Page 17 of Teacher of the Year

“Well, it’s really just my mom. She’s in Phoenix, so we don’t see each other too often, which I’m okay with. Our relationship falls into the complicated category.” I lift my ginger ale to toast.

Picture the stereotypical overbearing Jewish mother. Falling over herself to spoil and dote on her children. My mother threw that idea out with her sobriety when my father left. Twenty minutes after meeting him, I’m not ready to out her as a recovering alcoholic to Vincent.

“Are you okay if I order another?” Vincent raises his empty glass.

“Oh yeah, it’s fine. I mean, as long as you don’t get hammered.”

“No worries there.” He picks his glass up, finishes the remnants, sets it down, and, for god’s sake, takes a fresh napkin to wipe his mouth. At this point, it’s clear that Vincent will not reuse a napkin once it’s touched his face, and I can’t fathom why. The napkins are large and soft, and I’m confident the single napkin lying in my lap will get me through a rather messy bibimbap burrito.

“I’ll take another.” He lifts his empty glass.

On cue, my phone begins to vibrate. I didn’t ask Jill to call and bail me out with an intricated lie about some horrible tragic emergency demanding my immediate attention, so I quickly yank my phone out.

“Everything okay?”

I glance at the screen and see my mother’s face staring up at me.

“Yeah, just my mom. I’ll call her back later. She gets confused with the time difference and tends to call late.”

Val delivers Vincent’s drink and our food, and anticipating Vincent’s request, she places a stack of napkins on the table before he can ask. At this point, he must have seven or eight on his clean pile, which, if his one sip or bite per wipe holds, will probably not be enough for the meal. Watching him take the first sips of his new glass of wine, a whirling sensation kicks up in my stomach. My mother’s drink of choice was red wine. Any red wine. The deep smell of fermented grapes sneaks into my nose, making my head dizzy. As Vincent manages his napkins, the precision and clarity with which he uses, folds, and stacks them might provide some curious entertainment for some but sparks my already festering anxiety. I’m sensing the acceleration of my heart rate and slight lightheadedness coming on. Dismissing myself to regroup seems like my best course of action.

“Excuse me, I need to hit the restroom,” I say and quickly make a beeline for the bathroom, leaving Vincent to straighten his clean pile of napkins.

Once I lock the bathroom door, I sit on the closed toilet seat and put my head between my legs to get the blood flowing to my brain. Investigating the cleanliness of the bathroom floor, I close my eyes and begin taking deep breaths. This almost always works within a few minutes. As I’m parked on the toilet, trying to center myself, the Caribbean beats of Rihanna’s early bop “SOS” blare in my head, and I nod slowly between my knees. The music carries me away to the islands, swaying palm trees, white sandy beaches, cool salty breezes, and, oh look, a shirtless cabana boy bringing me chips and guacamole.

A few moments of Rihanna’s rich, unique voice soothing me and I’m almost ready to return. How long have I been sitting here? It could have been two minutes or twenty, I’m not certain. Surely, Vincent M. has used every available napkin in the place by now. He also probably thinks I have explosive diarrhea. Lovely.

With that thought, I shake my head to halt Rihanna, splash some cool water on my face, and glance at the last text from Olan.

Trying not to overthink, I tap out a reply.

Marvin: You’re welcome. Honestly, it’s my pleasure. Illona is a complete delight. And please call me Marvin. ??

His text was unnecessary. Sure, it was nice to let me know Illona was happy, but I could have surmised that. And he appreciates me. No,trulyappreciates me. Olan’s face. His smile. That gap between his two front teeth. His low, rich voice. It all floods into my mind. Why am I allowing Olan Stone to hijack my date with Mr. Extra Napkins?

I tuck my phone into my pants and swiftly head back to the table.

“Everything okay?” Vincent asks as I sit. He’s clearly asked for and received more napkins in my absence. Val must be mortified but having just dealt with my own struggle in the bathroom, I see Vincent and his growing pile of napkins in a new light.

“When my mom called earlier, she was having a crisis. And by crisis, she couldn’t figure out how to record a show. I was trying to help her. I’m sorry,” I fib.

“No worries.” He smiles, but I’m not sure he means it. He finishes his bite and, yup, another napkin.

“So, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’ve gotta know, why all the extra napkins?” At this point, my curiosity gnaws at me like a bunny going to town on a carrot. Clearly, I have my own mental health issues, but I’m curious about how his brain works. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me about that. Honestly, I just like to be clean, and well, fresh napkins help,” he explains like it makes perfect sense for him to stockpile napkins like a squirrel saving nuts for winter. His honesty endears me.

“Oh, got it, cleanliness is next to godliness after all.”

He smiles and it prompts me to confess.

“You know, just now, in the bathroom, I didn’t need to go and wasn’t talking to my mother. I just, well, sometimes I get anxious. Really anxious. I needed a second to catch my breath.”

“Anxious? Because of me?” His eyes widen, and I rush to ameliorate his feelings.

“Gosh, no, not you. More this…” I motion to him, the table, the restaurant. “Being on a date. I haven’t really dated much lately, and our date, combined with my anxiety and ADHD, started to overwhelm me.”

“Wait, you thought this was a date? Kidding. No, I get that. Dating is hard on its own. Guys are, well, confusing. But hey, I appreciate you telling me.”

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