Chapter 14
I jolt up from my slumber, heart racing and breath heavy. For a few seconds, I’m positive I’m being chased by someone faceless or in a battle in some unfamiliar place, or the world is simply crushing to an end on top of me. It takes me snatching Gonzo from the foot of my bed, pulling him up to my chest, holding him like an infant, and kissing his sweet head and face ten times to calm and center myself. Peeking at my phone through tired eyes, I realize it’s three in the morning. And zero notifications await me. My alarm won’t go off for almost three more hours, and there’s only about a 50 percent chance I can actually fall back to sleep.
As I love on Gonzo, my motor begins to downshift, and slowly, the brakes are engaged, and my pulse slows. Looking at his round softball head, damp from my slobber, I’m buoyed by the unique bond we share. I only became a Cat Dad as an adult. My mother could barely take care of me, let alone an animal. I remember years when I’d begged for a cuddly pet, though she never relented. For my tenth birthday, in a fit of guilt, she bought me a goldfish. I learned quickly I’m not a fish person because, well, you can’t do much with fish but feed them, and if you’re ten and want to love on your pet, you stuff it with fish pellets until it dies before you can settle on a name for it.
Gonzo’s eyes are closed, and he purrs like a motor. I’ve read stories about people needing emotional support animals on airplanes. Random creatures like turkeys and peacocks taking up entire rows and causing a commotion, but if they give their owners a smidge of the comfort Gonzo brings me, I say let them fly.
I try to envision how Gonzo would have consoled me in my youth. There were days I’d get off the school bus, nobody waiting for me, walk into our apartment, and my mother was passed out on the kitchen floor from an afternoon bender. The first few times, I was alarmed and tried to rouse her, only to realize she’d blacked out from the booze, and there was nothing I could do but wait it out. Eventually, I learned to check for breathing, step over her and slink to my bedroom to watch television. Unconditional love from a small, soft, domesticated animal would have been more than appreciated.
I stop petting him for a nanosecond, and Gonzo chirps like a gremlin, letting me know he objects to the pause. At some point, thinking about this furball and the fellowship we share soothes me enough, and I doze off.
* * *
‘You are going to be known as the school harlot.’ This thought repeats in my brain while I ping around the classroom setting up for Monday with my students. With no word from Olan, my anxiety takes on a life of its own. In a short matter of time, I’m able to convince myself I will be disgraced, fired, and the Teacher of the Year folks will chortle at the idea of my nomination. The embarrassment I’ll bring upon the school will thwart Dr. Knorse’s attempt to secure our funding, and the blame will be squarely on me. I’ll be forced to resign and spend my days searching for menial work in an unemployment office that plays Fox News on blast. I’ve perfected with precision the skill of winding myself up in seconds.
I stand at the easel, a fresh sheet of lined paper mocking me. The date and greeting are simple, standard, and routine.
Right now, attempting to come up with a share, something for the children to write on the message, to engage with, feels impossible. My mind feels empty and distracted. On cue, Jill pops her head into my room. I brace for her sass, knowing she’ll provide a simple share.
“Anything?” No joke from Jill on a Monday morning articulates everything about the situation. Her tone tells me she’s trying to be optimistic but also realistic.
“Nothing.”
She enters my room and, clutching her bag, plops herself down on the table closest to the door. Knowing she came to check on me, bypassing her own room, comforts me. Putting my marker down on the easel’s tray, I walk over and sit next to her, brushing my shoulder against hers.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she offers.
I raise my eyebrows and give her my oh really? look.
“It feels like him not replying to my text means something,” I say.
“The kids will distract you,” she offers, and deep in my gut, I know she’s correct.
Being present, truly present, is a requirement of working with small children. You can’t wander off in your mind, or on your phone for that matter. They need something from me at every moment and keeping them safe requires all my focus. Add teaching to the mix, and alertness is critical.
When Adam and I broke up, I took a day off because complete sobbing in front of my class felt wrong. Once I returned, the attention, affection, and dependence helped. The children gave me a much-needed diversion, and anyway, writing sub plans could be considered a low-level form of torture in some countries. Did I cry in the back closet when my class was at lunch? Absolutely. But for the most part, they provided an indispensable distraction. I know today, those sweet cherubs marching into the classroom will divert my attention from Olan. From the kissing. The hot, sweaty, sweet kissing. I’m eager for their arrival.
“Can you give me a good share?” I ask.
“How about something about love?”
“Love? Really? Are you trying to torment me?”
“It’s February. Valentine’s Day is looming.”
I jot Write someone you love at the bottom of the message and scribble Gonzo as my example.
“Perfect,” she says and stands to leave.
“Thank you,” I tell her, not only for the share, but for Saturday, and for when Adam left, and for being someone I can truly count on. I don’t say all that, but I don’t need to.
