Chapter 17
Dear Families,
Next week our class will celebrate Valentine’s Day. This is a time to honor the friendships we’ve cultivated. Attached, please find a list of every student’s name spelled correctly. If your child would like to exchange cards, please send one for everyone in the class. We’ll have a small party with treats. If you’re interested in contributing, please let me know.
Thank you,
Mr. Block
“It was lovely, pleasant, perfectly innocent,” I say, with Jill sitting across from me at a table in her classroom as we both cut hearts out in various shades of white, pink, and red. Lying to Jill makes my insides crumple and jumble like a skydiver with a faulty parachute. I do not care for it one bit. But Olan is a parent. Teacher of the Year. The school’s funding. There’s no way I would even be considered if this got out. And we’re figuring things out. Once it’s figured out, I’ll tell her.
“But you slept over.”
“In the guest room. We made pizza with his daughter. And watched a movie. In the morning, we had cereal, and I walked home. End of story.”
“That sounds remarkably date-ish to me,” she argues. She’s not entirely wrong.
“I realize it sounds that way, but it wasn’t. We are squarely locked in the friend zone, and I’m perfectly fine with that,” I fib as Olan’s flawless naked body flashes in my head. His gorgeous cock in my hand. My mouth. His body writhing under my spell. Friday night obliterated the friend zone, and my chest tingles at the memory.
“Anyway, how was your weekend?” I change the subject with the deftness of a child spitting out their meal into a napkin and hoping their parents don’t notice. Luckily, it appears to have worked.
“Pretty good. I actually have some news.”
“News? What? What is it?”
Jill stands and shuts the door. If privacy is required, this must be something spectacular.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispers, placing a hand on her stomach.
“What? Really? How? When?” I shout louder than I should.
“Hush it. Yes, really, and I think you know how. I’ll spare you the gory details of heterosexual intercourse. I missed my last period, took a home test, and the doctor confirmed it this morning, but we’re only in the first trimester and agreed not to tell anyone yet. Technically, I’m not supposed to tell you, so not a word, mister. I mean it. Zip it. Nobody.” She runs a finger across her lips.
I knew Jill and Nick had been trying for a little over a year. The last time she was pregnant didn’t have a happy ending. She’d texted me during Morning Meeting. We never text when we’re teaching, so I knew something was up. She was experiencing extreme cramps, and I drove her to the hospital to meet Nick. One of the worst days in Jill’s life became one I will always remember for all the wrong reasons. I knew they’d been trying, but after the last time, I don’t ask about it unless she brings it up. Jill and Nick expecting again gives me hope.
“Oh my gosh, best news ever! I’m so happy. For you both.” I stand and hug her tightly. “I’m not hurting you, right?”
“No, Marvin, you’re not hurting the tiny human growing inside of me with a tight hug. Now listen, part of the reason I’m telling you, and nobody else yet, has to do with the bathroom. I will have to pee a lot more often and need you to cover for me.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” I give my best salute. “Seriously, Jill, you know I’d do anything for you. Anything. I love you so much.” The corners of my eyes sting with wetness as a stab of guilt about not being honest with her jabs me.
She sniffles. “I love you too. Now stop making me cry. My hormones are all over the place.”
“Anything for you. And the baby. The baby!” I put my hand on her stomach. “Do you mind?” I pull my hand away. “Because I know not everybody loves people touching their stomach with the baby, but a baby!”
“You’re not people, you’re Marvin, and you’re my people, and you can touch my stomach as much as you want,” she assures me, grabbing my hand and returning it to her belly.
Thinking about how much Jill wants this, how she’s telling me and nobody else, and what I’m keeping from her creates a chasm in my stomach. If things progress with Olan, I’ll have to tell her something. Jill and I don’t do secrets, and I’m certain she’ll be on to me soon. And maybe keeping things hushed heightens the turn-on factor, but I’d love to tell Jill every gory detail because she would relish every single one with me.
* * *
Olan: Mr. Block, Illona would like to know if she can bring fruit for the Valentine’s party?
Marvin: Mr. Stone, fruit would be lovely. Red fruits would be on theme, but no pressure.
Olan: Apples, strawberries, raspberries. Am I missing any red fruits?
Marvin: Cherries and cranberries but most kids aren’t fans. And by kids I mean me. Except for cherry chapstick.
Olan: No cherries or cranberries for Mr. Block. Got it.
Marvin: You have to stop calling me Mr. Block.
Olan: Why?
Marvin: It makes me hard.
Olan: Sorry Mr. Block.
I’m not sure folks who don’t teach understand the magic of Valentine’s Day in kindergarten. For my students, the cards, stickers, temporary tattoos, and candy, all the candy, have nothing to do with romantic love. They symbolize friendship, community, and belonging. A day to exchange cheap cards, stale candy, and heartfelt smiles to celebrate the little classroom family we’ve become.
The children pass out store-bought cards with silly jokes in the morning, leaving bags decorated with puffy hearts, cupids, and rainbow stickers to sit on the windowsill. I fill our day with stories and activities about all types of love. Romantic (kissing, ew!), platonic (friends), and familial (family, pets, etc.) love are discussed, and I do believe, even at five, they understand the nuances.
Toward the end of the day, the festivities begin in earnest. The excitement bubbles and bursts from their tiny faces. This resembles a birthday party, but we’re celebrating everyone, not a single friend. Cards opened, jokes read and laughed at, candy licked, faces smeared and sticky, and temporary tattoos applied at the sink encompass our party. By most adult standards, our celebration is beyond basic, but to these kids, it’s a memory they’ll cherish for a long time.
