Page 72 of Teacher of the Year

Spotting me, the class swarms, enveloping me in hugs and shouts of “Mr. Block!” and I’m reminded, once again, of the deep bond we share. Even though I know they spent most of the morning listening to stories with Kristi and playing, I keep our afternoon light. Mostly because my heart still needs to recuperate from this morning with Jill, and I need to think about sub plans for her class, at least for tomorrow. I’m thankful for the distractions and try my best to keep thoughts of Olan at bay. Having his daughter in my class creates a constant reminder. Maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea to have an affair with a parent. I feel like such a meshugeneh.

“It was fun having you on the island,” Illona says as we walk to dismissal.

“Yeah, it really was.”

“You make Daddy smile.”

I give her a half grin and sigh softly. Illona appears to act as if nothing unusual happened between her dad and teacher. Specifically, she doesn’t mention me having a minor panic attack and busting out without saying goodbye to her. This little victory pleases me so. Arriving at the dismissal area, I need to help Kristi dismiss Jill’s students, and the utter nuttiness of making sure her students make it to the correct person helps me avoid any elongated interactions.

Olan stands near the pickup table, wearing a blue and pink flannel, and my stomach tugs at the sight of him. Illona runs and leaps into his arms. He closes his eyes and squeezes her a little tighter than usual. Holding her, his arms flex, tighten and taunt me. He opens his eyes, and we lock gazes, my heart does a quick double thump, and I’m reminded of all he said and all I need to contemplate, but also how damn gorgeous he looks in those navy-blue joggers that show all the curves and lines of his legs. He throws clothes on without much consideration for putting an outfit together and never fails to look photoshoot-ready. Jerk.

Our eyes meet, eliciting a soft half-smile on Olan’s face, and I reply with my own. Why is he so damn irresistible? I return my focus to the six students from Jill’s class looking for their grown-ups. One thing I’m certain of, I can’t ignore Olan forever, but it’s only been a day, and I need a little time. The Teacher of the Year team is coming Thursday for a school visit and interview. They provide just the excuse I need to postpone both thinking about and talking to Olan. Right as I return to the classroom, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Olan: We need to talk.

Marvin: I know. I have the TOY visit on Thursday and need to focus on that. Can we chat this weekend?

Olan: Sounds good. Please remember I care about you. I’m sending you good vibes. I’ll be thinking about you.

Marvin: Thank you. ??

And with that, I vow to stuff thinking about Olan being a recovering alcoholic deep down into a box until at least Friday after the Teacher of the Year team visits. Letting my emotions take over and derail this opportunity and all it means for the school would be a tragedy.

The kids do what they do best and provide me with diversions left and right to keep my mind focused in the present. On Wednesday, Teddy slips on a wet stone during recess and smacks his tiny face against a swing-set pole. Apparently, even the slightest trauma to the face causes massive amounts of blood, and Teddy, seeing blood everywhere, reacts as any five-year-old would. Like he’s about to die. To be fair, his entire face, shirt, and even his hair are splattered red. In order to expedite our travel time to the nurse’s office, I scoop him up in my arms and carry him.

Gwen Bell, the school nurse, a stoic creature, greets us. Spending your days dealing with sick children will do that to you. Often, I find it hard to read her because she has this combination of resting bitch/poker face. She may be in a permanent horrible mood, or she may have hit the jackpot, but she’s not telling, so don’t ask. I sprint into her office carrying Teddy, both of us covered in blood, and she’s the only person in the room who doesn’t appear alarmed.

“Put him down,” she says, pointing to the long cot covered in industrial hunter-green pleather.

The worn fabric creaks under Teddy’s small frame. I begin to move away, but the moment we break contact, Teddy wails. Loud and sharp, his cry grabs my heart and my feet freeze. I need to get back to my class, but I also know Jill and the other adults witnessed what happened, the amount of blood, and will cover for me. By this point, the blood has coated so much of us it looks like we’ve stepped in from a war zone. My head races with worry over the extent of his injury.

“Teddy, I’m going to stay right here,” I say, sitting down next to him.

Gwen approaches and begins looking him over, assessing the damage.

“Teddy, I need to clean you up a little so I can help,” she warns with a handful of gauze. The moment she begins to approach Teddy’s face, he lets out a scream loud enough to cause me to jump a little. Gwen looks at me and raises her eyebrows in a please-help-me-with-this-kid look.

“Buddy, Mrs. Bell needs to clean you up so we can see how to help.”

Without cleaning some of the blood, there’s no way Gwen can assess the extent of Teddy’s injuries. My right arm envelops him, drawing him close. I put my left hand out as an offer, and he immediately grabs it with both of his tiny, blood-soaked hands.

“Here’s a trick to help while Mrs. Bell cleans the blood off. Close your eyes. Squeeze my hand, and we’ll sing.”

Because he’s five, terrified, trusts me, and knows I wouldn’t steer him wrong, Teddy does what I say. Eyes closed, both of his hands squeeze my one so tightly my fingers go numb. Without prompting from me, he begins to sing.

“The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout,” his little voice warbles, horribly off-key, but it might be the blood in his mouth.

Gwen looks at me, and for a nanosecond, I swear there’s emotion in her eyes because she doesn’t usually witness this unique bond between student and teacher. I nod gently, letting her know to proceed.

With the utmost care and lightest touch possible, she begins to wipe Teddy’s sweet face. I join him in singing, and reaching the song’s end, we start again. By the fourth time we sing, “And the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again,” for all that’s good and mighty, Gwen joins us. Her gruff voice slashes through the room and Teddy’s body jolts slightly from the shock, so I draw him a little closer.

By the time Gwen has cleaned him enough to assess the actual injury, we’ve sung enough refrains of “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” to give a real spider enough time to spin a web, climb up, and slide down with glee. Thankfully, the cut causing this massive amount of gore isn’t actually that severe, and some pressure and a small bandage do the trick. Unfortunately, both Teddy and I are so caked in his blood we both need a change of clothes. Gwen stocks an entire wardrobe of outfit changes for the four- to eight-year-old crowd, but sadly nothing for fabulous grown men.

“You absolutely cannot return to your class like, like, this.” She nods up and down my outfit that now resembles a horror movie costume. “You’re going to have to go home and change.”

As if on cue, Dr. Knorse, alerted by either Teddy’s screams or the three of us singing, joins us to make sure a trip to the hospital isn’t required.

“I’ll watch your class for the afternoon.”

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