Chapter 13
As happens more often than it should, I wake up on the sofa instead of my bed. I probably should consider a studio and save a few hundred dollars a month. Settled on my chest, Gonzo watches me, patiently waiting to be fed. I reach to pet him, and he leaps to the floor, bolting over to the lower cabinet, meowing toward his food.
“Ok, buddy, I can take a hint.”
As I sit up, in a flash, last night rushes back to me. I slowly touch my lips, still numb from our intense make-out session, the faint smell of cherry lingering. A swirl of conflicting emotions overtakes my head. Clearly, necking with the father of a student will not win me Teacher of the Year. Oh, my lord. Teacher of the Year. Dr. Knorse. The funding. My heart drops to my stomach, and I’m elated to be seated as the blood rushes from my head. But the way Olan touched me, his hot breath on my neck, my body reacted to his in a new and incredible way. I grab my phone from the coffee table and thumb a text to Jill.
Marvin: Morning, slag. Olan drove me home and kissed me. How was your night?
Grabbing a small plate, I shake the can of wet cat food out as Gonzo looks on, purring in anticipation. He begins scarfing down his breakfast, and I head to the bathroom where the faint smell of Olan lingers. Whatever soap, cologne, or deodorant he uses, the hints of lavender and sage dance on my nose. With a full inhale, he’s back here, nibbling on my earlobe and making me weak.
My phone dings from the coffee table, interrupting my daydream.
Jill: Who’s a slag now? I’m coming over. Stopping for nourishment and coffee.
Marvin: I have coffee.
Jill: Do you have real cream and Splenda?
Marvin: Stop for coffee.
My propensity for milk alternatives and real sugar never flies with Jill. I really should stock her necessities, but I mostly survive on frozen foods and seltzer and, much like putting gas in my car, only go food shopping when the cupboards are empty. Nick plays intramural hockey on Saturday mornings, so Jill and I often get together. It helps to have time as friends outside of school, away from the children and the overall circus of teaching. Usually, we meet up at a small local coffee shop equal distance between our places. Drinking coffee, gossiping, looking at catalogs before recycling them, and of course, peeping and dishing about men in the coffee shop are our favorite ways to spend Saturday mornings together.
Occasionally, we’ll just go to one another’s place because getting out of our pajamas feels too complicated. The time Jill had her wisdom teeth out, and her reaction to the anesthesia made her resemble a chipmunk for a week, I drove over and made us milkshakes. Of course, she could barely drink with her swollen cheeks, but I only laughed a little while cleaning up her mess because I’m a caring friend.
Awaiting her arrival, I sit at my small table – pushing aside random papers, bills, and lists I make to help me remember the minutiae of life – and pull my laptop open. I surf the web for pop news and take a minute to check my email. Among the spam from the most random senders (no, I’m not interested in an over-fifty Christian dating service, thank you very much), I spot a message from the Teacher of the Year Committee. I wasn’t expecting to hear anything until Monday, so I’m intrigued. Gonzo pounces on my lap and butts his head against my arm for attention. I stroke him with one hand, which elicits immediate purrs, and click to open the message.
To: mblock @pelletierelementary.org
From: AngelaH @METOY.org
Subject: Cumberland County Teacher of the Year Selection
Dear Mr. Block,
Hello! We know the excitement a nomination for Teacher of the Year brings to educators and schools. The selection process for Teacher of the Year takes months of hard work and dedication from our board.
We understand the time and commitment nominees put into the process, and we do not take our jobs on the committee to designate our county’s representative teacher lightly.
We are thrilled to inform you the committee has selected you as Cumberland County’s Teacher of the Year, 2022.
Next week you will receive additional instructions on the next steps to help you prepare for the state selection process. We will be in touch to schedule your interview and school visit for March.
Respectfully,
Dr. Angela Hayes
Cumberland County Division Director
Maine Teacher of the Year
Hot damn! I won. Sure, it’s only the county, but I won. I’ve never won anything. There was that couples dance off in PE with a girl named Olivia in second grade. We made up a quick routine to “Rockin’ Robin” and slayed it. But the only prize was a round of applause. Which was lovely. But still. This is huge. Even the county win. I wonder if the state title comes with a crown and scepter.
