Dear Families,
Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a restful break filled with cozy family time, hot cocoa, playing in the snow, and lots of good books! Your child is undoubtedly as excited to return to school as I am to see them. Our first day or two will be spent reviewing routines and procedures and thinking about our New Year’s resolutions for school. We also have a new student joining our kindergarten community, and I know everyone will welcome her with open arms. As always, I’m grateful for the opportunity to teach your children.
Warmly,
Marvin Block
* * *
“Nice of you to show up,” Jill quips.
“My damn gas light came on. Again. Hence my post-crack-of-dawn arrival.”
“Marvin Block, you had the entire break to get gas. Why do you always risk one more drive when there’s a serious chance of being stranded?”
“I honestly forget. And panic. Plus, I like to think of each trip with barely any gas as a Chanukah miracle. Not enough oil but look, made it anyway!”
Jill delights in teasing me. She may be the embodiment of petite, but Jill Kim commands a room like a boss. Technically, she stands at four eleven and a half, but I round up the extra half-inch when describing her because we all deserve a friend who embellishes. Jill and I joke that we both have two minority tallies (her: Korean and tiny, me: Jewish and gay). We’ve bonded over being outsiders, particularly at our school, where the staff resembles a nineteen-fifties housewife’s Tupperware party (white, straight, Christian, relatively tall, and female). We were drawn to each other from the moment we met at my interview nine years ago, when we locked eyes across the conference room table, she winked at me, and I knew our friendship was destined. She’s like the bratty older sister I never had, and I adore her to bits.
“Well, Baruch ata Adonai, I’m blessed you’re here,” she delivers in surprisingly accurate Hebrew.
“Yeah, I figured I better come in and do your job for you.”
She turns toward me and swishes her shoulder-length jet-black hair.
“Be my guest. I’ll gladly send my entire class over to you and go shopping.”
Our banter is routine, playful, and expected. As Jill whips around preparing her classroom for the day, her ankle-length flannel dress appears caught in a flurry.
“I mean, you are a contender for Teacher of the Year.”
Jill loves to mock me about the nomination. Heck, she likes to tease me, period.
“Listen, if it wasn’t the first day after vacation and I didn’t have a new student starting, sure, I’d gladly take them all,” I say.
This reminder shifts her demeanor, and her eyebrows gather.
“Right. What do we know about them?”
“Not much, just her name. A single dad, I think. I’m not actually sure. The mother’s phone number is out of state, and ‘lives with dad’ is scribbled on my paperwork, so who knows?”
“Oh, a single dad. Maybe he’s cute.”
Jill loves to bait me. She’s trying to spruce up my desolate dating life, and thinks that any single man with a pulse could be my Mr. Right.
“Ah yes, just what I’m looking for, a straight father whose child is in my class. Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
As she scribbles her morning message, the marker squeaks against the whiteboard. She sets it down and wraps her fingers around her hip.
“You do know to have a relationship, you actually have to put yourself out there, right? And why do you assume everyone is straight? That’s heterophobic.”
“Heterophobic? You made that up.”
“No. Google it. In any event, staying home watching movies with your cat isn’t the way to find a guy. You’re a catch. Adam was an asshole. Not all men are. Someone would be incredibly lucky to be your boyfriend.”
My relationship with Adam crumbled because I made the colossal mistake of thinking I could count on someone. Jill was my central pillar of support. She sat with me in silence and brought me strawberry ice cream and Junior Mints, my depression noshes of choice. The breakup with Adam crushed me. Walking in on him boning a stranger in the laundry room probably had something to do with the melancholy. Loving someone isn’t supposed to lead to immense hurt. The three years since the breakup have been a gradual reemergence from darkness, and I couldn’t have done it without Jill. Her friendship means the world to me, but her eagerness for me to date has caused her to be quite the yenta. Right now, dating doesn’t interest me. I’m fine by myself. Me and Gonzo. Our own boys’ club. A sweet furball laying on my chest, staring up at me, and voraciously purring, who needs more than a snuggly cat? Jill knows me well, knows I’m not ready, but still wants me to have someone to lean on the way she has Nick.
“Put myself out there? Have you watched Dateline lately?”
Jill gives me her I’m-not-buying-your-bullshit stare. I recognize it almost as well as she recognizes my jokes-as-diversion strategy.
“Why are you dancing, Marvin? Focus.”
“This isn’t my ADHD. I’m listening. Mostly. I need to pee. Badly,” I tell her, hopping from one foot to the other.