Like each child, I’ve made a bag for cards too. I rotate between tables to open mine. Most children have given me the same variety they gave to their classmates, but a few have crafted their own, and I read every single one aloud as they gush, blush, and giggle.
“To Mr. Block, thank you for your big heart. Love Ricky,” I read.
Ricky dips his head, but his smile overtakes his round face, and he wraps his arms around my waist because whenever words fail to express emotions in kindergarten, the best route is an embrace.
“Ricky, I love it. You wrote this all yourself?”
He nods emphatically.
“And look, you drew me holding your hand, and who is this?”
I point to a drawing I’m unable to identify.
“Gonzo!”
“Of course it’s Gonzo. Look at him, it looks just like him.”
It looks nothing like him.
“I’m going to take this home and show Gonzo and tell him, ‘Ricky drew this lovely picture of you.’”
Another tight squeeze from Ricky.
I pull another card from my bag.
“Mr. Block, thank you for helping me. Your friend, Illona.”
“Do you love it?” Illona launches herself onto my lap.
“I adore it, but I adore you more.”
She leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her. We have a huge love fest in kindergarten, and my heart, already full, bursts with tenderness. There are cupcakes with pink frosting, all the red fruit minus cranberries and cherries, and strawberry yogurt. The simple spread delights the class, and when I tell them we need to clean up to go home, they collectively groan in disappointment.
As we wait for the bus kids to be picked up, Sophia shouts, “Best Valentime’s Day Ever!” a classic and charming mispronunciation. Overtaken by her enthusiasm, the entire class begins chanting along with her, and these are the moments I hope they remember.
At pickup, Olan and I have become adept at keeping any hint of desire hidden between us. Dr. Knorse looms over the table, checking signatures, saying hellos, and investigating the scene for any cracks in the surface. I have no desire to provide her with one.
“Princess,” Olan shouts from behind a cluster of waiting adults. My ears register him first and instruct my heart to stop with all the fluttering. “How was the party?” She’s in his arms now.
“Oh, Daddy, we had cupcakes and fruit and so many cards.” She holds up her bag, an explosion of pink and red goodness.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Dr. Knorse’s greeting to Olan and the other pickup parents leans festive today.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, Dr. Knorse.” Olan attempts to charm her, and I bite my lip to contain my laughter. “And Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Block.” He grins, and the three of us stand there in what feels like a standoff in a bad western, so I end it.
“You too, have a great night,” I reply, and I turn and head back to the classroom to tidy up.
There’s been no discussion about Valentine’s Day between us because we’re taking it slow, and I don’t want to push matters in an uncomfortable way. Rushing and forcing things only leads to disaster. Sometimes I watch the children at Choice Time playing with tiny toy cars, and when their little hands slap the top of the metal and thrust it too quickly, the car ends up toppling up in a horrible crash, their squeaky voices erupting in laughter. There’s no reason for us to push whatever this is that we’re not actually talking about or defining yet.
I bought Olan a simple card and hid it in my backpack. It took some time to find one that was sweet but not overly sappy with some painted hearts and a quote that reads, “Love is when you meet someone who tells you something new about yourself – Andre Breton.” I wasn’t sure about buying a card with the word love in any form, but it turns out for Valentine’s Day, love is almost impossible to avoid. And Olan has awoken things in me I never knew existed. The quote fits. In an effort to keep it understated, I only wrote, Thank you for all the fun , ?, Marvin . We have no plans to see each other outside of pickup today, and I can always give it to him another time.
Driving home with the card in my bag, I’m tempted to pull over and text him. If I let Olan know I have a card for him, he might ask to meet. Or maybe he’d feel bad for not getting me something. Perhaps he’d think I was forcing things. All not outcomes I’m seeking. The uncertainty accompanying the newness of whatever we are is both exciting and excruciatingly frustrating. Not knowing triggers my anxiety; if I let it fester too much, I’ll put myself in a bad place.
I flip to the Eighties playlist on my phone, and the high-hats, pulsing bass line, and the unmistakable male voice croons the opening lines of “Don’t You Want Me.” Within the safety of my car, I belt out the chorus and bop along to the synths. Damn, The Human League never got their due respect.
By the time the song fades, I’m parked, swaying, singing, basking in the comfort of an absolute classic jam, and thankful for the distraction and de-escalation it brought. Walking up to my building, I give a little half-smile to myself. Ice cream in the freezer, a sappy movie on the TV, and Gonzo snuggling under a blanket with me sounds like a perfect evening after the nutty day at school.
As I go to put my key in the front door, I spot something red resting on the ground, directly under the handle. I bend down to investigate and spot Marvin Block written on the small envelope and recognize Olan’s handwriting from his notes. That bugger. Shivering in the frigid February air, I rip it open. The front of the card has an illustration from The Very Hungry Caterpillar on it. It depicts the opening pages. The moon glows softly, the caterpillar still snoozes in its egg, and the entire story awaits to unfold. It’s one of those blank cards you can use for any occasion, and Olan has written, in his less than legible handwriting: Marvin, thank you for being you and helping me be me. Olan.
My chest feels like warm apple butter syrup, and I almost forget about the subzero temperature. I read his message again because, oh my gosh. Pulling the card up to my face, I give the front, inside, and back a little peck. I skip upstairs, peel off my coat, begin to get comfortable for the evening, and pull out my phone.
Marvin: You’re sneaky.
Olan: You’re sexy. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Marvin: I thought I was adorable?
Olan: OK, both.
Marvin: Well I have a card for you too. Maybe you should come get it?
Olan: Can’t tonight. Heading out on a daddy date with Illona.
Marvin: That is the sweetest. Have fun and I’ll give it to you soon.
Olan: Give what to me soon?
Marvin: The CARD. But also, yes, please.