Page 3 of Teacher of the Year

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.

Chapter2

“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.

Chapter3

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.

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