Page 28 of Teacher of the Year

“Besides attempting to fix your life? I’m about to run a bath. Nick’s watching football, and, well, I’d rather not be in the room when he screams because his team loses. Or wins. There’s screaming regardless.”

“Tell him I hope his team hits lots of home runs.”

“Okay, night, homo.”

“Night, shorty.”

And with that, I’m back to waiting in this ostentatious home. I push myself up and off Olan’s bed and head back to Illona’s door. Peeking in, she’s sound asleep, her breathing low and slow. I head downstairs to wait on Olan and Cindy’s return.

Sitting on the deep brown leather couch, the day catches up to me. I immediately pop off my sneakers, swing my legs up, and look at the artwork on the walls. I’m no expert, and I couldn’t tell you details about the artists or pieces, but these are clearly not the cheap framed prints from Target hanging in my apartment.

One of them appears to be metallic. Geometric shapes have been painted onto the metal with shades of bright orange and blue. There’s a piece partially hanging off the bottom that might be a magnet. It’s a person or creature, it’s too abstract to tell, but the way it dangles off the main frame intrigues me. Almost a part of the universe of the work, but not quite. I lie there and imagine what else might exist in the world the artist created. Maybe a partner for me.

Chapter12

“Marvin… buddy…” I crack my tired eyes open and Olan rests on the sofa’s edge, gently nudging my shoulder.

“What, what time?” I grumble.

“It’s after eleven. I’m sorry we’re later than I thought. I texted you, but you…”

“Fell asleep,” I say. Oops.

I push myself up and touch my hair, trying to assess the level of bedhead on display. The brown curls on my head feel askew and matted, and my hoodie twists around my torso from my nap.

“Cindy is upstairs. Let me drive you home.”

“I’m good. I can walk. It’s only fifteen minutes,” I lie. My humble, barely one-bedroom apartment is closer to thirty minutes away by foot but dozing off on the job isn’t cute. I don’t want to push my luck.

“Marvin, get your bag. I’m driving you home.”

Olan’s car reminds me of something from a sci-fi movie. Although I know it must be some sort of metal, the black exterior sparkles like glass. This car fills the odd request to be incredibly high-tech and expensive but also practical for a family, with a hatchback and large back seat. Illona’s booster seat, a necessary accessory, looks out of place in a car James Bond might drive. Wait, does that make me a Bond girl? Clearly costing more than the combined yearly salary of the entire staff at my school, there are buttons, screens, and switches everywhere. All I can think is “Don’t touch anything,” but also “I want to touch all the things.”

“What does this do?” I ask, pointing to a silvery, woodsy button right of center. My gut tells me this is a passenger seat button, so I should be privy to its use.

Olan glances at where my finger points and grins.

“That calls for assistance.”

“Calls who?”

“The service that assists in an emergency.”

“The police?” I ask, trying not to sound ignorant.

“No, Aston Martin has a service. It calls them. They call for help.”

“Who’s Aston Martin?”

“Aston Martin’s not a person. It’s the company that manufactures the car.”

“Oh, got it. So Aston Martin calls the police for help.”

Olan looks over at me and smiles, and the expression on his face confuses me. But I’m keeping my mouth shut. For now. I don’t push the button or ask about any of the others. I suddenly feel quite content with my old car. Even with all its coffee stains and its trash-filled backseat, I prefer simplicity. Thankfully, we approach my apartment. Olan will now observe the relative squalor I live in compared to him, but he knows my occupation and I can’t imagine he’d expect much more. The car pulls to a stop, and as I feared, he reaches for his wallet.

“Olan, I’m not taking money from you, no way.”

“Of course, I have to pay you, I insist,” he says, opening his wallet. There are bills. Paper money. So many bills. Bills I’ve only read about or seen in books but never had in my possession. Who’s on the fifty-dollar bill, anyway? Elton John?

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