With my message complete, I check my notes for any other prep needed before the children arrive. We’ll need some brown craft paper for a display I’ve planned for us to make together for Groundhog Day. I head down to the closet in the hallway that stores supplies. Every school has one filled with paper, pencils, paper clips, thumbtacks, and cartons of white chalk wondering why it’s been forgotten. As I unroll a long swath of brown paper from the rack holding giant spools in basic colors, Kristi and Dr. Knorse walk by and spot me. I adore Kristi, but with my anxiety on edge about Olan, pleasantries feel harder to fake, and Dr. Knorse often sucks my energy dry.
“Marvin, good weekend?” Kristi asks.
“Not bad,” I say as I touch the spot on my neck Olan nibbled.
“We are so proud of your Teacher of the Year progress. I’ve researched the other nominees and had a good feeling you’d win the county. Everyone loves a male teacher. A male kindergarten teacher? Absolute gold. If we can nab the state win, we’ll be a lock for the funding,” Dr. Knorse strategizes.
Although nothing new, it still rubs me the wrong way to hear my success in early education accredited simply to my gender. Are men in primary grades rarer than a unicorn swimming through Atlantis? Of course. Dr. Knorse assuming being male is the main reason for my selection as county Teacher of the Year smacks of contempt, but hearing her actually say it cuts even deeper.
“Well, I’d like to think I wasn’t only nominated or selected because I’m male.”
“Of course not,” Kristi says. The wince on her face tells me she knew what I was thinking.
“We need to focus on image now. Appearances matter. We’ve walked the hallways to document what repairs, cleaning, and paint touch-ups need to happen before the school visit in March. We’ll have to spend a little, but you’ve got to spend money to make money,” Dr. Knorse says.
Our school, which never seems to have funds for anything teachers actually ask for and need, oh, say, like books, has somehow found money to shine our veneer. Of course, the school could use some help. Everywhere you look, chipped paint, loose boards, and weird unidentifiable splotches on the ceiling scream for attention. Now, in addition to feeling like the school tramp, I get to be the reason monies are irrationally spent. Complete mishigas!
“It’s not until the last week of March, so we have about six weeks to get it all done,” she continues. Kristi and I give each other this-is-slightly-out-of-hand-and-foolish looks.
“Sounds good,” I say through clenched teeth and squeeze my way past them into the hallway. The children will be here any moment, and if I’m not in the classroom when they come bounding down the hallway, it will not be pretty.
I do a fast-walk-slow-jog-trot back to the room and plop the brown paper on a table as the bell buzzes, signaling our day’s official start. I quickly wash my hands in the small combination sink and water fountain, and the lovely chatter of kindergarten arrival approaches outside the door. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, today a little extra grateful for their presence. Kevin bolts up to me, baring his teeth.
“Mr. Block, look!” He points to his mouth, and I begin to investigate.
“Kevin, you lost another tooth. How on earth will you eat solid food?”
“I have to use the teeth on the sides,” he says, yanking his cheek to the side with a finger and pointing to the side teeth in question.
“Well, I’m pleased to know you won’t starve,” I say as he hands me his blue folder.
Children file in and greet me with a variety of fist bumps, waves, and hugs, as they hand me their folders and enter the classroom. I chat with them and ask questions about siblings, pets, lunches, and every random subject under the sun while peeking in folders and retrieving the odd note about a change in dismissal or an impending vacation.
I take a little extra breath with Illona’s arrival because simply the sight of her reminds me of her father and Friday night, even though she clearly knows nothing.
“Good morning, Mr. Block. I went to the movies yesterday!”
My mind immediately pictures Olan in the dark theater, watching the latest animated film with her, and a tiny sharpness prickles my chest, wondering why he didn’t reach out.
“Fun! That would be a perfect share for Morning Meeting.”
“Oh, good idea!” She hands me her blue folder and skips inside the classroom.
I peel back the cover of her folder and a small envelope with ‘Mr. Block’ written on it peeks up. I slowly pull it out and drop her folder in the basket. For about five seconds, I contemplate waiting to open it until I’m alone because a room full of small children bubbles around me, and I’m not sure how the contents will impact me. Not being a patient person, I carefully slip my finger under the end of the envelope and rip it open, pulling out a small, folded note.
Marvin,
Can we please talk after school?
Olan.
That’s it. Can. We. Talk. Can we snog on each other? Please? And now I have to endure the entire school day awaiting this conversation, but he wants to speak to me, which is much preferred to never communicating again. A wave of relief washes over me, and I inhale the deepest breath I’ve taken since Olan left my apartment Friday night. I move to tuck the note into my pocket and Jill appears in the doorway. Sure, I’ve been telling myself I’m not looking for romance, but when a man like Olan comes into your viewfinder, he’s really hard to ignore.