“Go!” she yells, and I dash out.
Having a men’s room in a building where typically no more than two grown men work makes little to no sense. I’ve pushed our principal, Dr. Knorse, to consider making it a gender-neutral bathroom, and she said she’ll “think about it.” Which means, not happening in this lifetime. Much to everyone’s chagrin, Jerry, the male PE teacher, and I joke it’s our personal powder room.
Rushing in, I pee quickly and proceed to wash up. I position my hands under the automatic faucet. Nothing. Out and back under. Still nothing. While the tree-hugger in me understands these sinks are meant to conserve water, their inability to function in a timely and reasonable manner often leaves me wanting to scream with frustration. As I’m fighting with the damn sink, about to actually yell, a blur zooms toward the urinal.
Hurrying to finish, I throw my hands under the faucet one last time, and it erupts to life. A stream of water sprays my arms and gushes all over the front of my gray joggers. And now I appear to have thoroughly pissed myself. Lovely.
Glancing over at the urinal, I see that the man peeing clearly isn’t a white, short, rotund redhead. Jerry wouldn’t be at school this early anyway. From the back, I can see he’s almost as tall as me, with rich brown skin and hair springing from his head in tight coils. The urge to escape embarrassment washes over me, but I also need the bathroom’s air dryer to attempt to rectify the large splash on the front of my pants.
The urinal flushes with a swoosh and I quickly finish washing. The zip of his pants and his crisp footsteps on the tile floor inform me he’s en route. My forehead begins to sweat, and I know I’m about to be caught with what appears to be pissed pants.
The stranger strolls over, and I rush to cover the lower portion of my body, throwing my wet hands over myself to hide the awkwardness but only making the offending splotch worse. He scrutinizes me with deep, hickory eyes. And maybe because my hands attempt to cover the area, his gaze lowers, landing on my crotch. My eyes widen with humiliation and the confirmation I’m a complete schmuck.
“It’s water from the sink. Be careful. They’re automatic. And relentless. And well…” I move my hands away, revealing the source of my mortification.
Without a word, he slowly places his hands under the sink, and the faucet magically comes to life with no histrionics or fanfare. He looks at me, gives the faintest grin, and washes his hands.
I turn to the air dryer and do my best to position myself under it, thrusting my hips forward to get the airflow right. I’m now gyrating in the bathroom in front of a handsome stranger like a complete putz. The man finishes and, as I’m bogarting the dryer, wipes his hands on his pants and gives me a nod and exits. Standing there, hot air blowing my nether regions, I wonder, who was that gorgeous man, and why am I so damn flushed?
As I return to my classroom, my heartbeat begins to return to normal. The scorching air from the dryer erased the water on my pants, but why am I still flooded with warmth? That man. His eyes. The way he looked at me. Down there.
I snap on the lights and wait for the harsh fluorescent glow and the low hum they create. The quiet purr whirs in the spare moments before and after children take over the space which is filled with their work and writing, bursting with life, even without them present.
Edginess creeping in, I close my eyes, and Caron Wheeler’s bright, distinctive alto joins the drone from the lights. The opening harmonies of “Back to Life” take over my headspace. Her rich acapella voice singing about returning to routine and reality cues me to take long, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. One, two, three. I pause, making the break last slightly longer than usual. In moments when my emotions feel heavy and my anxiety bubbles, my brain’s DJ cues up the perfect song. When the music starts up, it’s my cue to pause. A few minutes of meditative gulps of air along with centering on the music and lyrics, and I’m usually ready for reentry.
I open my eyes. Without the noisy energy of the children, the classroom feels mournful, almost melancholy – even with all the evidence of their presence. My first task, cracking a window because even in the middle of frosty Maine winters, the onslaught of germs from five-year-olds necessitates a modicum of fresh air. Children have literally coughed and sneezed directly in my face and thought nothing of it. Do you know what that feels like? Sticky, wet, and warm – and not in a good way. All the hand sanitizer and face wipes in the world won’t help. Crisp, clean air provides a curtain of freshness until I’m able to scrub down in a Silkwood shower the minute I’m home. Dropping my backpack by my table, I glance at a small pile of items I’d procured for my new student before the break.
She starts today, and though I could have dragged my tuchus in over the holiday break to label and set her things up, I needed the respite. As I formulate a plan of attack to prepare for the nutty day ahead, Kristi Brody, the school guidance counselor, pops her head into the doorway like a small prairie dog searching for her pack.
