from shoveling and continued stomping helps the process of ascending the hill go smoothly. For the first half hour or so, I remain at the bottom, and the complete joy on the kids’ faces as they shoot down the hill makes me bend over with laughter. The magic of winter in Maine bursts inside my torso. The small mounds of snow we fashion on our playground simply can’t compete.
Among the sea of tiny faces, there’s Olan, molded into his plastic sled, his solid frame allowing him to fly down with incredible momentum. I wonder if he’s thinking about velocity and speed as he zips toward the bottom. I mean, it’s probably a solid bet.
Jill grabs me and shouts, “Teachers’ Turn!” and I’m more than ready.
She slaps her sled down next to mine, and we push off simultaneously, hamming up a mock rivalry for the children.
“Okay, Mr. Block, my turn to smoke you,” she snarls.
I beat Jill every year simply because I outweigh her by at least fifty pounds, but I let her make a show of it for the kids.
When everyone’s hats are damp and sprinting up the hill slows to more of a saunter, Mr. and Mrs. Shelton call, “Who wants hot chocolate?”
The kids scream and scramble over to the wooden shed cleared out for this purpose and line up, waiting for their warm, sugary refreshments. They remember to hold their cardboard cups with two hands and blow gently on their cocoa before sipping, as we’d discussed that morning.
In the hubbub of toasty chocolatey delight, Zoe trips over a chunk of ice, falls into me, and my hot chocolate cascades down the front of my jacket (because, of course it would), once again leaving me looking like a complete klutz. As I stammer for assistance, Olan materializes with paper towels from the shed.
“Mr. Block, let me help you,” he says, wiping the sugary mess from my jacket, and I’m simultaneously embarrassed at my clumsiness and charmed by his thoughtfulness. Even through his gloves and my thick coat and sweater, the pressure of his hands on my body sends a jolt of heat into my stomach.
“I can be so clumsy sometimes, and there’s no air dryer here.” I let out a feeble laugh.
“Accidents happen. Nobody’s hurt. There.” He takes a final swipe. “You’ll want to launder this when you get home,” he says, crumpling the wet paper up in his gloved hands.
“Thank you.” I place a hand on my chest and confirm he’s achieved the best possible result for now.
He takes a step toward me to inspect his work, brushing his hand over my chest, and it feels like a full vat of hot chocolate rushing over me, this time on purpose.
“Looks excellent,” he says.
I look up to meet his gaze. Our eyes lock, holding a few moments longer than they should, especially on a field trip, and I turn to gather the children.
“Everyone, line up for the bus!” I shout, shattering the moment.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought that having Olan close to me makes my entire body weak and tingly. Clearly, my flesh and brain haven’t come to an agreement about my feelings. I tell myself that having a gorgeous straight male friend is fine, but whenever he looks at me, smiles at me, or touches me, my stomach turns to mush. Remaining solely friends with Olan Stone may be a bigger challenge than I can handle.