“I saw Illona and asked Brenda to watch my class… anything?”
I hold the note out like it’s both a treasure and burning my hand and hope she’ll grab it quickly. Which she does.
“This is good. He wants to talk. In person.”
The air entering and exiting my nostrils makes a loud whooshing noise.
“It’s going to be okay. I promise,” Jill assures me and spins to head back to her own brood.
Thankfully, the bedlam of kindergarten fills my day, and I don’t have much time to perseverate about Olan. Teddy has a terrible nosebleed, a gusher, and the adrenaline pumping through me to stop the surge of blood and help him calm down carries me through most of the morning. By the time we’re packing up to go home, I’m more than ready for the child-filled portion of my day to be over.
An empty feeling lingers in the pit of my stomach as Illona and I walk hand in hand to meet her dad by the dismissal table. This is what I’ve been waiting for, but I’m fearful. What if Olan tells me he’s made a horrible mistake? Can we still be friends? Could I handle that after what happened? It was only a kiss. But Lord, what a kiss. My head feels light and dizzy.
“Are you ready to go home?” I ask Illona, trying to calm myself with conversation.
“Yeah, I’m hungry. Daddy told me I’m going to have a snack and play on the playground for a little bit with Cindy. He said he needs to chat with you.”
“Did he?”
“Yup.”
A pause.
“Am I in trouble, Mr. Block?”
My legs come to a halt, and I tilt over so my face comes closer to hers because I need her to understand what I’m about to say comes from my soul.
“Illona, no, you’re most definitely not in trouble. Sometimes grown-ups need to chat about, well, grown-up things, but please, please listen to me. You have not done a single thing wrong.”
She sighs and turns her lips up, pulling me toward the table, her worry now assuaged. Olan and Cindy stand by the table waiting, and as much as I look, Olan’s face gives nothing away. He spots his daughter and lights up like a streetlight at dusk. They do their ritual where she leaps into his arms, and she squeezes his neck like a python. Cindy stands behind them smiling, and I can’t help but wonder what she may know about why Olan wants to chat with me. He clearly asked her to come and be with Illona, and they’re also definitely friendly since he escorted her to the restaurant opening. Cindy’s poker face reveals nothing.
Finally pulling back from their hug, Olan says, “Princess, remember I need to chat with Mr. Block for a few minutes. Cindy has a snack for you and will take you to the playground.”
On cue, Cindy unzips her oversized bag and pulls out a small package of cheese crackers that I would gladly gobble down right now because stress eating is one of my favorite pastimes. Olan pops Illona down, and she takes Cindy’s well-manicured hand, and they head outside. I’m keenly aware of the other adults. In addition to Dr. Knorse, Kristi is helping today. Various parents, grandparents, and other adults dot the hallway, awaiting their children.
“Mr. Stone, good afternoon,” Dr. Knorse greets him.
“Hello,” he replies.
Olan smiles at me, and my stomach does a little summersault as I swallow, unsure what to say. I’m fairly certain Dr. Knorse watches our interaction with curiosity.
“Can we chat outside? The path across the street, maybe?”
I expected he’d want to go back to the class and chat but being outside in the fresh cool air might assist my head and breathing.
“Oh, sure, let me run and grab my coat. Why don’t I meet you on the playground?”
I bolt from curious eyes, and five minutes later, wrapped in my warmest down coat, mittens, and sock cap, I’m strolling up to Olan by the edge of the playground. Noticing me, he laughs a little, which makes me worry because I literally haven’t said a word, and if simply the sight of me strikes him as funny, this probably isn’t going to go well for me.
“You. In that hat,” he says.
“What? It’s winter in Maine. I have recess duty. I like to stay toasty.”
“No. It’s adorable. You’re adorable.”
Oh.
He nods toward the entrance to the path, and we stroll over.
The trail begins across the street from the school building and follows the coastline, snaking in and out of view of the street and ocean. In warmer months, the trees, lush with blossoms and leafy cover, are bursting with wildlife, and attempting it without bug spray means coming out covered in tasty nibbles. But in February, only the evergreens provide cover and snow blankets everything in sight. This path provides such solace, a buffer from the reality of life with the sanctity of the sea thrown in as a bonus. I walk it often, more in summer when time feels unlimited and less rushed. On frigid days, like today, there’s an extra sense of tranquility.
We cross the street in silence, and my head blows up like a balloon. I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, and my stomach growls in protest. The combination of hunger and anxiety threatens my blood sugar, and since I do not fancy passing out in front of Olan, I pull a bag of walnuts out of my pocket and pop a few in my mouth.
“Walnut?” I offer, and he puts a hand up and shakes his head.