As much as I hoped to be chosen, I knew the competition was stiff, and I’d tried to manage my expectations. Dr. Knorse will be elated. This should give her some ammunition to fight for our school. I’m almost tempted to call her but on a Saturday? No way. Winning feels odd to me. As a child, I wasn’t competitive. The fear of losing overtook my urge to even participate in common rights of passage like spelling bees or board games, and with my clumsiness, sports were never an option. My athleticism only pertains to walking, maybe quickly, only if the right music blares in my ears. And now I’m thinking about my ears and Olan nibbling on them like he was tasting the sweetest ear of summer corn. My stomach does a little flippy-de-do until the roar of the buzzer brings it to a halt.
Jill enters, cloaked in her winter coat, a scarf wrapped around her neck and covering the bottom half of her face. She’s holding a box of Rockstar Donuts, and the sugary aroma hints at least one of the confections inside is my absolute favorite, usually sold out, sinfully delicious, frosted strawberry topped with freeze-dried strawberries and rainbow sprinkles. I grab the box from her mitten-covered hands, and we head to the kitchen as she peels off her winter gear.
“That was the last strawberry, I had to lie to a German tourist to get it. She ordered it and I poked my head in and told her the cinnamon ganache put Rockstar on the map as a donut destination shop.”
“You did not. Cinnamon ganache?”
“I did. Because this calls for a celebratory donut, and you require strawberry. I would have wrested it out of her strong arms if necessary. She’s German, and I needed it for a nice Jewish boy. The universe will call it even.”
“Jill, I love you.”
“I know you do. Now tell me everything.”
“Well, I got it.”
“Wait, what? You got what? Olan?”
“Oh my god, no. Teacher of the Year, for the county anyway, I was selected, the email came last night, but with watching Illona and getting home so late and, well, the kissing, I didn’t see it until this morning.”
This is what happens when you take school email off your phone, which, honestly, I’m happy I did. Getting emails on the weekend about the second-grade team looking for books about mammals is not part of my self-care plan.
“Wait, stop. You got it? Teacher of the Year? Marvin, that’s amazing!”
Jill drops her Mexican chocolate donut and squeezes me with all her might, and because she possesses the strength of a tiny rhinoceros, I let out a little “uhhhh.”
As we pull apart, she beams. “I am thrilled for you, for the kids, for our school, and for me because if you end up going to D.C., I’m so going with you.”
“Slow down. This is for the county, there are big hurdles to jump through for the state. Let’s not put the cart before the horse. And anyway, they aren’t going to select a chazer for Teacher of the Year.”
“You tart. FYI, Nick called it. You and Olan. He told me there’s no way this ‘hot dad’ would be able to ignore your charms. I told him to go crash into other men on the ice. Now, tell me everything that happened, and don’t leave out any of the gory details.”
“Nick thinks I’m charming?” My voice lilts up higher than usual and Jill smirks.
“Yes, but he also thinks cargo pants are high fashion so take it with a grain of salt.”
“Noted. So, we thought Olan was going out with the nanny, but nope. He took her to the opening of Bangladesh, that new place on State Street. Cindy’s boyfriend is the sous chef. It wasn’t a date. Well, not a date, date.”
“That tracks. She’s not his type.”
“Jill, she’s everyone’s type. She’s my type.”
“True. I’d probably hook up with her myself. Anyway, not dating the nanny.” She scoops her hand, urging me on.
“He drove me home, and we’re sitting there in his James Bond car, and he started to lean over and got really close, and when I realized he was making a pass, I panicked. I jumped out of the car and bolted upstairs.”
“Wait, you didn’t kiss?”
“Not then, no.”
“And you ran away? From that hot specimen?”
I dip my head, curl my lip up and give Jill my listen-don’t-try-me look. She knows it well.
“Wait, why did you panic? He’s, well, gorgeous. Lord, I’d like to make out with him.”
“I know, I know. Clearly, not a shining moment for me. I think even though I’d been wanting this, secretly hoping for it, when it actually happened, my inner saboteur screamed, ‘Alert! Alert! Horrible idea ahead, Marvin Block. And why would a man like Olan want you?’ and I bolted.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. You should’ve texted me. I would’ve given you a pep talk.”
“I love you, but in the moment, pulling out my phone to text you didn’t really cross my mind. Anyway, I left my bag in the car because, well, I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached. He brought it up, and after a few minutes of blabbing, he kissed me.”
“What kind of kiss? Are we talking ‘haven’t seen your aunt since last Thanksgiving’ kiss or ‘the love of your life returns from being away for a year and you spot them in the airport, and they dash and leap into your arms’ kiss?”
“More like the latter.”
“How was it?”
I take a full breath. My belly expands, and I blow air out through my circled lips.