“Morning! Have a good break?” Kristi trumpets, her hair bouncing with each step. Her voluminous curls swing and sway, unlike mine which were a gift from my Jewish ancestors – small and tight, more like corkscrews shooting from my head in a wild fashion. As a child, my mother occasionally referred to me as “pubic head,” which explains a lot about our relationship.
Conflicting feelings about returning to work swirl in my keppie. I adore my job. Specifically, the children bring me great pleasure. It’s hard not to cherish their sweet faces, quirky smiles with missing teeth, and the often random, confusing, but hilarious tidbits that pop out of their mouths at the most inopportune times. Like the time I attempted to explain the concept of addition, and Roberta confessed, “When I grow up, I want to marry a taco.” For the record, me too, kid, me too.
I’m trying to figure out how to answer Kristi. When someone asks if you had a “good break,” they rarely want complete honesty. They don’t want to hear you spent most of your break in solitude, watching subpar rom-coms on Netflix, overeating store-brand strawberry ice cream containing no actual strawberries, and feeling elated to only have the company of your cat whom you secretly refer to as your “kitty boyfriend.” A super snuggly and sweet cat eclipses most men, and – with my history and fear of commitment – may also be my best prospect at the moment. No, people want politeness and pleasantries. But as a guidance counselor, Kristi deals with emotions for a living. And though she rarely joins Jill and me in socializing outside of school, we’re rather tight in the building.
“Pretty good. Chilled… a lot. Happy to be back. How about you?”
“Same. Spent time with family, baking cookies, watching movies, all of that holiday magic,” she says with her signature calm kindness that puts people at ease. Kristi’s main character flaw? Her love of running. Always trying to get other people to run with you is not welcome or cute. I wouldn’t run unless zombies were chasing me, and even then, after a block, I’d probably relent and offer myself up as a tasty kosher snack.
“Ready for your new student?”
Here’s the thing about getting new students in the middle of the school year: it’s always a crapshoot. Families moving their children during the school year are usually experiencing some sort of significant life change. A new job, marriage, or divorce, whatever the circumstances, you can bet it will impact the student in a way sure to upset the microcosm of serenity I’ve carefully curated since September. Steadying myself with another deep breath, I remind myself that, returning from vacation, revisiting rules and routines happens organically. This will lessen the impact of the wildcard about to be dealt in.
“I think so,” I say, patting the stack of items to prepare for her in the next hour.
I glance at the neon green sticky note on top of the pile containing the little information I have about her until her paperwork arrives.
“Well, remember, we have the parent welcome meeting at seven forty-five.”
“Oh right, I better get to it,” I say, standing and moving into action.
Of course I remember. How could I not? Coming back from break, reentering the atmosphere, a new student, and a meeting to kick off the day, you remember such things when you’re already anxious about returning. I’ve mastered overthinking, and my body finds bolting awake in the middle of the night the perfect time to hone my expertise. A whole night’s sleep? Why rest when my mind can ping-pong about multiple topics and increase my bubbling anxiety simultaneously? I’ve taken to grabbing Gonzo, waking him from his peaceful slumber, and singing to him. What do cats dream about anyway? Chasing giant mice? Swimming in lakes of creamy milk? Playing volleyball with giant balls of yarn? Typically, after a few minutes of my quiet singing, we’re both back to dozing.
Rationally, my being anxious about returning to school makes no sense. The number of life skills I’m horrible at (remembering my car requires gas to function, keeping food in my apartment (and not just sweets), walking without tripping) helped confirm my ADHD diagnosis years ago. Teaching kindergarten? That’s my jam, but anxiety comes so easily to me, like blinking or stumbling over my own feet. To be clear, generalized anxiety provides a soft churning of dread fueled by DNA, reaching back thousands of years to people constantly on the run and/or being persecuted. As a Jew, a pervasive low hum of anxiety is my birthright. Being closeted and bullied for being overtly fabulous in school only amplified it. Returning to work after a break shakes sprinkles on the anxiety sundae I prepare and devour daily.
“Okay, see you in a few,” Kristi says, smiling and – taking my blur of activity as a hint – she vanishes.
