Page 22 of Teacher of the Year

My head makes small circles, trying to catch some understanding, but I am completely lost. Little Red Riding hood in the woods lost. But make her kosher for the wolf. I grab at the base of my neck and struggle for a reply and finally say, “Olan, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a complete nerd.”

He blinks a few times and bites his lower lip. Crap, did I insult him? I jump back to rambling.

“Nerds are cool. Very cool. Everyone loves nerds. They’re, they’re very in. I, myself, adore nerds.”

His face softens and, dear Lord help me, he puts his right arm around my shoulder and gives me some sort of macho side hug, yanking me to him. I turn toward him, and he stares back at me with bright eyes.

“Cool. I’m perfectly content being a nerd.” His breath reaches mine, and his cherry ChapStick taunts me as I gape at his mouth. I want to lean over and lick his juicy lips. Get it together, Marvin.

I pull back from him and ask, “So, you sold your company. What’s the plan now?”

“Well, I have funds from the acquisition. I’m pondering my next move, but I have meetings and commitments that keep me occupied. Having Cindy’s help is immeasurable, but I’m trying to be more involved with Illona, too.”

“That sounds smart. I mean, duh, clearly, you’re smart.” And I sound like a meshugganah.

“I’ve been told I’m intelligent. But thank you.” Olan reaches over and pats my knee. My hand rests there, and with my mittens in my coat pocket, his hand grazes mine and there’s a tiny spark of static. The bus begins to feel like a sauna. Does he understand how touching me might not be judicious?

“And clearly, I’m thrilled you put Illona at Pelletier Elementary, but do you mind if I ask, with your, um, means, why not a private school?”

“Well, the decision really was about diversity. About having her somewhere with children from all different backgrounds and cultures. I know I can’t shelter her forever, but for now, it’s important that she’s not the only Black child in her class or school. I’m a product of public school. I know the finest educators work at public schools. Present company included.”

The heat rises to my face, and I feel my ears flush hot.

“What about you? Tell me about your life outside the classroom.”

“Well, there’s Gonzo, my cat. I have a slightly unhealthy affection for him.”

“Yes, animal relationships can provide necessary companionship. Is there anyone besides Gonzo?”

Does Olan Stone want to know my relationship status? Okay, friend.

“Oh, I’m single. Completely. Free and open,” I blurt out with a grin and jazz hands.

Kevin, sitting in the seat in front of us next to Illona, pops his head up.

“Mr. Block is single. Single means one. Alone. He doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

My face flushes. Again.

“Yes, Kevin, single means one. Now turn around and sit, please.”

Olan snickers and takes this information in, nods, and manages to wrangle his lush lips into a thin line. Should I return the question? Maybe find out more about Illona’s mother. It seems like the perfectly reasonable thing to do. I take a deep breath, amping myself up.

“Two minutes away! Everyone, please make sure you collect your belongings, all of them, and stay seated until we come to a complete stop and I open the door.” Darlene’s blaring voice interrupts us and halts our conversation, and I’m disappointed to be leaving the bubble of the back seat.

We file out of the bus like ants heading to a picnic. The snowpack creates a dampening effect, absorbing all the sound in the area. The farm animals are all stabled because of the weather, but the smell of manure and hay wafts from the barn.

The children spend the next hour and a half traipsing up the snow-covered hill that provides the backdrop of Chickadee Farm. A narrow path created from shoveling and continued stomping helps the process of ascending the hill go smoothly. For the first half hour or so, I remain at the bottom, and the complete joy on the kids’ faces as they shoot down the hill makes me bend over with laughter. The magic of winter in Maine bursts inside my torso. The small mounds of snow we fashion on our playground simply can’t compete.

Among the sea of tiny faces, there’s Olan, molded into his plastic sled, his solid frame allowing him to fly down with incredible momentum. I wonder if he’s thinking about velocity and speed as he zips toward the bottom. I mean, it’s probably a solid bet.

Jill grabs me and shouts, “Teachers’ Turn!” and I’m more than ready.

She slaps her sled down next to mine, and we push off simultaneously, hamming up a mock rivalry for the children.

“Okay, Mr. Block, my turn to smoke you,” she snarls.

I beat Jill every year simply because I outweigh her by at least fifty pounds, but I let her make a show of it for the kids.

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