“Holy fuck. That good? Show me.”
“Ew. No.”
“Fine. How long was he here?”
“Honestly, I’m not exactly sure. More than five minutes, but less than twenty-ish.”
The kissing, the way my insides thawed when he went to town on my neck and ear, time seemed to slow down, and by the time we stopped, and he was gone, I’m not sure I could say, with any accuracy, how long our tongues tangled.
“And how much of that time was kissing?” Jill can be relentless for details.
“Most of it. All but maybe two minutes. Three tops.”
She’s almost rendered speechless but squeaks out, “Damn.”
“My anxiety began bubbling, and I think he sensed it. The last thing he told me was not to freak out, and I’m trying extremely hard to stay calm about it.”
“Wait, so does this mean he’s bi?”
“I have no idea. My guess would be yes, but we didn’t talk about it. We didn’t talk much.”
“Damn. What happens now?”
“I’m going to finish this donut, which, thank you very much, tastes like supreme strawberry heaven, and hang out with my friend until she heads home to her incredibly sweet and attractive bear of a husband.”
“No, you dunce, with Olan. And you. What happens next?”
“No clue.”
“No texts?”
“Nothing. Thank you for the reminder.”
Did I expect Olan to call me? Text? Send a carrier pigeon? Hire a skywriter? Something, anything, yes. Am I wildly disappointed it’s been radio silence since he left? Utterly.
“You. Text. Him. Doofus.” She pokes my phone on the counter.
Kissing Olan already feels like walking on a high wire. Even though there aren’t explicit rules against it, I’m fairly certain Dr. Knorse would not be thrilled to learn I’ve made out with the parent of a student in my class. My head feels light, imagining the stern talking to I would receive from her. Letting Olan take the lead makes the most sense. He’s the parent, not the employee of his daughter’s school.
“He’s the parent. I’m leaving the ball in his court.”
“The way I see it, collectively, you have four balls. There could easily be at least one ball in everyone’s court.”
* * *
I wake from my sugar-crash-induced nap and grab my phone to check if Olan has made any overtures. Nothing. Tragically, a missed call from my mother taunts me. We haven’t spoken in over three weeks, and my guilt usually begins to creep in at the month checkpoint. Seeking a reprieve from brooding about Olan, I unlock my phone, find Sarah’s blurry photo at the bottom of my favorites, and huff as I press it.
“Hey, how are you?” Her chipper tone makes me unsteady.
“Pretty good. I saw you called.”
“We haven’t talked in a few weeks, so I figured I’d try you. Were you out?”
“No, not out, Jill was over earlier, and then I took a little snooze with Gonzo.”
“How is my grand-kitty?”
Every single conversation, at least once, if not twice, I’m passive-aggressively reminded about my mother’s lack of grandchildren.
“He’s fine, lying right next to me now.”
“Well, give him a kiss from his grandmother.” And I do because loving on Gonzo never gets old.
“How’s work?”
Our conversations have a familiar trajectory, which I appreciate. It helps avoid landmines. We start with pleasantries, move on to work, and typically end with reporting and kvetching about the weather.
“Fine, the kids are doing well, I have a few starting to read, and that always makes me proud.”
I want to tell her about the Teacher of the Year, but also don’t want to overexcite her. My mother looks for places to focus her frenzied energy. When Adam and I got engaged, she became laser-focused on trying to help. From Arizona. Calling flower shops in a city she has no familiarity with and demanding they hand dip roses did not go over well. A part of me knows it’s her fucked up way of attempting to make amends, but it still annoys me.
“What about that award? When do you find out about that?”
“Well, I actually got it.” I wince.
“And when were you going to tell your mother?”
“Mom, I literally just found out this morning.”
“Well, you could’ve called me.”
Sarah refers to herself as my “mother” whenever she wants to make sure I don’t forget she carried me for nine months, endured long, painful labor, and, even with all her faults, did her best to turn me into the man I am today. If guilt were an Olympic sport, she would be a multiple gold medal holder.
“I’m calling you now.”
“Calling me back .”
I let out a loud sigh I’m certain she hears, but also, there’s no stopping it.
“Anyway, they selected me. I’m the county Teacher of the Year. Pretty cool, right?”
“Oh, Marvy, I’m so proud of you. What do you win? Is there money? A trophy or engraved pen?”
“Well, nothing, actually. I now get to submit and run at the state level, so I guess I win more work. That’s what I win.” I give a defensive chuckle, hoping she doesn’t chastise me.
“More work? Are they paying you for all this?”