As I look up at the clock above the door, the lipstick-red second hand glides around the numbers like a bird catching a wave of wind. With only thirty minutes to prep for the day, including finishing all the materials for my new student, I grab the sticky note from the pile of folders and labels and read her name. Illona Stone. In almost ten years of teaching, I’ve never encountered the name Illona. Uncapping a fat black marker, the comforting scent of paint thinner and diesel fuel takes over the room. I begin scrawling “Illona” on the stack of items, letting the aroma of the ink and the swoosh of the marker’s tip on paper soothe me as I write her name. I’m not sniffing markers, but if the chemicals force my body to relax, even a little, so be it. One thing I know for sure about student placements, there are no accidents. The universe planted this little girl in my class for a reason, and I’m about to find out why.
“Good morning, sunshine. Welcome back!” Jean shouts, arms open for an embrace.
As I step into the mundane school office, Jean’s round, cheerful face greets me with a smile. Crinkles pool around her sparkly eyes, and her collection of bracelets creates a tinkling orchestra. As our secretary and the school’s point person, Jean welcomes everyone. In her sixties (nobody dares ask her actual age) and closing in on retirement, maternal love permeates everything she does. Like a teddy bear with slightly too much stuffing, she spills out of the seams of her cheery cobalt-blue romper. There’s a general understanding among anyone associated with the building that Jean, and not Dr. Knorse, runs the school. I glance at my mailbox (empty, winning!) and head over to her.
I wrap my arms around her body, and she squeezes me like someone trying to get the last bit of juice out of a lemon. Her fragrance, a combination of apples and hairspray, along with melting into her soft body, is comforting. She hugs me with ferocity, giving me some much-needed love. Peeking over her shoulder, I notice the closed conference room door. The meeting attendees are awaiting my arrival. As I pull out of my hug with her, Jean reaches over and grabs a thick manila envelope.
“This came for you over break. It’s from the Teacher of the Year folks,” she says, beaming with pride.
“Ah, thank you.” I tuck it under my arm. I knew there would be forms to fill out and more information about the process. Being in the office, I’m reminded this nomination means much more than me receiving an award, and I must focus on and prioritize it. I must ensure all my ducks are in a row. My ducks typically dance at a rave, so I’ve got my work cut out for me.
Jean steps toward me and whispers, “Your new student.” She nods toward the gray fabric chair at the end of her desk where a girl sits. Her swinging feet don’t even come close to touching the floor. Understanding she’s probably more anxious than me, I mindfully approach her.
All I know about her comes from the information on that sticky note. Illona Stone is five and moved from a small school in California that I’ve never heard of because, well, California. Her hair almost resembles my own, if mine were much longer. Tight, dark brown curls jut out from her head in all directions in a way that frames her round, adorable face and connects us immediately. A black knit dress covered in yellow sunflowers complements her warm khaki skin. She'd probably dressed up to make a good impression, which I adore. Illona appears to be a child any teacher would be thrilled to have in class.
As often happens with parent meetings, Jean will keep an eye on Illona while I meet with her father, Dr. Knorse, and Kristi. I take a knee, so I’m on her level, and introduce myself.
“Hi there. I’m Mr. Block. I’m going to be your teacher.”
I give her my best smile, one I hope lets her know that, if nothing else, I’m on her team now.
Illona looks cautious as she colors with the crayons Jean has given her. What appears to be a horse, pony, unicorn, or perhaps a dog? I’ve become an expert at deciphering kindergarten handwriting, but the drawings still often stump me. She looks up at me with wide eyes, trying to decide what to make of me.
“You’re a boy teacher.”
A statement, not a question.
“Ha, yes, I am. Did you not know you’d be having a boy teacher?”
“Uh-uh. My daddy didn’t tell me.”
“Well, I’m delighted you’re here, and I can’t wait for you to meet the class. They’re going to love you. I’m going to meet with your dad for a few minutes, and then we’ll head down to the classroom together. Sound good?”
Illona smiles and nods quickly and goes back to her unidentifiable drawing. Her body softens, relaxes into her chair, and she begins to hum as she colors. Teaching is part craft and part energy. For whatever reason, I have incredible kid energy. For most of my life, I had an inkling I would end up working with children in some capacity. This quality allows me to spend my days in a room full of children and enjoy myself.
I stand and slip into the conference room at the back of the office, where the other adults are waiting for me. Greeting Jean and Illona set me squarely five minutes late for the meeting. Approaching the snug conference room, I again take three deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I don’t love meetings, but they’re a required part of the gig.
Stumbling into the room, I scamper to my seat. The energy in the room bubbles in a way not typical for these meetings. Squirming into my chair, I blurt, “I’m so sorry. I wanted to meet Illona. We had a lovely chat.”
