Page 5 of Teacher of the Year

As I sat in her office that Friday afternoon, my leg bouncing in anticipation and her desk rattling from my leg bouncing, I wondered which Dr. Knorse I’d be presented with. On this day, she dispensed positive news, so the BFF version materialized.

“Marvin, you’ve been nominated for Teacher of the Year.” She clapped her hands, and I swear it was the first time I’d seen her appear anything even resembling excited.

“First up, the county, so we’ll focus on that. I must tell you, in addition to the honor this presents for you personally, it also creates a significant opportunity for the school.”

Her brow furrowed, and she leaned forward as she spoke.

“Oh?” I asked, having no idea what she meant.

Lowering her voice, she began, “As you know, sadly, in the past few years, Pelletier Elementary hasn’t received the most favorable ranking from the state. Our test scores have bruised us more than I’d like to admit, and I fear a sizeable chunk of our supplemental funding might be at stake.”

She paused, and I opened my mouth to speak, but unsure what to say, nothing came out.

“If you won Teacher of the Year, even at the county level, it would shine a positive light on the important work we do here. Winning the county might help me in my bid to secure our funding, but a state win would all but guarantee it. It would be irrefutable to the powers that be. Marvin, without the funding, I’ll be forced to make cuts. Cuts nobody wants. We’re barely managing with the folks we have now. The school can’t handle less staff. Our kids deserve it. This nomination is the golden ticket I’ve been praying for.”

“Oh.” And gulp. And holy crap. And does this make her Charlie? And me, Willy Wonka? That feels completely wrong. Apparently, the knowledge of my role in securing school funding momentarily destroyed my ability to put thoughtful sentences together.

“This is good news, Marvin. Yes, there are resumes and essays to submit. A school visit and interview to schedule. Those types of things. We can figure it all out. You’ll accept the nomination, correct?”

“I mean, wow. Yes, of course, I want to. I’m just concerned…”

“About what?”

“What other teachers will think. The added stress. With my anxiety and ADHD, on top of everything else. I, I, want to make sure I can handle it.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Marvin, the school needs you. We need this.”

This wasn’t simply about me winning a silly award but helping secure the school’s future. If I had a lump of coal in my ass, it would be a diamond by Hanukkah.

I genuinely love teaching and consider it my passion, a calling, a reason for waking up each day. Pouring my heart and soul into my profession helped me when things fell apart with Adam. Education gives me a purpose, and the Teacher of the Year program, or TOY as we jokingly call it, could be my moment to get some recognition for all my hard work. Beyond what it would mean for the school, it may even be an opportunity to inspire and help others. Opting in was my only choice. I wanted this.

With the sharing of this news in the meeting, my face flushes crimson, and Olan Stone turns to face me. For the first time, just for a moment, he sits back and appears to settle. He rests his hand on the table only inches from mine. The closeness of our fingers sparks a small charge of energy, and instinctively I pull my hand into my lap.

“Well, congratulations, Mr. Block. You must be a stellar teacher. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me this morning.”

“Call me Marvin, please.”

I attempt a feeble smile. I fear I look like a toddler learning to smile on cue for the first time. Somehow both awkward and foolish.

“Marvin, okay,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. “Illona has been through a lot of changes – the separation, the move. I’m hoping she feels welcome here.”

“Mr. Stone,” Dr. Knorse chimes in, “I can assure you, here at Pelletier Elementary, we will do everything in our power to ensure Illona flourishes. Mr. Block will see to it.”

Oh, will I? Confession: I’ll do everything in my power to ensure Illona’s success, but the way Dr. Knorse guarantees the outcome rubs me the wrong way. Teachers bear the brunt of responsibility for their students, but it takes the entire school community to help students shine.

“That’s fantastic to hear,” Olan says as he looks from the principal to me, his eyes ping-ponging like watching a tennis match. I should probably say something now, but the peanut butter sandwich I scarfed down this morning tumbles in my belly like one of those cement-mixing trucks. This isn’t the usual humming of anxiety I’m used to. This is something different, something that burns like copper and smoke and makes my insides churn.

Why am I wary? Listen, I may not be a statistician, but I know there’s a direct correlation between a man’s level of handsomeness and potential trouble. Personally, I am happy to be average. My dimples and the nest of dark brown curls I’ve learned to mostly tame and admire over the years have done me well. Experiences with devilishly attractive men have taught me the consequences of getting entangled. And gorgeous straight men are the death knell. That flag cannot be red or large enough. That scene in Les Mis when they’re about to march to their deaths, waving a giant red flag that takes up the entire stage, that’s what we’re dealing with.

I begin rapidly tapping my fingernails on the underside of the table. The click-click-clicking suggests the opening bars of Dolly’s “Nine to Five,”but before the words rush into my head and whisk me away, Olan looks at me and cocks his head slightly like a dog hearing a strange noise. This is not Teacher of the Year behavior. Snap out of it! The image of Cher slapping me tersely flashes as sweat beads on the back of my neck.

Taking a deep breath, I collect all my resolve and attempt to gather up the energy from watching every episode ofAmerica’s Next Top Modelto smize. I want to convey to Olan that his daughter will be safe. And loved. If nothing else, I know I’ll nail that. As Olan studies my face, a plump curl betrays me and jumps ship, plummeting in front of my eyes. I purse my lips together like a fish and blow a quick puff of air toward the ceiling, sending the long bouncy curl that hangs down my forehead, obscuring my right eye, swiftly back into submission. This man must think I’m the conductor of the hot mess express.

“I just met her, she’s delightful, and I know she’s going to acclimate nicely. I’ll make sure to assign her a buddy for the next few days and give her a little extra TLC. Is there anything specific I should know about her?”

Olan Stone nods, but his furrowed brow makes me wonder if he likes what he’s hearing. He faces me, lips softening, and ever so slightly, his body melts into the chair. The tiniest hint of relaxation appears to wash over him.

“Honestly, I simply want her to be happy.”

---