“No, Mom, they don’t pay me. It’s an honor, I made the choice to do this.”
I haven’t told her about how this could impact the school too. It feels too heavy.
“Okay, I just don’t understand why you’d want more unpaid work. That seems foolish to me, but what do I know? I’m just your mother.”
Just my mother. In case I’ve forgotten. I’m never sure if she means to remind me she gave birth to me or that she raised me by herself. My parents’ marriage was over before I took my first steps. They were high school sweethearts. I was a surprise and not the “hey kids, we’re going to Disney” kind. My mother swears she loved being a young parent, but the strain it put on them evidently broke their brief marriage. My father dropped out of high school to work and support his new family. Working as a janitor at the local library sounds charming enough, but not when you fall for one of the librarians. My mother didn’t find out until after my birth when he ran off to Texas with Lady Librarian. The details from my mother are vague, but she thinks they moved to Dallas at the time. Almost thirty years later, he could be anywhere now. Who knows? He could be dead. He could have a new family. I could have siblings. Somewhere out there, my father is shacking up with Lady Librarian. I only hope he’s at least well-read. My mom’s drinking started to rev up soon after, and well, the rest is drunk history.
“Mom, I’m good with it. I chose this.”
“Fine, fine, I hope you get it. There can’t be anyone better than you in the entire state. In the entire country!”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Now, have you met anyone? Please tell me you’re dating.”
When I came out to my mother in middle school, her biggest fear was I would end up alone. After Adam and I called off our engagement and split, my love life dried up like a stale raisin bagel, and her distress went into overdrive. I could mention Olan, but there’s not much to tell.
“No, Mother, not dating. I have no time. Anyway, how’s the weather?”
Subject-change-game on point.
“You need to make time. And it’s January in Arizona, sixty degrees feels downright chilly. I still don’t know how you manage all that frigid cold and mountains of snow. I’ll never understand why anyone would choose to live there.”
“Well, for one thing, I enjoy living where I get to witness the change of seasons.”
My mother and I paint our conversations with broad snide strokes. She resents me for living so far away, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Distance provides the ultimate buffer for our dysfunctional relationship. I resent her for littering my childhood with traumatic episodes, and she would like nothing more than to forget all about it. My heart tells me she did her best at the time, but my head remembers too much. On good days I can get lost enough in my daily routines to momentarily forget, but true forgiveness eludes me.
“I know, I know, it’s beautiful in summer. Leaf peepers come by the busload in the fall. Vacationland and all that jazz,” she says.
“I mean, you’re not wrong.”
The shift to weather kvetching signals me to wrap up our chat.
“Well, I should go eat something. It’s way past lunch,” I fib. Full from the donuts I gobbled down this morning, my stomach wants for nothing, but the idea of sustenance for her child never fails to motivate Sarah Block.
“Go. Eat. Call me next weekend. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I toss my phone on the sofa like a hot potato.
The chances of me calling her next weekend rival turning my head to the heavens and spotting a drift of pigs fluttering through the air. Ain’t gonna happen. But she says it every time, and I concur. We go through the motions because lying is easier. It’s our bit.
* * *
On Sunday, I waffle between the bed and couch, following Gonzo like a lost lamb. If he stirs to eat or use his litter box, I rouse to replenish snacks and pee, waiting to see where he settles down to shadow him. By mid-afternoon, it’s been almost forty-eight hours since Olan and I snogged like the world was ending, and there’s still no word from him. Gonzo may give me a few dirty looks, but once I begin petting him with enough pressure, his purring takes over, and we return to snuggling. I vacillate between scrolling on my phone for distractions and watching old episodes of early two thousand sitcoms I’ve seen more times than I’ll ever admit in public.
As I finish an episode where the female lead finally connects with her love interest after he does a sexy striptease for her, my frustration refuses to abate. I bite the bullet and shoot Olan a brief text.
Marvin: Hey. Hope you’re having a good weekend. Sunday scaries on deck for me.
I hit send and regret the message immediately. Why can’t I ever play it cool? Because I’m decidedly uncool. It’s my lot in life.
By bedtime, with no reply from him, I wonder if what happened with Olan was part of some imagined fever dream or if I’m losing my mind. I almost text him again about seven times but stop after the first word each time. Do I have reservations about what happened? Of course. Then why does thinking he might also sting? The rest of the school year will be more uncomfortable than an ill-fitting corset on a drag queen. We have four and a half months left, and parent conferences are two weeks away. Fan-fucking-tastic.