As I settle myself, I glance up, and my stomach drops. The stunning man from the bathroom sits next to me, peering in my direction. Oy.
I’m overcome with embarrassment, and my mouth momentarily fails to function. The times I’ve been rendered speechless can be counted on one hand, and most of them have to do with my face being full of cake or numb from the Novocain I needed because of all the cake. My anxiety begins to kick in because, apparently, being in the presence of this extremely handsome father muffles me.
Sitting close, the scent of fresh linen and coconut swirls in my nose, and I lick my lips at the idea of a virgin pina colada. Free from the constraints of the embarrassing bathroom situation, I study him. He’s wearing a navy V-neck sweater, something soft, maybe cashmere, which I’ve only gawked over when shopping. The space just below his Adam’s apple, a soft groove of tender skin, summons my gaze, and I imagine leaning over and licking him there.
Illona’s father turns to me and attempts a smile. His face glows, all jawlines and angles, beaming brighter than the summer sun, with the smallest gap between his two front teeth. My mouth waters thinking about what I could accomplish in that tiny space with my tongue, causing my heart to race and my head to feel woozy. Emotions overtake my speaking ability, and anxiety invades my frontal lobe. Unable to stop it, the thumping bassline and light stringy synths of Cece Peniston’s 1991 classic “Finally” begin playing in my head, and her voice, rich and vibrant, sings to me about meeting Mr. Right, and as I close my eyes and breathe in his intoxicating scent, I’m taken away for a beat.
“Mr. Block, Mr. Block…” Dr. Knorse says with a tinge of annoyance, grabbing my attention and prodding me from my stupor. I take another deep inhale to center myself.
If I’m attempting to make a first impression that screams, “I’m a complete dolt, and why would you entrust your child with me for seven hours a day,” I’m doing a bang-up job. The problem before me, the man is unnervingly handsome. As a teacher, we get all kinds of parents, and usually, if I’m lucky, every so often, the elusive hot dad appears. Someone to make open houses, conferences, and field trips a little more interesting. It’s all innocent fun, and Jill and Kristi love to tease me about them, often giggling outside my closed classroom door, peering in the window during conferences, making me blush.
“Marvin, hello, this is Mr. Stone, Illona’s dad, and um…” Dr. Knorse is stammering. She never stammers nor gives any indication of being unsure of anything. She’s a doctor, for god’s sake! Okay, not a medical doctor, a Doctor of Education, but still, she insists we all call her “doctor.” Only having experience with medical doctors, the kids usually think she’s going to examine them and administer shots.
Handsome dads are not uncommon, but this guy? Next level. Did I see him modeling in a catalog, lying on the beach, shirt open, wind blowing the trees, sable skin sizzling in the sun? All right. I need to focus. If I weren’t so taken aback myself, Dr. Knorse’s squirming would bring me immense pleasure. Clearly, the arrival of this man has shaken our esteemed principal, so Kristi, currently the most levelheaded in the bunch, takes over.
“Yes, this is Mr. Stone.”
“Please, call me Olan,” he states. His tone suggests nonchalance, but these first words are delivered in a rich bass from his absolutely delicious mouth, causing the bottom of my stomach to drop a little. This can’t be good for business.
“He and Illona just moved to Maine,” Kristi says.
“Sweet,” I say, only able to squeak out a single foolish word because, apparently, my brain and mouth are currently not on speaking terms.
“Thanks?” he replies.
A question to my ridiculous “sweet.” His face goes flat, and between the pseudo pee disaster in the bathroom and my lack of coherent sentences, I’m clearly not winning this parent over.
A few uncomfortable moments of silence fester and it becomes clear someone needs to speak. With nobody else jumping in, I choose to be brave. Gingerly placing my hand on the table to steady myself, I take a deep breath, ready to sell myself and the school.
“Welcome. I’m sure Illona will adore our school.”
I can now speak in complete sentences. This will be fine. Newly found confidence convinces me to consider him for more than a nanosecond, allowing me to examine him in more detail. Glancing up beyond his mouth, I study his hair. The natural texture creates a crown of stunning, tight coils framing his face. A sliver of sunlight from the window lands near his forehead, causing the soft spongy curls to shine. What product does he use to make it so velvety and touchable? My own Jewfro bird’s nest borders on unmanageable, and I’ve tried almost everything I can find to tame it. As if on cue, a large ringlet plummets in front of my eyes, and I reach up to brush it aside. Studying him, attempting . . .
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