Page 15 of Teacher of the Year

How can I best describe Cindy Rodriguez?

To be blunt, she’s a fucking bombshell. A total shaineh maidel. Cindy wears jeans and a simple beige wool coat, the type of outfit that would appear casual on most people but on her, looks like something from a catalog photoshoot. Long brown hair cascades down her back and frames her face and ample physique. As she approaches the table, the smell of apple blossoms washes over the space. As she speaks, her face simply radiates beauty. Clearly, this vision takes care of more than Illona’s needs at home. Fantastic.

“Hi, I’m Cindy Rodriguez, and I’m here to pick up Illona Stone from Mr. Block’s class. Her dad said he sent a message to him.” Her voice comes out delicate and fragrant.

Dr. Knorse begins looking through papers for a note, which of course, Olan did not send because he texted me directly. I advance toward the table to sort this out.

“Hi, I’m Marvin Block, Illona’s teacher. Yes, Illona’s dad sent me a message.”

“But we need a written note.” Dr. Knorse, ever the rule follower.

Olan signed his permission for Cindy to pick up Illona on the first day he came in to meet with us, but the school requires a note if there’s a change from the usual person. Olan’s text, along with his original consent suffices, but now I need to show Dr. Knorse the message.

I pull out my phone and rush to make sure only the message about Cindy appears on my screen. Cindy’s face scrunches up in confusion at the temporary holdup. Funny thing, even with her confusion, she glows as if ready for a photo shoot. I want to hate her, but the damn aroma of apples ushers my stomach to memories of pie.

“Her dad messaged me earlier today,” I say, holding my phone up.

“Oh, well, that’s all we needed. Have a good weekend, Illona.” Dr. Knorse studies my phone and attempts a smile. She never wants families to be out of favor with her.

I give Illona a little nod and release her grip. She joyfully skips over and grabs Cindy’s hand. As they walk out, I can’t help but think about all the hands Illona’s held today and how in some cosmic way, she ties us all together.

Chapter7

Olan: Mr. Block, thank you again for understanding about Noelle. Illona was all smiles. I truly appreciate it. And you. Have a great weekend.

Standing outside The Purple Giraffe, waiting for Vincent M., I send up a short prayer; Lord, I hope he at least resembles his profile photo. Not because I am particularly lusting after that picture, but I’ve read horror stories of meeting someone online only to have a completely different person show up to the actual date. Honestly, I’m uncertain how I would handle such an encounter. ‘Um, well, hello, you, um, look nothing like your photo. Let’s have some overpriced food together.’

Of course, who am I to judge? My profile picture looks like it was taken from twenty feet away, in a dark room, with Vaseline spread on the lens. My rationale for allowing Jill to use that horrible picture – after meeting me in person, I’ll present as an upgrade.

Feeling anxious and restless, I fidget with my phone. Rereading that text from Olan Stone and not replying. I’m fairly certain his text doesn’t require an answer, but also not sure if ignoring it would be rude. Being impolite to a handsome man cannot be tolerated. He texts me regularly at this point, at least every few days, which isn’t entirely uncommon at the beginning of the school year or for a new student’s parent. I’m also starting to wonder if he has any friends locally. It’s not my business to know or care, but the amount of communication makes me curious. Does he want to be my friend?

Being friends with parents of students isn’t something I usually entertain, but other teachers do it all the time. Many teachers, especially those with children of their own, often socialize with families in the community outside of school. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility. But I honestly can’t imagine why Olan Stone would want to be my friend. He knows nothing about me beyond my role as his daughter’s kindergarten teacher.

“Marvin?”

As if on cue to save me from perseverating, Vincent M. strolls up. Thankfully, he looks exactly like his profile photo. With a shiny shaved head, Vincent gives me serious Mr. Clean vibes. It’s actually quite sexy. Scrub away, sir. His green eyes sparkle when he spots me, and I could bounce a nickel off that harsh jawline. A lovely, trimmed beard adds to his handsomeness, and I’m not mad about it. He wears a long, caramel-colored wool coat, fuzzy in a way that makes me want to rub it a little. Would that be awkward? Probably. He bounces up to me with a wide grin and a few solid neck rolls.

“Vincent? Nice to meet you.” I put my hand out for a shake. He takes it and pulls me into a hug. All right, he’s squeezing me, which I’m not upset about either. He smells like a mixture of wood and oil, so come on baby, light my fire. He’s slightly larger than me, probably just over six feet tall, and being wrapped up in the woolly arms of his coat almost melts my icy heart. As I pull away, our faces get close enough for me to catch a whiff of the wintergreen mint he’s sucking on. A slight omen, as wintergreen, much like banana, makes me nauseous.

It may sound strange, but if I were stranded on a desert island and the only way off was to suck on a wintergreen mint, I’d have to consider spending my life alone on the island. Maybe a hunky merman would wash up and rescue me. Or at least sing to be part of my world. Something about the smell, the lilting taste of wintergreen, does not jive with the olfactory neurons in my brain. If Vincent M. hopes for any kissing action, we’ll need to discuss his propensity for wintergreen.

“I’m so sorry about the fake name thing. My friend thought it would be funny,” I say.

“No worries, I get it. It’s a circus out here. Shall we?” He opens the door, and we head in.

A simple place, The Purple Giraffe fuses two of my favorite cuisines: Asian and Mexican. Walking in, I’m hit with a mix of spices I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s like the best of both cuisines mixing and swirling in the air until they hit your nostrils with a tease of what’s to come. People chat, and a low murmuring permeates, punctuated by clinking silverware. I’m not sure where the name came from. As far as I know, there are no purple giraffes in the wild, but it makes for an interesting logo design. The inside of the restaurant is ample, if not large. There are probably three too many tables smooshed into the space to make room for as many customers as possible, and everything has tones of brown and tan, with purple accents on everything from seat cushions to palm tree wall decals. Vincent chats with the hostess, a woman with jet-black hair and purple highlights (naturally), and I find myself drawn to peek at my phone and the message from Olan Stone. Again.

“Right this way.” She motions us toward a small table near the window. I fumble quickly to pocket my phone, gently wrapping my fingers around the warm screen in my pants. Vincent hangs his coat on the back of his chair and sits across from me, looking up, hope in his eyes, as I touch my phone. I remove my hand from my pocket, take my jacket off, place it on the back of my chair, and sit. Deep breaths, focus.

“Have you been here? The food is amazing. This is one of my favorite places to get takeout. They have this burrito with bibimbap sauce that I order without fail.” My stomach growls in anticipation.

“This is my first time, but I love trying new foods.”

“Right, you had that listed on your profile.”

“Oh yeah, those are silly, but you know, we can’t all only rely on our cute profile pic to sell us,” he teases. Okay, Vincent, I see you.

I offer him a small smile as my ears turn pink behind my mop of hair. So far, this isn’t a horrible disaster. Vincent is attractive and sweet enough, and my red flag radar isn’t wildly beeping. Wintergreen mints aside, Vincent presents as a lovely man. Of course, the night is young, and there’s a reason I stopped dating. I’ll be friendly but cautious.

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