Page 36 of Teacher of the Year

“No, Mother, not dating. I have no time. Anyway, how’s the weather?”

Subject-change-game on point.

“You need to make time. And it’s January in Arizona, sixty degrees feels downright chilly. I still don’t know how you manage all that frigid cold and mountains of snow. I’ll never understand why anyone would choose to live there.”

“Well, for one thing, I enjoy living where I get to witness the change of seasons.”

My mother and I paint our conversations with broad snide strokes. She resents me for living so far away, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Distance provides the ultimate buffer for our dysfunctional relationship. I resent her for littering my childhood with traumatic episodes, and she would like nothing more than to forget all about it. My heart tells me she did her best at the time, but my head remembers too much. On good days I can get lost enough in my daily routines to momentarily forget, but true forgiveness eludes me.

“I know, I know, it’s beautiful in summer. Leaf peepers come by the busload in the fall. Vacationland and all that jazz,” she says.

“I mean, you’re not wrong.”

The shift to weather kvetching signals me to wrap up our chat.

“Well, I should go eat something. It’s way past lunch,” I fib. Full from the donuts I gobbled down this morning, my stomach wants for nothing, but the idea of sustenance for her child never fails to motivate Sarah Block.

“Go. Eat. Call me next weekend. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I toss my phone on the sofa like a hot potato.

The chances of me calling her next weekend rival turning my head to the heavens and spotting a drift of pigs fluttering through the air. Ain’t gonna happen. But she says it every time, and I concur. We go through the motions because lying is easier. It’s our bit.

* * *

On Sunday, I waffle between the bed and couch, following Gonzo like a lost lamb. If he stirs to eat or use his litter box, I rouse to replenish snacks and pee, waiting to see where he settles down to shadow him. By mid-afternoon, it’s been almost forty-eight hours since Olan and I snogged like the world was ending, and there’s still no word from him. Gonzo may give me a few dirty looks, but once I begin petting him with enough pressure, his purring takes over, and we return to snuggling. I vacillate between scrolling on my phone for distractions and watching old episodes of early two thousand sitcoms I’ve seen more times than I’ll ever admit in public.

As I finish an episode where the female lead finally connects with her love interest after he does a sexy striptease for her, my frustration refuses to abate. I bite the bullet and shoot Olan a brief text.

Marvin: Hey. Hope you’re having a good weekend. Sunday scaries on deck for me.

I hit send and regret the message immediately. Why can’t I ever play it cool? Because I’m decidedly uncool. It’s my lot in life.

By bedtime, with no reply from him, I wonder if what happened with Olan was part of some imagined fever dream or if I’m losing my mind. I almost text him again about seven times but stop after the first word each time. Do I have reservations about what happened? Of course. Then why does thinking he might also sting? The rest of the school year will be more uncomfortable than an ill-fitting corset on a drag queen. We have four and a half months left, and parent conferences are two weeks away. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Chapter14

I jolt up from my slumber, heart racing and breath heavy. For a few seconds, I’m positive I’m being chased by someone faceless or in a battle in some unfamiliar place, or the world is simply crushing to an end on top of me. It takes me snatching Gonzo from the foot of my bed, pulling him up to my chest, holding him like an infant, and kissing his sweet head and face ten times to calm and center myself. Peeking at my phone through tired eyes, I realize it’s three in the morning. And zero notifications await me. My alarm won’t go off for almost three more hours, and there’s only about a 50 percent chance I can actually fall back to sleep.

As I love on Gonzo, my motor begins to downshift, and slowly, the brakes are engaged, and my pulse slows. Looking at his round softball head, damp from my slobber, I’m buoyed by the unique bond we share. I only became a Cat Dad as an adult. My mother could barely take care of me, let alone an animal. I remember years when I’d begged for a cuddly pet, though she never relented. For my tenth birthday, in a fit of guilt, she bought me a goldfish. I learned quickly I’m not a fish person because, well, you can’t do much with fish but feed them, and if you’re ten and want to love on your pet, you stuff it with fish pellets until it dies before you can settle on a name for it.

Gonzo’s eyes are closed, and he purrs like a motor. I’ve read stories about people needing emotional support animals on airplanes. Random creatures like turkeys and peacocks taking up entire rows and causing a commotion, but if they give their owners a smidge of the comfort Gonzo brings me, I say let them fly.

I try to envision how Gonzo would have consoled me in my youth. There were days I’d get off the school bus, nobody waiting for me, walk into our apartment, and my mother was passed out on the kitchen floor from an afternoon bender. The first few times, I was alarmed and tried to rouse her, only to realize she’d blacked out from the booze, and there was nothing I could do but wait it out. Eventually, I learned to check for breathing, step over her and slink to my bedroom to watch television. Unconditional love from a small, soft, domesticated animal would have been more than appreciated.

I stop petting him for a nanosecond, and Gonzo chirps like a gremlin, letting me know he objects to the pause. At some point, thinking about this furball and the fellowship we share soothes me enough, and I doze off.

* * *

‘You are going to be known as the school harlot.’ This thought repeats in my brain while I ping around the classroom setting up for Monday with my students. With no word from Olan, my anxiety takes on a life of its own. In a short matter of time, I’m able to convince myself I will be disgraced, fired, and the Teacher of the Year folks will chortle at the idea of my nomination. The embarrassment I’ll bring upon the school will thwart Dr. Knorse’s attempt to secure our funding, and the blame will be squarely on me. I’ll be forced to resign and spend my days searching for menial work in an unemployment office that playsFox Newson blast. I’ve perfected with precision the skill of winding myself up in seconds.

I stand at the easel, a fresh sheet of lined paper mocking me. The date and greeting are simple, standard, and routine.

Right now, attempting to come up with a share, something for the children to write on the message, to engage with, feels impossible. My mind feels empty and distracted. On cue, Jill pops her head into my room. I brace for her sass, knowing she’ll provide a simple share.

“Anything?” No joke from Jill on a Monday morning articulates everything about the situation. Her tone tells me she’s trying to be optimistic but also realistic.

---