We enter the path, snow packed down by walkers. The trees provide a blanket of privacy, but Olan still hasn’t truly spoken, and the quietness is killing me, so I hurry to fill the empty air.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the kissing. I was out of line. Way out of line. You’re a parent, and you’ve just moved, and I shouldn’t have let it go that far. It seemed like we were becoming friends, and I like you. As a friend, I mean. I like you as a friend. The last thing I want is to ruin any chance of that continuing. Please, I hope you can forgive me because…”
Interrupting my rambling, he grabs my shoulders and pushes me up against a thick tree. Our lips collide, and the rough bark rubs my back through my coat. Caught between Olan and the tree, both solid and real, I feel enveloped. The familiarity from the other night reminds me of remembering how to ride a bicycle – easy, natural, and uninhibited. The freezing air no match for the warmth of his face on mine. He starts slowly but quickly intensifies, and his tongue dances into my mouth, exploring, tangling with mine, the nuttiness of the walnuts adding some unusual texture, but he clearly doesn’t mind. My tongue enters his mouth and lands right on the small space between his two front teeth, and I’m suddenly overtaken with heat. Ablaze with passion, my tongue grazes the gap and slides back and forth over it. His arms wrap around me entirely, and this must be what heaven feels like because I’d be very content to stand here in the freezing cold, kissing this man forever.
But he pulls away.
“Marvin, I’m so sorry I didn’t text you back or call you. I needed to process what happened. And I wanted to converse in person, not over the phone. In my mind, even though I initiated it, I did not expect what happened Friday to happen. It wasn’t planned. I’ve wanted to kiss you but had no idea if it was appropriate. Or if you even wanted me to kiss you. We were sitting in the car. So close. And you looked so adorable and well, I surprised myself as much as you. I’m a tad disoriented, but I don’t regret it.”
“So, you, um… like me?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
Once again, I feel like a dolt. Even with the kissing, I questioned his feelings because why would anyone amazing like Olan like me?
“Does this” – I use my hand to gesture between us – “mean you’re bi?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I think that’s what’s confusing me. The only relationship I’ve had was with Illona’s mom, and right now, I really shouldn’t even be dating. I didn’t expect these feelings, but we were hitting it off, and I just, I don’t know, when I was younger, I knew something about me was different.”
“Go on,” I say.
“There was this time, I think I was about four, I remember going to the park with my family. My mother packed a picnic, and I rested on the blanket as she unpacked the sandwiches. My two older brothers, Liam and Gabe, tossed a football on the field near the playground. Liam shouted for me to join them, and I remember feeling a pit in my stomach. They threw the ball so hard and fast that I knew I would never catch it and most likely get hurt trying. My mother handed me a book from the library I loved. It was filled with cars, trains, boats, and airplanes. I studied the pages, the photos, and the diagrams, tracing them with my finger. ‘Leave Olan alone. He’s reading with me,’ she shouted, and they finally stopped hounding me. But I knew. Something deep and frightening in my stomach screamed I was different. Different than my brothers. Different from other boys. And not in a simple way.”
Olan takes my hand and leads me a little further into the shelter of trees. Even through his glove and my mitten, the pressure of his fingers around mine feels tingly and toasty.
“Wait, so you’ve never kissed a… a…” I stammer.
“A teacher?”
I laugh because he’s so ridiculously literal and hilarious and then say, “No, silly. A man.”
“Nope. I’ve never kissed anyone except Isabella.”
“Oh.”
“Growing up a boy who was more into math and science than sports was tough in my family. I think questioning my sexuality felt like it would tip the scale. Pushing the idea out of my brain just sort of happened. When Isabella and I met, I suppose it was easier. And I did love her.”
My ears are listening to him, but my head’s ability to keep up is struggling. I heard he shouldn’t be dating. He might be bi, but he’s not sure. But there’s a confidence in the way he kisses me. Olan Stone may be confused, but there’s no doubt in my mind, he’s a good man. No, a wonderful man. Catching feelings for a parent is brainless, and the Teacher of the Year contest should be my focus. Dr. Knorse is counting on me. Damn, the entire Pelletier Elementary community is counting on me. And handing my heart over never works out. Stopping this nonsense would be the right course of action. Yes. No more kissing Olan Stone. Put those lips out of my mind.
“Listen, I like you. Maybe we can slow it down a little and hang out,” he says.
“I can hang out. I like hanging out. I’m an expert hanger outer.”
“See, you have to stop being so adorable,” he leans forward and kisses me, gently this time, short, like dotting an i or crossing a t.
“Let’s head back. I’ll send you a text to make some plans to…”
“Hang out,” I finish for him.
He takes my hand, stuffed into a mitten like a packed dumpling, and squeezes it. And even though it feels like the brakes have been slammed on our train, it’s still chugging along, and considering I expected the worst, I’m not entirely disappointed. Being friends with Olan makes perfect sense. No more kissing. I can do this.