Page 24 of Teacher of the Year

“Shoot.” I mime shooting him with my right hand in an attempt at humor, but he only stares at my hand and tilts his head.

“I’m not sure if you’re available or if this is acceptable, but would you consider watching Illona Friday evening? I’ve kind of found myself in a pickle?”

Oh. He wants me to babysit. Visions of me laying on my stomach in a bedroom with three tween girls as the fourth and gayest member of theBaby-Sitters Clubflash in my head. Teachers do this all the time. Sandra, the preschool teacher, works with a family regularly, and three years ago, I watched two little boys, one of whom was my student, a few times so the parents could have some date nights. But what about Cindy? Isn’t the whole point of having a nanny not to need a babysitter?

“Um, sure. I mean, I think I’m free Friday night. Yeah, I could do that,” I stumble out.

“Are you sure? No pressure, but you’d be a lifesaver. I wasn’t sure who else to ask.”

“No, really. I’d love to.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

“Oh, I have it in her file. I mean, I can look it up,” I reply, not wanting to let on how I already curiously mapped his address on my phone.

“Perfect. How about six? Does that work?”

“Yeah, I can do six.”

Olan asking me to babysit confuses me. On the one hand, I’ll get to explore their house and maybe scope out his bedroom once Illona goes to sleep. Not in a creepy way, in an oh-this-is-where-you-sleep way, which sounds a tad sketchy, now that I think of it. Maybe I’ll skip Olan’s bedroom.

I relish Illona. Yes, she’s sweet and funny, but she also has a tenacity I always admire in children. She’s in a new city and school, surrounded by new people, and yet each morning she skips in with a smile ready to have the best day ever. Spending a little time with her outside of school would be wonderful, but, as Illona’s babysitter, I’d officially be paid for my services by Olan, and friends don’t pay each other for helping each other out. I could make up an excuse and cancel, but he’s clearly pressed and wouldn’t ask if he didn’t have to. I’ll just refuse if he tries to pay me. Doing this for Olan isn’t a big deal, so why should I make it one?

* * *

Checking my phone for the address, I ensure I’m in the right place and ring the bell. The house overlooks the ocean and rests in one of the most scenic spots in the city. Three stories, to take advantage of the view, there’s an abundance of glass, with no shades drawn. On the top floor, what appears to be a bedroom and sitting room has the best view in the entire house. It’s hard for me to imagine how much a house like this costs because I can barely pay the rent on my minuscule apartment, but I’m clearly entering a place that doesn’t come cheap. These are the homes you walk by and think “how can anyone afford to live here?” And yet people do. Olan does.

“Mr. Block, come in, welcome. I’ll go get Illona.”

Cindy, not Olan or Illona, greets me at the door. She wears a long periwinkle dress and taupe high heel shoes, with her hair swooped up into a messy bun that looks anything but unkempt on her. The exquisite makeup on her face is another clue about why I’m here, and my ribs grow tight with the clarity of the situation.

I step inside to wait. It’s one of many houses I passed on my walk over that made me wonder who would need all this space. There must be multiple bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs. The entire downstairs is open, with a modern kitchen as the centerpiece and a living room, dining room, and den (with a large television) combined. You could fit four of my one-bedroom apartments in this downstairs space alone. Suddenly, I regret not letting Jill Google him. Between the full-time nanny and this house, I can’t help but think that was no lemonade stand he sold.

Olan glides down the long stairway that’s off the side of the living room. Tonight, he wears a navy cable-knit sweater, gray slacks, and deep brown loafers. His hair stands up in all the right places, and he wouldn’t be out of place in any men’s catalog or one of my fantasies, and oh crap, I’m staring.

“Marvin, welcome. Thank you again for doing this. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your assistance.”

We. And there it is. I feel like a complete dolt. It’s not like me to take friendliness for flirting, and yet here I am.

“Illona is upstairs putting her pajamas on.” He approaches me with an outstretched hand. I put mine out to shake it, but he grabs it and pulls me into a handshake/bro-hug combo I have no idea how to carry out, so I let him lead. Continuing to grasp my right hand, his left wraps around my shoulder, and he pulls me in for the embrace portion of the greeting. I squirm and attempt to mirror him but end up patting his back like I’m petting a stray dog on the street. In such close proximity, all his smells, the coconut, the cherry, his skin, electrify me. Even with the awkward start, my chest expands with comfort being this close to Olan.

As I fidget away, Cindy reappears at the top of the stairs, now with Illona clasping her hand. They trot down the stairs together, never dropping hands and humming a song together until they approach the bottom and Illona spots me.

“Mr. Block! You’re here!”

Before I can speak, Olan interjects, “Yes, princess, remember, Mr. Block is going to stay with you while Cindy and I go out for a few hours.”

As the overplayed hip-hop duo Tag Team sing, “Whomp There It Is.” With that one sentence, my fantasy of Olan sweeping me off my feet, stealing me away to a Mexican resort – where a gorgeous young waiter brings us frozen drinks but Olan comforts me with “Oh Marvin, you’re way more my type” – and we lounge by the ocean all day while I put sunscreen on his rippling back are dashed. In stereotypical fashion, the ridiculously handsome single straight dad is dating his equally stunning, on the younger side, nanny. I’m slightly embarrassed I ever thought this exact outcome wasn’t inevitable, but here I am. Deep breath. Moving on.

Plucking my backpack from my shoulder and unzipping it, I reveal the goodies I smuggled in for my time with Illona.

“Illona, look what I’ve brought.” I procure each item from my bag with a flourish as I announce it. “Popcorn… Swedish Fish… Shrinky Dinks… andThe Very Hungry Caterpillar. For your bedtime story! When is bedtime?” I ask Olan.

“We usually do a story at eight and then lights out,” he replies.

See, I can do this. I can spend the evening with Illona while Olan and his sultry nanny go out for a romantic evening together. No problem.

As I’m bent over chatting with Illona, Cindy and Olan are watching and, honestly, looking rather chummy. The two of them are dressed to the nines, like they could be going to a concert or trendy awards show. And then there’s me in a comfy hoodie, joggers, and backpack. I’m the teenager coming to babysit for the hot parents heading out for a date night. Except double the age. And the dad in this set of parents makes my insides jiggle like jelly. This is my version of hell. Feh!

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